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“Excuse me?”
“I’m assuming you want to know how she died,” he says. “Everyone does. Keeps them from Googling it later.”
I stare at him. I hadn’t considered doing any research on Thane in my spare time.
“It was a car wreck,” he says. “The driver who hit her was drunk and speeding. He had a really good lawyer and never served time for her murder.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, pulling out another cigarette. The cherry brightens with his inhale, and as he flicks the ashes away, he says, “Smoking is a bad habit. It smells and will probably give me cancer. But it could be worse. My uncle should be glad I’m not using his money for cocaine.”
“Drugs won’t help you feel any better.”
He smiles, his eyes narrow, amused. “Shows how much you know.”
An awkward silence spreads between us. I think about asking Thane about Shy—why aren’t they friends anymore? Does it have anything to do with the fact that he’s a death-speaker, or the blade Shy carries at his side? Before I can ask, I hear my name.
“Anora.” I twist to find Lennon standing a few feet away. “What are you doing?”
“Uh,” I look back at Thane. “Just talking.”
“Are you okay? You just sort of ran away.”
“Yeah. Yeah...I’m fine.”
“You better run along,” Thane says. “You don’t want people
to talk.”
His eyes don’t move from Lennon as he speaks. The tension between them reminds me of the tension between her and Shy, and I have to wonder why everyone’s suspicious of Lennon Ryder.
“I’ll see you around,” I say. At that, Thane smirks.
“I hope that’s a promise.”
I follow Lennon back to the stands. As we go, she explains what I already know—that the game was delayed because of a fight. The police and ambulance were called. I do my part and act both surprised and shocked. I ask all the right questions: Who was involved? Why were they fighting? Is everyone okay?
By the time we make it to our seats, the crowd erupts in applause. Shy jogs onto the field, helmet in one hand, the other raised, waving to the crowd. He runs to the coach, whose exaggerated arms and yelling can't mask his relief. After a few orders, Shy and Jacobi trade places on the field. Shy pumps his arms in the air, urging the crowd to their feet, and like any disciples, we follow his will, chant his name, sing his praise.
Who knew football could be a religious experience?
My brain tells me I should rebel—this kid, this all-American quarterback carries a scythe, the same weapon used by the boy who tried to kill me before.
As Shy and his now-unified team pull us out of defeat, my gaze settles on Jacobi, who sits alone on a bench near the sidelines, helmet off, hair wet with sweat, evidence of his hard work, all ignored because it didn't mean victory. Despite feeling sorry for him, I still wonder if he carries a scythe, too?
“He'll be okay,” Lily says. I meet her gaze. “Jacobi's used to this.”
“Used to it?”
“We're all used to it,” she amends. “Shy's...gifted. He's a seventeen-year-old imbued with the soul of someone much older and practiced.”
“No one's that perfect.”
She smiles. “I didn't say he was perfect.”
And yet, in all his imperfection, Shy leads Nacoma Knight to victory. Teammates fly across the field to lift him on their shoulders and he takes it all in like a God receiving prayer. Who is Shy Savior? Student, quarterback...assassin?
When his feet touch the ground again, he's crowded by coaches and cheerleaders. Natalie pushes her way forward and throws her arms around his neck. I expect Shy to push her away, but instead he gathers her close, lifting her off the ground in a hug.
