Chapter 6
SIX
KAI
There’s only three things I want to do at any given time: fence, fuck, or fight.
Even more so when it’s a Friday night.
And given that the latter two are fully off-limits according to my precious vow, I’ve spent the past two hours drilling up and down the piste until my muscles ache and the entire salle ripples with body heat.
Clang.
I let the saber clatter onto the floor right beneath the sign that says KINDLY DO NOT DROP WEAPONS —fuck you and your blade integrity—and sink onto the bench.
It’s not enough. Physically exhausted, mentally wired. Me in a fucking nutshell.
I fumble for my cigarettes, strike a match on the sole of my Ballestras, and suck in a drag.
I blow a cloud out into the salle. It’s absolutely deluxe, this place: three practice pistes to spar on, a side room full of pristine weight machines and dumbbells, and an entire arsenal of kit: Negrini jackets, tailored to size and imported from Verona; weapons with razor-sharp aluminum and custom, 3D-printed handgrips; Hungarian-made masks in our trademark Caliburn red.
Fencing, the sport of kings. The gentlemanly art. A prince’s duty and a scoundrel’s gambit.
I hate how much I love it.
And I’m sure that if little twelve-year-old Kai, in the cinderblock recreation centers of his youth, could see this place, all polished wood and nameplated lockers and pristine gear, he’d probably hate it too.
He’d certainly hate me.
But that was before Luther Pendragon came into my life and turned me into the swordsmanship machine I am today. And we’re ever so grateful, Daddy Pen. Another ruffian youth saved from a life on the streets. God bless you, sir.
I take another long pull on the cigarette and tip an imaginary hat to my foster father.
“King sees you doing that in here and he’ll have an aneurysm.”
Pretty Boy—Lanz—fixes my cigarette with his moony little stare of disapproval. Damn, I didn’t even hear him come in, and these floors are built with spring in them that makes every step audible. Talented motherfucker with the footwork, I’ll give him that.
I puff out a smoke ring and lean back, propping an ankle on the opposite knee. “Ooh, you promise?”
Lanz’s jaw twitches. Delicate flower, so anxious over rule-breaking. I snort and take another drag. The only rules I’ll stick to are the ones carved in literal stone over the mantel of this place, and even then I’ll bend them to the breaking point.
But sticklery bullshit about tidiness, appearances, keep our hair combed and shoes polished like the All-American good boys we’re supposed to be?
I catch my lip ring in my teeth. No fucking thank you .
I breathe out the smoke through my nostrils. Lanz pulls out an epee from his wall rack and inspects the guard.
“No practice for you today?” I ask, innocent enough.
Lanz shakes his head, jamming an Allen wrench into a tiny screw to tighten it. “Rest day.”
Suuure , I think, and lean forward. “Good news. It’s nighttime now.” Grinding out my smoke in the palm of a crumpled glove, I catch the grip of my saber on my toes, kick it up into the air, and snatch it to levy at Lanz. “En garde.”
He keeps his eyes trained on his weapon. “No thanks.”
God, he’s boring. All of them are, to be honest. I’m not a team player except when it comes to the literal sport. And even then, I have my compunctions.
I drop my saber with a clatter. Lanz eyes the KINDLY DO NOT DROP WEAPONS sign and lets out the tiniest sigh.
“Big plans for the evening, then?” I stretch back out and put my hands behind my head, watching him. If I can’t fight him, I can at least be a pain in his ass.
Lanz shakes his head. “No. I mean, there’s a cap tonight, but?—”
My ears perk up like a bloodhound in a burial ground. “Say what now?”
Caliburn’s of course too good to have normal college ragers, so instead, we have caps.
I’m not a joiner—Camlann House being the notable exception.
And generally, if you ask me, all the forced merriment—the balls, the formal dinners, the symposia and teas—is just a way to waste tuition dollars and maintain elitist bullshit.
But this gets my attention.
Because on a night like tonight, when my blood feels too hot in my body and I’m ready to crack some skulls?
Any party’s a good party. Even a Caliburn party.
His shoulders tense up like he regrets saying anything. I’ll bet he does. “There’s a cap tonight,” he says. “At the Porter’s Club. But I, uh…I don’t think I’m going.”
I sit up straight. Alight. Interested. Piqued. “Oh, I think you should. We should.” I jump to my feet, strip off my lamé so I’m just barechested in my fencing trousers, and point at him.
This time, Lanz actually looks at me. “Why?”
I pause. He has a point. Why? Why, given that the prerogative of any college party—get laid—is off-limits for us?
My instincts and impulsiveness are a snowball cascading down the hill. A spark on bone-dry tinder. Now that I know about this, I need to have it. That’s just how my mind works, and I have no way of explaining that to anyone.
I can only shrug.
“Because it’s there.”
I duck into the lockers, take a swig of my emergency Mezcal, and hit the shower, ice cold.
I close my eyes as the water flows over me, shoulders and back and limbs, aware of every inch of my body.
Fact is, I’m human. Male. Robust, red-blooded, heterosexual.
And as such, I love girls. Women. Ladies.
Love their bodies, their faces, their long hair and soft skin and the way they smell.
Fuck, even thinking the words is stirring up my cock a little, and that’s in the middle of a literal cold shower.
It’s not like I want to tempt fate or challenge myself to resist. A party’s not supposed to be some forty days in the desert thing to test my mettle.
And I’m not scheming to figure out how close I can get to the line without crossing, either—seeking out literal backdoors like some kind of repressed Evangelical trying to get his dick wet without a blight on his conscience.
Not that I haven’t had the opportunity, since there’s more than a few lovely coeds who’ve dropped anvil-sized hints they’d like to improve their grades in the Early Modern Art History seminar that I TA.
As much as it pains me, I resist entirely: no furtive handjobs, no above-the-clothes action, not even so much as a sweet little kiss goodnight.
No, for me, the restraint, the choke of the leash before anything gets interesting, is part of the fun. I get off on my own blue balls. Sick fuck that I am.
And when fencing won’t do the trick to keep the demons in my brain at bay, that’s where I go.
Straight into the crucible.
Which, tonight, means a party.
I emerge a few minutes later, toweling my hair in my street clothes, to find that Callahan has joined Lanz in the salle, whatever conversation they were having dying instantly as soon as I walk in.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account.” I chuck the towel onto a bench and give my head a shake, smoothing the sides of my hair with my palms. “What’s good? You down for a cap tonight, big guy?”
Callahan says nothing. Man of few words. Just looks at Lanz.
I crack my knuckles and bite back a groan. “I can’t get either of you fuckers to go to this thing? Come on.”
“You’re a TA,” Lanz mutters. “Should you even be going?”
Next to him, Callahan grunts from behind his book.
“What?” Lanz cries.
“It’s not explicitly dis allowed in the code of conduct,” Callahan rumbles.
I grin. “My man,” I cry, and rub my hands together. “Come on. We’re burning daylight. The night is young, and the girls are only getting drunker?—”
But neither of them is looking at me anymore. Staring right past me to the door.
I don’t need to look to know who’s there.
“Friday plans? ”
I square my shoulders, tense and untense my arms, and slowly turn my gaze to him.
Kingston. He’s the closest to casual he gets, wearing a navy T-shirt and dark gray joggers and his usual judgmental expression. Arms folded, but at attention.
Prick. I have half a mind to rip my saber up from the floor and?—
“There’s a cap tonight,” Lanz answers for me. Thanks for that, Judas Iscariot Dell’Acqua, I think. You under some kind of truth-telling spell? Jesus.
“And you’re going?” Kingston asks. Not Lanz. Me.
I suck in a breath and call on my last shred of self-restraint. “If it please the court,” I say mildly. The adrenaline’s already streaming into my veins, the need to be moving, going somewhere. And heaven have mercy on whoever stands in my way.
Especially if it’s Kingston.
He wrinkles his brow. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Of course you don’t,” I mutter. Then, louder, as cheerful and casual as I can. “Good thing it’s not up for referendum, then.”
Kingston’s jaw twitches.
Hit him where it hurts, it seems.
“It’s a free country,” Lanz observes, to no one in particular.
“ Not in here ,” Kingston barks. “This isn’t a democracy.” He shoots a look at me. “Weekends are for practice or rest.”
“I practiced,” I say. “Just now. Smell my fuckin’ lamé if you don’t believe me.” I grab my leather jacket from its peg, shrug into it. “I’m good.”
“You skipped yesterday.”
Seriously? “I had to proctor a placement exam,” I point out.
“At one p.m.” Kingston’s eyes rise meaningfully to the clock. “What about the other twenty-one hours of the day?”
“Jesus Christ, ” I mutter. “Your micromanaging bullshit is exhausting, you know that? Shit, I need a rest from that. ” I take a pronounced step forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Kingston steps directly into my way.
I clench my jaw hard enough to crack a tooth, tighten every fiber of my body.
We’re really doing this? Picking me to pieces just for the hell of it?
Or no, not just for the hell of it, I realize.
Because one of us didn’t lose on Wednesday.
Me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kingston asks, sharp and direct yet somehow annoyingly cool.
“I dunno,” I say, doing my best to match him in kind—cool, calm, and collected. “I’m just saying…” I hold my palms in the air innocently. “Maybe if you kept your eyes on your own piste, bro, you wouldn’t lose to Moroslav.”
His parry is quick. “This has nothing to do with that,” he all but snaps.
Touched a nerve , I mentally singsong. “Oh, doesn’t it?” I say. “Because it sure as hell looks like you’re punishing me for your failure. And that doesn’t strike me as especially leaderly behavior, captain. ”
He works his jaw. “Discipline isn’t punishment. It’s a precondition for success.”
“Save it, Foucault.” I shrug my jacket up my arms. “I’m leaving, and you can deal. Why don’t you go nod off on your magic beans or whatever your witchy step-slut packed up for you and leave the rest of us to actually live our lives?”
That’s it.
Wire tripped.
Kingston lunges for me.
I duck, but he doesn’t even move to strike. Just gets his perfect face right up in mine .
“Speak like that again,” he grits out between locked teeth, “and Father will hear about it.”
Oh, fuck you.
I haul back and ram my fist into his eye socket.
The blow knocks him backwards, stumbling and clutching at his face. But other than that, nothing. Barely even a grunt on impact.
I shake out my knuckles, grinning and breathing hard, the rush of lashing out mingling with the pain of the hit like a drug in my veins.
“Don’t worry,” I pant. “I’ll do my hail Marys. It’s a venal sin, right? Curable.”
Kingston just stares. Stares with a bruise blooming under his cheekbone and a trickle of blood coming out of the corner of his perfect little mouth. Refuses, refuses to give me the satisfaction.
“Put ice on that.” He nods at me. “That’s your sword hand.”
Oh, fuck you.
I lunge for him again.
“Fuck y?—”
But this time, someone grabs me—Callahan, giant bastard, throwing an arm around my neck.
“You think you’ve convinced me? Now I’m definitely going,” I yell. “I want to be as far away from you and your miserable, pathetic, chickenshit idea of what we’re actually doing here as possible. ”
Kingston glowers. Touches two fingertips to his eye socket. And disappears back upstairs.
I rip myself away from Callahan and follow suit.
Outside, it’s chilly. Good; I need the fresh air. I’m a few solid strides away from Camlann House when footsteps catch up to me.
Lanz and Callahan, nipping at my heels like little fucking puppies .
“Relax,” I say, without looking at either of them. “Mommy and Daddy fight sometimes.”
“Not like this, though.” Lanz. I whirl on him.
“You wanna throw down, too? I’ll snap you in half, pencil dick.”
“Stop,” bellows Callahan. “Both of you. Just…”
Lanz backs up a step, palms in the air. “We just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I square my shoulders. “I’ll be fine.” I always fucking am. “Just let me have some goddamn fun and I’ll behave.” I press my palms together in fake supplication. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
I look from Lanz to Callahan, only half-joking in my plea.
Not like I need their permission, but the last thing I want to do is drive them further into Kingston’s fealty.
Rule number one of being an absolute prick: don’t make more enemies than necessary, and don’t make your enemies more friends than necessary.
“Okay,” Lanz says at last. “But I think we should go with you.”
Oh, now they want to tag along? I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Callahan cracks his knuckles. “It wasn’t a question.”