Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“What have you done?” Jean demanded in French before Nathaniel even got the door closed behind them. “You—you suicidal—”
Words failed him, because what words could possibly be strong enough for this? Kevin’s tattoo was gone, hidden behind a symbol that Jean at first thought was a keyhole. Understanding was just barely out of reach, but Jean didn’t need or want to know what it was supposed to be. All that mattered was that Kevin had scoured his number off his face. It was cleaner than what the Wesninski lot had done to Nathaniel, but at least Nathaniel hadn’t had a choice in losing his. This was deliberate erasure from a man who knew better.
“You’re going to face him tonight,” Jean said, fighting for a coherent thought. “Like that? Are you mad?”
“No, I’m angry,” Kevin said. Jean searched for the lie in his careless dismissal, but Kevin was too good an actor to give away the game. “I am tired of being called second when I am better than he will ever be. Tonight they’ll see how wrong they were about us.”
“We could get rid of yours, too.” Nathaniel reached up quicker than Jean could fend him off and ripped the bandage off his face.
“I will kill you and myself if you try.”
“Leaving,” Andrew said in English.
He stubbed a cigarette out on the windowsill and slid off of the desk he’d been using as a chair. He and Kevin collected their bags on the way to the door. Nathaniel held up the bandage in offering as Kevin approached, and Kevin applied it to his own face to hide his new marking. A surprise he didn’t dare spoil too early, Jean assumed, and then Kevin and Andrew were gone.
Nathaniel closed the door behind them. He had to feel Jean’s stare boring holes in his face, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he pointed out the most relevant and basic things about the dorm room Jean would be camping out in today.
“Bathroom around the corner with medicine above the sink. Take what you need from the fridge. Remote should be by the couch, and the TV’s been set to the right channel already.” He thought a moment, then pointed again. “Kevin thinks you’ll spend the day watching USC games. His laptop is on his desk, and he’s temporarily disabled the password for it. There should be a shortcut on his desktop to the right folder.”
“What have you done?” Jean demanded.
“It wasn’t my call. He didn’t tell any of us what he was planning; he just came back to the dorm like that.” The smile that curved Nathaniel’s mouth was slow and hungry and hateful. It twitched a bit as Nathaniel tried to force it away, but he finally had to use the side of his hand to smooth it off his face. The look he turned on Jean was almost serene, but Jean still saw the madness in his eyes. “Need anything else? If not, I need to go.”
“I should have let him kill you,” Jean said.
“Probably,” Nathaniel agreed, “but you didn’t, so here we all are. Coach won’t keep us there overnight, so we’ll be back sometime before dawn.”
He left and locked the door behind himself. Jean stayed where he was a few minutes more: in part to let the throbbing in his knee subside, in part so the pounding in his head would lessen enough he could see straight. It got to the point where standing hurt more than moving did, so Jean limped across the room. He collected Kevin’s laptop before sinking down to the couch, unsure when he’d be able to stand again, but he stared down at its closed lid with dread chewing holes in his heart.
Idly he thought he should’ve said goodbye to Kevin, because there was no way Riko was going to let him walk away. Riko would kill Kevin, the master would kill Riko, and just like that the perfect Court was in shambles. At least Nathaniel and Andrew might survive. With Jean that made three, and three was enough to rebuild from.
Unbidden he reached for his face, and Jean traced his tattoo with a trembling fingertip.
-
Jean muted the TV at the halftime break. He didn’t have it in him to turn the game off, but he didn’t want to hear what anyone was saying about what was happening on the court. Jean was sickened by how easily they feigned disappointment in the Foxes’ first-half performance and just as annoyed by how quick they were to remind people that the game could only end one way. Jean couldn’t explain that restless rage, because of course the Foxes were going to lose. In no universe could they beat the Ravens on a fair playing field.
Rather than deconstruct that irritation, he spent the break exploring the dorm room with unabashed interest. There were four beds in the bedroom, set across from each other as two sets of bunks. Dressers packed to bursting with clothes barely fit in the remaining space, and two lumpy beanbag chairs were precariously balanced on top of them. Jean assumed Andrew’s twin owned the remaining bed, but aside from his outstanding murder charge there was nothing interesting about that Fox.