Chapter 14
Kian had been nowhere to be found today.
It should’ve been a relief.
For the past week or so, she’d almost grown used to his bizarre omnipresence: the casual lean against a locker; the not-so-subtle
glances across the cafeteria; the suspiciously well-timed hallway encounter. Friday, she’d fled AP US History four minutes
early to avoid him, only to spot him at the vending machine outside her class, contemplating a bag of pretzels like it held
the meaning of life.
If he wasn’t around now—had something happened? Was it too much to hope for that the curse was loosening its grip?
More likely, the red thread that bound them was choking him out like a starving anaconda. Meanwhile she was stuck in PE, wasting
a precious hour she could spend finding an actual solution, with the full moon on the 26th getting closer by the day.
“Dodgeball agaaain?” whined Michael Woodward. He was the president of the Improv Club, though Riya did not find him funny,
especially after he’d demanded funding to pay for club T-shirts.
Coach Reese, PE teacher and former marine, didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Yup.”
Michael’s friend, Akash Kumar, groaned. “Someone didn’t feel like teaching today, huh.” He froze when that made Coach Reese look up. “Uh, no offense, Coach. I just mean I’d rather do one of those team-building exercises. Like an
obstacle course.”
“Dodgeball is a team-building exercise. Right, Khan?”
Despite Riya’s general indifference to PE, Coach Reese liked her. Probably because she was one of the few students who didn’t
openly complain.
“You could argue that,” answered Riya. “Unfortunately.”
“ ‘Unfortunately’?” Coach Reese barked a laugh. “Well, I’ll take it. Everyone line up!”
“Goody Two-shoes,” Michael muttered.
Riya shot him a glare; he ducked behind Akash.
“I think they wanted you to talk Coach out of it,” came a voice at her ear.
Riya stiffened. Right. The other downside to PE class: Quin was in it.
They stood half a step too close, their silvery-blond hair clipped back, bemused as always.
“I don’t have that kind of influence,” Riya said. “They’d be better off asking you.”
“True.” Quin smirked. “Too bad I love dodgeball.” Their eyes skimmed her. “You look like you should take this opportunity to blow off some steam.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just look at you. The whole sorry state of you.”
Unfortunately, Quin had a point: She’d barely slept.
She’d combed the internet all over again, reading every dubious article on peri magic she could find—hoping, hoping she’d missed something.
At this point, she’d take another hate comment on the message board.
At least it would mean someone was listening.
After Coach Reese finished counting off all thirty seniors and blew his whistle, the gym erupted into chaos. The air reeked
of fear and sweat, the overhead lights buzzing faintly against the echo of sneakers squeaking on polished wood. Red rubber
balls ricocheted off the floor as students yelped.
Riya couldn’t get her head in it. Every second wasted felt like the curse rooting deeper.
There had to be something she hadn’t tried yet. Some new angle. Some other way to—
“Look alive, VP!”
A red blur. She ducked just in time.
She adjusted her glasses and found Quin across the court, grinning. Tossing ball and plucking another from the air like nothing.
A slow, creeping irritation unfurled in her chest.
Her fingers still ached from last night’s scrolling, typing, searching—every rabbit hole that had led to nothing. She did
not need Quin’s needling on top of everything, especially from someone who treated student government like an afterthought
and still got credit.
Another throw from Quin skimmed Riya’s cheekbone—a rush of rubber and air—and smacked the wall hard enough to leave a dusty
crescent.
“Headshots are illegal,” she called.
Coach Reese looked up. “Quin.”
Quin only tipped their chin. A challenge. A dare.
Riya’s lip twitched.
Fine. If Quin wanted to help her blow off steam?
She’d blow off steam.
Riya tightened her grip, planted her feet, and hurled the ball straight at them.
Quin dodged it, allowing it to hit a teammate behind them. Their smirk sharpened, which only irked her more.
The air in the gym shifted, like a blanket had been ripped off. “Damn!” someone yelled. “Someone pissed off Riya!”
Another throw. Quin sidestepping smoothly, unbothered that their teammates were dropping like flies.
Riya settled into a rhythm: one dodge, one block, one clean tag. Each movement sent a satisfying jolt through her limbs. Sweat
gathered under her collar and a strand of hair stuck to her mouth. She spat it away and threw again.
She’d lost control of so many things lately. But the angle of the ball, the speed—this, at least, she could control.
One by one, other students got knocked out.
“Help, our VP has gone feral!”
“Michael’s knocked out! I didn’t even see it happen!”
“It’s a massacre!”
Some distant, rational part of Riya warned her that this was getting out of hand. That she needed to pull back. But as much
as she tried to maintain her composure, to listen to the voice in her head, the world kept tilting, just slightly off-center.
Another ball blurred toward her face.
She didn’t think—she braced—
—and a hand came out of nowhere, slapping the shot aside midair.
The ball cannoned off the floor and pinwheeled into the sideline.
“Made it just in time,” said Kian, cheerful, breathless.
Whispers cracked open like ice. Barely suppressed snickering. Everyone was looking at him. And then, inevitably, at her.
Heat flooded Riya’s face. No. Not again.
“HEY!” Coach Reese bellowed: “You’re not supposed to be here!”
Kian ignored him, still smiling devotedly at her. Like they weren’t in the middle of a gym. Like there weren’t thirty other
people watching this happen.
And now some of them were pulling out their phones.
“Kian,” said Riya as calmly as she could, “you’re interfering. I don’t need your help.”
“Maybe you don’t need it, but I want to.” Kian beamed before gesturing toward Quin. “You don’t like that kid, right? If you
want, I can just beat them up for you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Quin called.
“Beg harder!” Kian yelled back.
The pressure behind Riya’s brows was mounting. “Kian, I appreciate you have good intentions, but—”
A red blur suddenly whizzed past Kian’s ear, cutting her off.
“Jesus!” Kian whirled around. “Are you trying to give someone a concussion?!”
“Game’s still going,” Quin sang.
“Can’t you see I’m trying to flirt?” Kian growled, grabbing a ball. He wound his arm and threw, hard.
Quin sidestepped. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Get out of my class or I’m writing you up!” Coach shouted. “Everyone else, put your phones away!”
“Kian,” Riya hissed.
“I’ve got this,” he said, batting down another shot like it was nothing. “You don’t have to lift a finger. I’ll teach this
kid a lesson.”
“That’s just Quin being Quin. Please, it’s fine.”
“Not to me.”
And then they were off—Quin and Kian trading fire in rapid succession, skidding, reloading. Quin moved like smoke, Kian like
a border collie at an agility championship. Soon, their faces glistened with sweat, their ragged breathing audible over the
cheers and shouts from the sidelines. Michael Woodward was laughing: “Kian’s fighting for Riya’s honor. Like the world’s shittiest
knight.”
Riya’s throat ached. The longer this went, the bigger the story would get—Kian, the lovestruck fool, and Riya, his source
of torment.
The last time there’d been rumors about her—the last time—
No. She had to stop this. Now.
Her fingers curled around the ball, nails digging into rubber. She lifted her arm, aimed—
And drilled it straight into the back of Kian’s head.
SMACK!
Kian staggered as everyone else went still.
Sound evaporated from the gym.
He turned to face her.
“R-Riya . . . ?” He blinked at her, dazed. “You . . . headshot me.”
“You’re not even supposed to be here!” she snapped.
Kian blinked again. “I was just trying to help you,” he said. Soft. Small.
Over his shoulder, phones were still up, recording Riya, merciless before a wounded Kian, while everyone else looked stunned.
The full weight hit at once.
“I just—I asked you to stop,” she managed.
Kian’s arms went slack. “I’m sorry.”
Riya didn’t know what to say to that. Because he—or at least, some part of him—truly meant it. He was only trying to help. Everything else was the curse.
You monster.
Before she could speak, Coach’s voice cracked through the gym, sharp and tired: “You three! Meet me after class.”
But Kian was still staring at her. And for the first time since this all started—since she’d cast the curse thirteen days
ago—he didn’t look elated or confused. He didn’t even look frustrated.
He looked sad.
Riya shouldn’t have let it bother her. That was the whole point of keeping her distance, of staying in control. But now, with the whole class watching, and Kian’s wounded eyes still locked on hers, the worst part was—
It did.
And that was the problem.