Chapter 29
29
The Equinox is humming with energy. Even though the island is on lockdown, nothing can take away from the excitement of today being May Day and the start of the hoverjoust tournament season. Everyone is wearing their guild colors and emblems and the occasional mismatched token to support their favorite players from other guilds. (The Bioscience team is clearly favored to win; their emblem––a hand of muscle and a hand of bone holding a double helix––seems especially common among the fans.) All the league players are getting a lot of attention, myself included.
I’m waiting for Rafe under the tree in the lobby where a giant Galilean thermoscope is set up to track hoverjoust player rankings. Inside a glace tube float small colored bubbles that represent each player.
Hopefully today I’ll get the chance to see my bubble rise, but that could be as high as it will ever go. Rafe and I are planning to leave the island tomorrow. We should be back before either of our teams compete again, but I don’t know what will happen in New York, and I can’t say for sure that I’ll be coming back at all. The thought of that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. I’ve always known this could never be home. And yet…
“Good morning,” a silk voice whispers in my ear as I’m hugged from behind.
I immediately get all awkward and stiff-limbed.
“Relax,” Rafe scolds. “Everyone is watching.”
The whole Rafe-and-Ada-are-a-thing has been relatively subtle until now, but today is going to be the full-on Oscar performance.
Rafe may be a prince and all that, but what he is most celebrated for by the youths of Maker society is his hoverjousting prowess. With today being the opening games for the tournament season, every single eyeball on the island will be trained on Rafe. And therefore on me by his side. I’m really not looking forward to the attention, but everything we’ve been putting on this charade for comes to a head today.
As we navigate the crowded room, Rafe’s arm is warm around my waist. Too warm. But not in a bad way. In a too-good way.
“Why can’t we stay with our teams and just, like, blow each other kisses across the room?” I whine. “This feels like overkill.”
Not to mention, very dangerous territory. I have been vigilant about keeping things very hands-off between us during training—this did make it difficult yesterday for him to teach me how to induce a harmless faint by overwhelming someone’s vagus nerve, since I refused to let him touch my neck, so I’m hoping I won’t need that particular trick on our travels—but getting cozy for an audience on the day of a hoverjoust tournament is, apparently, a full-contact sport.
“We don’t want anyone to question why both of us won’t be at the bonfire tonight or at breakfast tomorrow. I’m sure you can endure just one more day of this,” Rafe says, his tone packed with annoyance despite the soft smile he has on his face for everyone else’s benefit. “And you promised to help me make a good impression on the hoverjoust lodge.”
Sigh. I did.
But the problem with the fact that we haven’t touched in a while before now is that I’m not primed for how very potent it is.
Rafe and I have acknowledged that our particular blend of Sire pheromones has resulted in a certain… chemistry. (This is apparently, and disturbingly, a thing—that Sires exude My Body Likes to Create Things and I Would Like to Create Something with You vibes, and sometimes those vibes are particularly magnetic with other Sires’ vibes.) But we’ve chosen to ignore it and have settled on something that vaguely resembles friendship.
But Rafe is not content with looking like mere friends today.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Rafe says, pulling me closer against him as I try to hang back to feel less perceived. To those around us, the action probably looks possessive, but he’s just trying to keep me from bolting.
I grit my teeth and continue to smile and nod at all the people we pass who enthusiastically greet Rafe.
I’ll be playing my first ever official match today, and these additional nerves are really not helping.
Suddenly, the sun comes out. And by that I mean Rafe turns on his absolute most charming smile, which I have to look away from so I’m not blinded into forgetting just who is grasping me by the waist. I look over to see who it is he’s beaming at. It’s the table of stern-faced heads of the hoverjoust lodge.
I smile at them too. See, lodge people, those complaints about Rafe being mean to recruits couldn’t possibly be true. Ugh.
The truth is, it doesn’t bother me as much as it should. I don’t want to be complicit in helping Rafe get away with being a jerk, but I’ve come to know him better over the past few weeks—not that it’s been easy when he keeps his emotions locked down like a Vatican vault. But something I’ve realized is that hoverjousting is one of Rafe’s only sources of joy on this island. He left his life, his guild, and his whole family to come to Genesis with Hypatia, and now she’s gone too. When his position on the league was threatened, it wasn’t just a game that was on the line for him. If me helping him makes a difference to his standing in the league, I’m not mad about it.
Keeping away his conquests, on the other hand, still has me rolling my eyes. But that part is, I have to admit, kind of working.
A handsome boy saunters over and tries to give Rafe his handkerchief as a good luck token.
“I’m afraid I already have a good luck favor,” Rafe says to him. “Isn’t that right, my dove?”
I snort at how ridiculous that sounds but try to play it off as a flirtatious giggle. “Indeed, babe ,” I reply.
He strokes my cheek as he gently tugs one of the green ribbons from my braid and ties it around his wrist.
“So, it’s true?” the boy with the handkerchief asks sulkily. “You’re really with her ?”
Nope. He’s not really with me, folks.
Rafe holds me by the waist and uses me like a human shield to navigate past the rest of his admirers until we reach the front doors.
It’s time for the games to begin.
“Hypatia would love this,” I say wistfully as we follow the parade of people to the arena at the edge of the island. I’m full of guilt for enjoying my first hoverjousting match without the very person who introduced me to it in the first place.
Rafe tenses beside me, and I regret my flippancy. If I’m feeling bad and missing Hypatia right now, I can only imagine how he feels.
The expression on his face is as steely as ever, but I’ve been around him enough to see the signs that he’s working to maintain the cool facade.
It’s instinct more than anything that has me taking his hand to offer him some reassurance, some solidarity. I’m the only person who knows the steps he’s taking to help his cousin. He laces his fingers with mine, squeezing gently, and—well, that doesn’t feel like just solidarity anymore. Our Ha’i reacts as always, but it feels different this time, solidifying instead of sizzling, making me feel an undeniability that our hands fit together.
I glance up, but Rafe isn’t looking back at me; he’s casually waving at one of his teammates. Apparently, the handholding is no big deal to him, whereas I feel like I’ve just been downed off my hoverboard.
I have to stop getting lost in the act. Rafe is a master of acting this part without it meaning anything. Though I’m sure it helps that he has touched many, many more, um, hands, than I have.
Separating to sit with each of our teams is a relief.
My own match isn’t until midday, so I get to watch the games unfold from up close while enjoying crunch-bombs and spiced juice and the gorgeous ocean view from the open amphitheater built into the cliff.
There is a lot of pageantry. Each league has a herald, and as it’s the opening games of tournament season, they go all-out with their performances, introducing each player and their history and strengths.
When it’s time for Rafe’s match—against a muscly Sophist who looks fully double his size—the cheers increase tenfold. It feels like the whole island has come to watch.
The Bio’s herald begins with a flourish. “Honorable Makers, it is my privilege and pleasure to introduce, for his very first tournament on a Genesis league, Prince Raphael Vanguard.”
The crowd’s cheers are deafening.
“… captain of the Blood Science league in Avant for two years, and to this day he remains undefeated!”
The green ribbon on his wrist stands out in sharp contrast to the amber of the rest of his armor. I hear the people near me whispering about how he’s never worn someone’s favor before, speculating about whose it is.
And then he turns to me and winks, and the speculation stops. And so does my heart as I perish from embarrassment.
But luckily the gong begins the match, and no one is looking at me anymore.
Rafe is quite simply… magnificent. Like, now I get it. He plays the game like it’s an art, and he is a master.
He trounces his opponent in the first two rounds, but the second time the Sophist is downed, he has trouble getting back up. It’s clear at the start of their third round that the Sophist is injured and is in for a humiliating and painful defeat.
Except he’s not.
As the two approach the center, Rafe lifts his lance upward, and the two pass each other without impact.
The third round is a draw.
Rafe could have easily made that strike for a few more points to influence his rank—and I hear a few boos from members of his team who clearly wish he’d done so—but instead he let his opponent end with dignity and without the risk of further injury.
That was so… honorable, and the crowd agrees. They’re all on their feet celebrating and cheering, “Honor a Maker!”
It makes me proud to play the role of doting girlfriend and flurry over to congratulate him.
Instead of hugging me, he lifts me up and does a little spin. He should not be able to accomplish this so easily as I am not a light person, but I guess there’s more to those ridiculous muscles than how good they look because he sure makes me feel light. He also makes me feel like a real girlfriend, the way he’s smiling at me with the genuine joy of the game, as if I’m really the one he would want to celebrate this moment with.
It occurs to me that if we were really together, this is when he would kiss me.
Oh no .
I will simply not be able to survive if he does, and I have my own match to play in just a few minutes.
But I needn’t have worried. Rafe takes the winner’s sash he’s been awarded and ties it around my arm. He leans in close, and his hair, most of which has come loose from its bun, acts like a curtain, blocking the view of our faces. So no one else knows that when he leans in closer, all he actually does is whisper, “Your team doesn’t have a chance against us, Little Weed.”
I don’t miss the chorus of aww s and sighs from onlookers.
“How do you play so… elegantly?” I ask.
He explains as I walk with him toward his team’s tent. “The reason that Sires are so prized in the league is because of our ability to bounce back from injury and continue to play. When I tilt, I do so with the complete assurance that I can immediately heal any pain dealt my way. The elegance comes from the erasure of fear. Without fear of impact, I am in control of the tilt.”
Forcing reality to his will, as usual. What a prince.
Before he leaves me to go clean up and change, I say, “What you did, offering the draw—I thought it was really cool that you did the right thing.”
“I always do the right thing,” he scoffs. “You and I just have different ideas about what’s right.”
As the games progress, the Ciphers and Bios lead the rankings as expected. In the Alchemists’ first match, Sebastian wins against the Artisans, but then we lose a close match against the Sophists. By the time it’s my turn to compete, I don’t have to all-out win my match, but I’ll need to do well to keep us in the running. If I lose all my rounds or get downed too many times and fork over a bunch of points, then unless every remaining member of my team plays a perfect game—which is rare if your name isn’t Rafe Vanguard—we’re at risk of being eliminated.
Considering I’m about as good with a lance as I am at choosing my crushes, this is a lot of pressure.
Once I’ve donned my spidersilk armor, I take deep breaths and shake out my body. My goal is to win at least one round and stay on my hover for at least one more.
“Honorable Makers.” I hear Zo, our herald, starting her spiel. “For her debut tournament…”
As I pull on my helm, I block out the sounds of Zo’s exaggeration of my skills and instead tell myself to imagine that I’m snowboarding on a mountaintop—it’s just me and the board and the cold wind on my face.
The gong sounds, and I glide into the pit. My heartbeat is so loud it echoes in my ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd. The shouts, chants, and screams melt into a thrumming bass line that buzzes through me, synchronizing with my pulse. This is the moment. My moment. Everyone is watching me. The Alchemists are counting on me.
I look across the arena to see who my opponent is. I probably should have listened to his herald.
Orange armor. A Bio. I don’t recognize the coat of arms on his shield, but even from beneath his helm, I recognize his sneer—Bram.
My own green shield––since I don’t have a coat of arms it just has the Alchemist emblem––is sturdy against my left pauldron (shoulder armor), my lance is heavy in the grip of my gauntlet (hand armor), and my knees bend slightly, shins pressing against my greaves (leg armor), which feel just like snowboarding boots, grounding me on my board.
I can handle Bram.
He’s known for having strong force behind his strikes, which he accomplishes at the expense of his balance. So, basically, he’s better than me, but even though my aim sucks, there’s a chance that at some point I can down him. And I’m fueled by spite. There’s no one else in this school I’d rather see choking on my dirt than Bram.
I just have to do my best to hit his shield and focus on staying on my board. The gong sounds, and we’re off and shooting toward each other. It all happens very fast. One moment we’re careening toward each other, and the next Bram’s lance is crashing, with precise aim, into my pauldron. He is strong . And it hurts . And my body really wants to topple off this board.
Everything that was going so fast suddenly seems to slow.
Stay. On. The. Board.
Oww. My shoulder is in serious pain. Like, something-might-be-fractured kind of pain. The armor usually protects from this kind of injury, but I was going really fast, and Bram hit me really hard.
I remember what Rafe just said about how Sires can heal themselves as they play. I can do that too, right? I pulse Ha’i toward the injury, and the throbbing immediately diminishes.
Keep moving forward. Get to the end of the pit.
I drop my lance to help my balance because I’m having a very hard time staying upright. But only moments later my team is crowding around me at the other end of the pit.
I made it, and I didn’t fall.
“How did you possibly stay on after a strike like that?” Sebastian asks with a look of pleasantly surprised bewilderment.
“That was quite a hit. Are you okay?” Miriam asks.
“I’m fine. I think.” I close my eyes and focus my Ha’i toward the aching area, rolling my shoulder backward and forward. “I’m okay.”
Bram is awarded a point for his hit, and I get nada because I didn’t even come close to hitting anything. But everyone expected that strike to down me, so the fact that he’s walking away with only one point feels like a win all around. And now I know what to expect from him and can strategize my next move accordingly.
I can’t guarantee I’ll stay aloft with another hit like that last one, and I won’t be able to strike if I’m entirely on the defensive. My only option is to get to Bram before he builds enough momentum to have much force behind his strike. Which means going really, really fast. The kind of fast that is highly discouraged during hoverjousts because most players can’t keep their balance at such speeds. But staying balanced while going fast on a hoverboard is maybe the one thing on this island that I truly excel at.
It’s a good strategy, and it works.
I go fast enough that by the time I approach Bram, he’s still far from the center. He hasn’t built much momentum, but I have plenty.
Our lances crash against shields. This time Bram’s strike is barely a glancing blow. And I hit him too. Hard. Yeah, baby!
We’re each awarded a point. I can see how upset Bram is even from all the way across the pit. According to my team, he came really close to going down from my hit.
“You need to watch out this round,” Miriam warns me. “Bram feels humiliated that the new girl is showing him up. Someone like him becomes unpredictable when he’s angry.”
I shouldn’t try the same trick twice because now Bram will be ready for it. This time I’m going to adjust my stance to make it harder for him to aim at my shield. A hit anywhere else won’t count for points.
I stand sideways, which wreaks havoc on my balance since I can’t hold my lance the way I’ve trained, but if I can pull this off, I’ll be able to hit Bram’s shield a full body length before he can even attempt to reach mine, and hopefully, by then, my strike will be enough to diminish his aim and striking force.
But as soon as we’re heading toward each other, I can tell something is wrong. The angle of Bram’s lance is all off; he’s aiming too high. He knows he’s at a disadvantage if he aims for my shield, so he’s not aiming for it at all. The slimeball is aiming at my head.
I don’t have time to consider what a strike like his would do to my skull. I just act on instinct.
I’ve been experimenting with my hoverboard’s versatility and practicing some skateboard tricks in the hover park, so I’m about 60 percent sure that what I’m about to try should work. If not, it’s gonna hurt.
Right as we approach impact, I throw my lance, trying to vaguely aim it at Bram’s shield. Then I lean back into my board and leap up onto the fence that divides us. The bottom of my board squeals against the metal of the rail—which has no maglev tech—and I glide like that, completely out of range of Bram’s hit, riding the rail to the end of the pit. Then, feeling pretty good about myself, I showboat a little and do a kickflip on my way down.
The crowd is going absolutely bonkers.
The lodge has to convene to determine whether my moves were legal, but they rule that since I was continuously moving forward, it counts as a fair match. And apparently, when I tossed my lance, it did, just barely, touch Bram’s shield, so they’re counting it as a hit.
With two hits each, the game is a draw.
From the soup of noise in the stands, I hear my name rise from the crowd. I look over, and my cheeks ache from my smile when I see a large banner that says, G O , A DA , G O ! It’s so very… provincial. Georgie must have made it. Despite being mad at me about Rafe, she’s cheering me on. And she’s only one of the people holding the sign aloft, along with Mbali, a heavily pregnant Xander, and Kaylie. They’re all cheering for me, wearing Alchemist tokens and waving and blowing kisses.
Suddenly the knowledge that I’m leaving tomorrow hits me like a direct lance strike.
These people have become my family here. How can I choose one family over the other?
Will I have to?
Michael’s also there, sitting next to Kaylie, with a green token to cheer me on. But he’s not looking at me. He’s seething in the direction of the Bioscience team. Is he jealous Rafe and I are wearing each other’s favors? Or is it Bram he’s glaring at for taking reckless aim at my head? It’s hard to tell because Rafe and Bram are standing together at the other end of the pit.
Bram isn’t getting the hugging and high-fiving support that I am from the Alchemists. In fact, Rafe is yelling at him and practically pushing him toward their team’s tent. If screaming at his teammates when they don’t win is his style, I can’t imagine he was a very good captain for his last team.
I head toward the team tents, but instead of going into mine, I follow the boys into the Bio tent.
When I enter, Rafe is still yelling, but when I hear what he’s saying, I hang back out of sight to listen.
“You could have seriously injured her. What were you thinking?”
“It’s a dangerous game, Vanguard. That’s the whole point.”
“Not the kind of dangerous where you purposely try to inflict injury. First the power strike and then a headshot—are you mad? You’re lucky the lodge didn’t call it a foul.”
“Are you being serious right now? We’ve played on the same team for three years. Something like this has never bothered you before.”
“We’re not in Avant anymore. You know that at Genesis they have less tolerance for skirting the rules. This kind of play could get our entire team disqualified.”
“No, it won’t. You’re just angry because I bruised your untalented, weed girlfrie—”
Bram doesn’t even have the words out before Rafe has him by the throat, pressed up against a post. “Don’t you ever speak that way about her again.”
He really is very impressive at this possessive boyfriend act. He looks seriously angry. But it’s actually scaring me a bit. I don’t like violence, especially not on my behalf.
I rush over and put my hand on his arm. “Leave it. He’s not worth it.”
“Apologize to her.” Rafe shakes Bram forcefully.
Bram looks at me, more afraid than remorseful. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
Rafe lets him go, and Bram scurries off like a pathetic mouse.
Rafe is still fuming.
“Calm down,” I say. “He didn’t actually hurt me. See, I’m totally fine.” I spread my arms and wiggle my fingers.
“You may be unharmed, but you continue to accept disrespect far too easily.”
“You’re actually upset about what he said? Why? You say worse to me all the time.”
Rafe steps into my space, staring daggers into my eyes. “Let’s get something straight, Little Weed. If all of them”—he points toward the exit of the tent in the direction of the crowd but doesn’t tear his gaze from mine—“have to think that we’re together”—he puts his hands on my shoulders and steps even closer—“then no one can insult you but me.”
Wow. My heart is beating really fast right now. I bite down on my lower lip, and Rafe grunts in a way that sounds suspiciously like a growl.
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop letting all the boys talk mean to me, my dove ,” I try to joke, but it comes out a little breathy.
“Be sure you do, babe .”
That sounds way better than it should. I might be in trouble.
Once he’s taken his hands back and given me breathing room, I say, “When I saw you yelling at Bram, I thought you were lambasting him for not winning.”
Rafe leans his head back against a post with a sigh. “It’s hard to even care about winning right now. Other things feel so much more important.”
Hypatia.
“I get it. I feel the same way.”
“Anyway, congratulations to you. You played a good game for a debut.”
My brain is blinking out from the experience of receiving a compliment from Rafe. “And you were so sure I wouldn’t be any kind of competition.”
“You? Are still not competition.”
“You’re an ass.”
“You have a nice ass.”
Two compliments in one day. I’m really in trouble now.