35
Jem felt a rib break. The pain was like a white spike, and then it was just another hot point under all the adrenaline.
He rolled away—tried to roll away—but Zeb came after him, grappling with him, refusing to let go.
Zeb was bigger. Zeb was stronger. He smashed a closed fist into the side of Jem’s head, and only the fact that Jem was already moving away from the blow kept it from knocking him out cold.
Colors flashed in his eyes. And then dark, like all the light had drained out of the room.
But Jem held on, not letting himself slide under, flailing and twisting and feeling that hot needle digging into his side.
And then—miracle—his elbow made contact, and Zeb grunted, and for a moment, Jem was free.
He scrambled away, tipped over a table, put it between them. He was on his hands and knees, hacking, trying to breathe. The pain wasn’t bad. The pain was all in his head.
Somehow, he got up. He’d lost the antenna. The paracord hung from his wrist.
Zeb was on his feet too. A trickle of blood ran down the front of his mask, and Jem felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. Tean had done that. The wolfman started toward Jem again. Somehow, he still had the knife.
Jem backpedaled. He put more tables between them. Kicked over chairs. Zeb kept coming. The wolfman’s eyes never left Jem’s.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Jem asked as he swiped one of the centerpieces to the floor. “Seeing him with his dick taped up, the wig, all that makeup.”
Zeb didn’t say anything. He kicked a fallen centerpiece, and plastic cracked. He kept coming.
“Doesn’t bother you, huh.” Jem slid around another table. If he could get to the door. If he could get outside. Then what? Nothing. Blackness. God, the right side of his body felt hot. “Makes sense. He’s all up inside you, isn’t he?”
The change in Zeb’s body was small—his pace slowing by half a second, his upper body tightening with new tension.
Somehow, Jem laughed. “Holy shit. He is, isn’t he? What’s he say? This is what friends do? You’ll like it, trust me? Just the tip?”
Zeb stopped. He rolled his head; vertebrae cracked. And then he said, “This time, I’m going to kill you.”
“You know what? I don’t blame you. See, you’re fucked up.
Rydel fucked you up. And then Kai fucked you up some more.
” Jem knocked over one of the background stands that was supposed to look like a window, and it crashed down between two of the tables.
Zeb stomped on it, shattering the delicate woodwork, and then knocked the pieces aside.
Behind Jem, the mask-making station marked the end of the line: he’d run out of room.
“It’s nothing to feel bad about,” Jem said. “Hey, I’m fucked up too.”
“I’m going to cut your tongue out,” Zeb said. “And then your eyes. And I’m going to make you eat them. And then I’ll take your face off in strips.”
From upstairs came a whooshing sound. For a moment, it seemed like that might be all. And then flames came rushing down the hallway, following the trail of spilled paint thinner. Even from across the room, the heat pressed against Jem, and he caught the first hint of smoke in the air.
Tean.
“But you know what you have to remember?” Jem said.
And inside, he was trying to find that place that wasn’t bruised, wasn’t hurting, that wasn’t bright pain.
The place where he knew he couldn’t fuck up.
That place where he was lightning. “You don’t have to define yourself.
That’s what I’m working on. I spent all this time thinking that I was a survivor.
That was a big part of what made me who I am.
And I know you’ll understand this, but it really fucked with my head to have to deal with the fact that hey, maybe I’m actually a victim, and I don’t know how to handle that. ”
Jem cleared the last of the round tables. He stumbled back across the clear stretch of floor until his hip checked the mask-making station.
Zeb stepped out into the opening. He carried the knife low.
“Maybe that’s how you need to think about it too,” Jem said. “The next time Kai’s railing you, hammering that little bitch button inside you and making you shout his name—”
“Shut your mouth,” Zeb said thickly.
“—you just tell yourself, ‘I’m not defined by a label. I might be a cock-sucking faggot who loves taking it up the ass—’”
“Shut up!”
“‘—but I’m also a big, bad wolf. I can be two things at the same time.’ That’s how you’ve got to think about it.” Jem reached back blindly, groping across the table. “Just like me, see? I’m a survivor. I’m a victim. I’m—”
With a grunt, Zeb launched himself forward, knife slicing in and up.
Jem grabbed a handful of glitter and threw it at Zeb’s face.
Zeb screamed and shook his head, and his sprint toward Jem changed into a stumble.
Jem caught his arm, trapped it, and twisted.
Bones and tendons protested, and Zeb flailed blindly.
He got in one good hit that made Jem’s head rock back, but Jem held on, and the knife fell.
As soon as Zeb’s hand opened, Jem relaxed his grip and moved in.
Zeb was still shouting and blinking, trying to get his eyes clear.
It was like Jem had all the time in the world.
The headbutt was perfect.
Zeb cut off mid-scream and dropped to the floor. He didn’t move again.
Panting, Jem braced himself on the mask-making table. He wiped his nose and found a little blood. He spat.
“I’m Jem fucking Berger. And I am fast as shit.”
Fire crackled.
Shadows shifted.
Movement drew his eye.
And there was Reed, wolf mask slightly out of place, but on his feet again. Hunched over, covered in blood, but standing among the tables. And he had a gun in his hand.