Chapter 22 #3
If anything about Luther Pendragon’s attitude has changed, it doesn’t show physically.
And that is even more chilling than watching Kingston fall.
His son just took a hard blow, wrenched his arm, from what it looks like, could be injured badly enough to take him out of the match, never mind doing anything else, and he’s sitting as placidly as if he’s watching the grass grow at a golf course.
I look back to the strip. Kingston’s gotten back to his feet, and Lanz leans in. He gives his head a little shake, but Kingston seems to be insisting, nodding. The official takes two brisk steps to both of them, listens, nods. He returns to his microphone.
“Pendragon out, substitute Dell’Acqua.”
A gasp, louder this time, reverberates through the field house. The Sainte-Odile fencers look at each other in disbelief. Even one of the scorekeepers lifts his eyebrows.
“What does this mean?” I say to Morgan.
“They’re putting in their alternate,” she says, “just like it sounds. Lanz is taking over. I think he’s the one they have doing all three weapons, just in case something like this happens.”
Kingston’s face is somber, but he forces a smile as he nods to the crowd, gives a short, stiff bow, wincing again as he does from the pain in his arm.
He turns to Lanz, his left arm at the small of his back, and Lanz does the same.
They each raise their blades in a salute, Kingston with some difficulty.
Lanz slips on his mask while Kingston returns to the bench.
He sits on the edge next to Kai, who looks at him with an expression I can’t quite read.
Angry, disappointed, smug? Maybe all three .
“Why wouldn’t he…go get medical attention, or something?” I say to Morgan.
“Because he’s an idiot,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And because there’s this whole tradition. You don’t leave the salle until the match is done, no matter what. Literally even if you’re dead—they just leave your body there and carry on.”
Jesus. “That’s grim.”
“Swordsman, take your places,” the official says. “En garde. Ready?” He pauses a second longer, waiting for Lanz’s nod. “Allez!”
I am absolutely captivated.
I can’t help it.
Lanz and Kingston might be the two most physically similar of the team, but their styles are entirely different.
Lanz’s whole posture is tense, and he explodes forward into two lunges.
A quick two touches. It’s like his opponent is confused, needing to adapt, but it doesn’t take him long.
He pushes forward, gets Lanz towards the back of the piste.
And even though I can’t see his face with the mask, it almost seems like Lanz is flustered.
Touch. Touch. Sainte-Odile has the advantage again, but barely.
Lanz walks in a slight circle, shaking his limbs out.
Come on, I think. Come on, you can do it. I’m surprised at how much I care, how much I’m invested. But this close, with Kingston hurt, we can’t lose.
“We can’t. I know we can’t,” Morgan says.
I blink. Did I say that out loud? No, I’m certain I didn’t.
But either way…
“Allez!”
This time Lanz’s rhythm is different. He’s faster. Quick flashes of blade, a tight feint. Direct thrust.
Zzzzt .
“Touch,” calls the official. “Bout to Caliburn, 8-7. Final match score: Caliburn wins 3-0 in bouts, 24-18 in total points. ”
The bleachers explode with cheers. Lanz stands still for a minute. Stop. And when he takes off his mask to shake his opponent’s hand, his face is utterly shocked, like he can’t believe he did it.
Believe it, I think. I’m so proud of them and I don’t even know why. Maybe it’s just the sheer joy of watching people with talent execute something flawlessly, or almost, I think, looking at Kingston. Maybe it’s the team spirit of the place catching up with me. Or maybe it’s just that…
“See?” Morgan says, clapping herself. “Like I said. Swords are cool.”
I’m about to agree, when—splat.
Something soft and wet smacks and sticks against the back of my neck.
“Look out below,” someone yells, laughing.
“Oh my God,” Morgan shrieks, “are you okay?”
“I…don’t know,” I say. I’m stunned more than anything, and clutch at the back of my head to figure out what it is. My fingers sink into it with a little stick.
It’s chewing gum. But not just a single wad. A whole ball, like someone had been chewing and spitting and chewing and spitting, specifically to build this projectile.
“Jesus, Gwenna.” Morgan wheels around. “You absolute shitheels! What the fuck is wrong with?—”
“It’s fine,” I hiss at her, “it’s fine. I’ll just…there’s a bathroom in here, right?”
“Yeah,” she says. “That door over there, hallway to the locker rooms.”
“Thanks.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I rush across the field house, fighting the stream of people exiting, presumably headed to Porter’s or dorm rooms for after-match celebrations. I follow the signs for the women’s lockers, fling myself in front of a sink, and rake at my hair with my fingers.
I get it, I think furiously. Okay? I get it. You hate me. I hate me. I should never have fucking gone out and paraded myself in public like this. Should never have gone fucking anywhere after what I did.
Shame floods through me like liquid fire, and I pull harder on the hair, yank more desperately at a knot that will never come undone.
Even if it was a fucking accident.
I still did it. Somewhere inside me was the capacity to be that destructive.
Elena didn’t deserve what happened.
Her father didn’t deserve it.
No one did. No one did.
Except me.
I pull at my hair, pain lacing my scalp.
Then I pull harder.
I deserve this.
I deserve this.
I deserve this.
In one final yank, the strands rip from my head.
It hurts, burns , but it’s gone. Done. And I feel…
I don’t feel better.
But calmer, maybe.
Like I’m done for now.
I square my shoulders, blow out a breath, toss the ugly clump into a trash basket and dare to survey myself in the mirror. The damage is hidden—or hidden enough.
Not like anyone who looks at me will care.
With a hand towel, I wring all the water I can out of my hair, then deposit it in a laundry basket. I linger a moment, my breathing returning to baseline, my heart squeezing less and less frantically .
Something skims off the edge of my chin—a drop of water, not from my hair.
There are tears in my eyes, I realize. I’m crying.
I need to get out of here.
I could wait until everyone leaves. Or I could just get it over with and hide.
Resolved, I push through the swinging door—and into something.
Someone.