Chapter Twenty-Two Taissa
Chapter Twenty-Two
Taissa
“He held me down,” Taissa says thickly, hearing her voice as if from very far away.
She’s not sure that she should be telling him this; not even with Sansa gone, and on the verge of what very well might be death.
Frasier’s threats still ring in her ears; tell anybody and he’ll have her little wyvern put down.
It doesn’t matter if he had been bluffing, if he’d meant to give Sansa to Elise all along—even if there was a slim chance he wasn’t, Taissa couldn’t risk being the reason that her Winged was killed.
It would have broken her. Completely.
She believed Colum Frasier could do it, if angered enough.
The DMC would be infuriated, of course, but it was known to happen with Wingeds who grew violent beyond measure (although that typically only happened amongst the winged grizzlies, rarins, who are known to on occasion eat their riders and also small children), and Sansa had a history of biting.
Besides, this was the same coach that forced a glyph onto her, who callously blackmailed her, who (if rumors were true) had a brief stint in Shackell Penitentiary from charges of dealing Fury and aggravated assault.
Perhaps she should stop talking. But Taissa finds that she simply…
can’t. After years of Locke writing her off as a cheater, something in her leaps at the chance to explain herself.
(Pathetic, isn’t it, how a part of her still wants to prove herself to him?
How part of her can’t stop thinking about the feel of him beneath her, about their kiss?
Fake it might have been but the way her heart twists when she thinks of it is too real.)
(Stupid, she tells herself.)
Taissa pays less attention to the words she speaks than she pays to Kion’s reaction as they lie next to each other.
It’s subtle at first: the stiffening of the sharp, chiseled planes of his face.
The way his thick brows begin to pull together.
That bobbing of his Adam’s apple. A flush of color beginning to stain his ridiculously high cheekbones, like the blushing hue of an Envy apple.
And then it changes, all at once.
His breathing becomes quick and shallow.
Kion lurches up from the bed, standing, his chest heaving.
There’s a murderous gleam in his eyes, and something else.
Something like regret and shock and horror all rolled into one.
Taissa falls silent, the story done, truth lingering in the air between them.
The truth of her grief, and the coach who took advantage of her.
Taissa doesn’t bother to describe the fallout; Kion knows it well already.
Does he believe her? Or is the fury in his eyes at her? Does he think she’s lying?
“I’ll use a Truth glyph,” Taissa rasps, sitting up and fumbling for her qyl. The DMR won’t be pleased, but if it makes Kion believe her, maybe, maybe it’ll be worth it—
“No,” he bites out, so violently that she nearly flinches. “No,” he repeats, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I believe you, Cho. Fuck. I believe you.”
“You do?” she whispers.
Kion gives a sharp nod, eyes dark and furious.
For a long, long, moment he’s silent—running a hand down his mouth, shaking his head.
When he does speak, there’s a hoarse edge to his voice that she’s never heard before.
“It didn’t make sense for you to be scared of him.
You’re the bravest person I know. I’ve seen you fall through thin air without even a scream.
But now I see why you are.” He drags a hand down his face.
“Fuck,” she thinks he mutters again. “Merlin’s fucking tits. ”
Taissa draws her legs up to her chest, drumming a nervous rhythm on her knees.
“I could have taken it off,” she admits in a small voice.
“Nullified it. Or gone immediately to the authorities. I just didn’t…
in the moment, I couldn’t think straight.
And he shoved me out onto the pitch before I could try anything… ”
“You shouldn’t have had to do any of that.” Locke’s eyes are hard and gleaming. “But now we should take this public. Get him sacked.”
Alarmed, Taissa shakes her head. “Sansa—”
“Is currently in the best position she can be in,” he finishes firmly.
“Watched over by the DMC, night and day. Nobody’s getting to her.
” She blinks, feeling slightly unsteady as Kion crouches in front of her.
“If you take this public, Cho, I’ll stand by you.
Not as your ‘boyfriend,’ but as your captain and coach.
Your teammate. But it’s your choice, yeah?
” As she nods, swallowing hard, Kion hesitates.
“It probably means shit-all now, but—I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry. For everything that happened these past couple of years.
” As she blinks, taken aback, he points a finger at her.
“Not for telling Everest you had Pixie Pox or any of that other shit because you started it—”
The absolute nerve of this bastard. Her lips quirk despite herself. “I did not, Locke, take it back, right this bloody second—”
“—but I am sorry for calling you a ‘pathetic liar and cheater’ at every press conference I went to for two years straight, even if nobody brought you up.”
Taissa blinks. “I didn’t know you did that.” She’d watched the games, but skipped the press conferences, lest Locke say something exactly like that.
Kion grimaces. “Oh.”
“Anything else you’re particularly sorry for?” she asks, swatting his finger away.
“I’m sorry for not punching Frasier in the face today when I had the chance,” he snarls, and the sheer violence in his voice is startling. (Why is it making her want to blush?)
“Oh.” She clears her throat. “I might have taken care of that.”
Kion does not look very satisfied.
“Anything else?” she wheedles.
A muscle seems to be pulsing in his temple, but his lips are also twitching. (It’s very odd, like he can’t decide whether to frown or smile. But that’s ridiculous. Kion Locke does not smile.) “Don’t push it, newbie.”
“Fine,” she says, crossing her arms. “Now tell me who hurt you badly enough that you wear a Glamour glyph.” Taissa hasn’t even realized how tightly she’s been holding on to the possibility that whatever he’s hiding is from an accident until Kion’s face goes all tight.
He stands, backing a foot or two away from her.
And he doesn’t look at her as he says, “I grew up in an orphanage. South London. The boys there were—violent.” Every word is short, like he’s biting them out, severing whatever more might be left of the sentences with his teeth.
“Wait…” Taissa shakes her head, trying to clear it. “You said in an interview—you said that your mum and dad, they ran a-a bookshop? An apothecary? Or something?”
“I…I lied.” He scratches at his neck, looking away.
Her stomach sinks like a pit. Kion was (is?) an orphan? How did she not know? How many hours has she spent poring over every available nugget of information about him? How did she miss this?
But it explains so much, doesn’t it? His prickly exterior, his tendency to hate everything and everyone that makes the mistake of crossing his path. Kion was…abused.
He was alone.
What was he like, as a child? In her mind’s eye, she sees a little boy with a thatch of black hair and wide, dark eyes. Did he smile then?
Or was all the joy beaten out of him?
His episode in the sitting room. How often does he have flashbacks?
“I don’t tell people.” Adult Kion’s sharp gaze snaps toward her in clear warning, bringing her back to the present.
“But your last name,” she protests, rather stupidly. Locke. Kion Locke. Orphans don’t…
The look he gives her is exasperated. “I chose it. We can choose our surnames at sixteen, you know.”
“Why Locke?” Taissa doesn’t know why this is what she’s latched onto, but she wants (no, needs) to know.
Kion’s throat bobs. He shrugs, idly, but she can see the tension in his shoulders. “It’s stupid. The reason is…stupid.”
“Don’t say that,” she says softly.
He exhales and runs a hand through his hair.
“The first time I ever felt like I—well, like I bloody belonged, was when my Witchery’s headmaster told me I was a warlock.
So when I got the chance to choose a surname, I picked ‘Locke.’ ” He glares at her.
“I know. It’s fucking cheesy.” His shoulders hunch in (very expressive, his shoulders) like he’s playing defense on the field. “I was a teenager and dumb.”
“I don’t think it’s cheesy,” Taissa whispers and she’s overcome with the dangerous desire to reach for him. Their eyes hold for an electrifying moment. Heat rises to her cheeks.
They’ve misjudged each other, haven’t they? Maybe they don’t need to hate each other so much anymore. Maybe they can call a truce. Or at least half a truce?
A loud THUMP from directly overhead, and a muffled squawk of pain, breaks the moment between them like glass.
Kion’s head jerks up in alarm. “What—”
“Attic,” she mutters. (For some reason, she is disproportionately annoyed at Knox and óríon right now. Did they have to choose that exact moment to start squabbling?)
“Go back to sleep!” óríon seems to be shouting.
“Oi!” That’s Knox’s muffled response. “I didn’t mean to trip over you, I just needed a wee!”
“Fucking hells,” mutters Kion, pinching the bridge of his nose as what seems to be a physical altercation follows (lots of thumping, thudding, banging, and swearing). “They’ll be at it for hours. I don’t know how they expect me to get any sleep.”
(Don’t offer it. Don’t say it. Come on, Taissa, be strong…)
“MMPHFFGRHH! GET YOUR ELBOW! OUT OF MY MOUTH!” óríon roars.
“You could stay in here,” Taissa offers, as Knox screeches something vulgar in reply.
(For Morgana’s sake, Taissa.)
So this is what a flabbergasted Kion Locke looks like (mouth slightly agape, eyes bulging a bit wide). “What?”
She loses her nerve last minute.
What is wrong with her? What possessed her to suggest that? Morgana help me.