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As she limps closer, Jonie smiles broadly at us, her face twitching in pain. I’m astonished by her defiance, by her lack of self-pity.
“Thanks for being here.” She gives a struggled wink as her eyelid fails to shut properly. Despite what was done to her face, it’s clear her spirit remains unbroken. Through the pain, she even manages to shoot me a mischievous grin. “Nice shirt, by the way.”
I glance down at my new tee in surprise, having completely forgotten about it. But where Jonie is emboldened by direct action, I’m suddenly nervous and feeling ten times more vulnerable. Wearing a shirt that saysThought Criminalnext to a group who attacked someone else for daring to think differently feels like waving a flag in front of an uncontrollable bull, and shamefully I begin to wish I’d brought something to cover it up.
“That’s right!” a bearded man yells, leering as Jonie hobbles away. “Fuck off, you stupid slut!”
Rory’s and Finlay’s fingers instantly become twin vises as they grip my biceps steady. “Let go of me.”
“I understand the need,” Rory murmurs calmly into my ear, “but I promise you, little saint, it’s for your own good.” The soft music of his voice is enough to ground me, enough to clear the red from my vision, but my breathing is still labored as I give the bearded prick my deadliest glare, wishing I had laser beams for eyes.
The guard continues to steer Jonie toward the university entrance. A small stream of injured anti-Antiro protesters escape from the quadrangle and follow her, though none are as badly bruised and battered as her. By offering to be the lonely figurehead of the movement, she’s carved a target on her back for bullies and morons to take pleasure in battling.
For some reason, I feel a sense of kinship unlike with any other woman I’ve met before.
I wish I could be more like her, I wish I could honor her in some way.
“They have some fuckin’ nerve,” Finlay mutters in outrage, his attention caught on the corner newly evacuated by Jonie’s gang.
Antiro supporters are kneeling solemnly, innocently, on the ground, placing down their placards in the corner like sacred laurel wreaths.They’re building a shrine, I realize dizzily after a while, a giant shrine of black and red topped with the letterA.
A monument to their victory.
“This afternoon didn’t have to happen.” After a brief but merciful interlude, the woman with the megaphone is back on her box, and I roll my eyes. “It could have been peaceful if certain people weren’t here to deliberately provoke. So let this be a lesson to all, as we progress in our noble republican liberation work. Let this be a lesson to those who dare to harass us and chose the wrong side!”
Republican liberation work. I feel a sense of disbelief I haven’t felt in a long time, like the world is slanting upside-down, filling my veins with vertigo. They dothatto Jonie, call her names, degrade her, try to destroy her… and then act likethey’rethe ones who were harassed? Jonie’s group had been peaceful. Jonie’s group had been attacked.
“So they’re the victims even when threatening death,” I whisper, stunned by how low they’re willing to sink for a stupid political cause.
Rory’s deep, sarcastic laugh reverberates against my back. “They think as long as they’re waving that ridiculous Antiro flag that their actions are immune from criticism. But then that’s what activism is these days: punching people and threatening violence to censor those who disagree with you.”
“I want to see Luke.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, a rush of hungry, needy words. I need to know, need to remember, thatLukeis the one this whole farce is about. And perhaps understanding my urgency, Rory nods.
* * *
It takes a while to eventually track down Luke, which at least indicates his security at St. Camford is a success. We find him in a small, dimly lit church at the very edge of the campus. It smells of snuffed-out incense and dripping candle wax. The stained-glass windows are dark and turbulent, depicting battling angels and gloomy imagery of a weak and naked crucified Jesus.
Luke sits slumped on the front wooden pew, a triangular-shaped glass in one hand and a red leather Bible in the other. He peruses the Bible thoughtfully while taking small sips of his bright orange drink, his elegant nose nudging a full cherry out of the way.
Danny lies horizontally on the pew beside Luke, his nose buried deep in a comic that he reads with wide, eager eyes, his ankles crossed to reveal sky-blue Captain StarStrike socks. Across the aisle, Mr. MacKechnie turns sharply the moment our footsteps give us away, and only when he realizes who we are does his frame begin to relax.
Luke flicks a glance at us, placing down the Bible but still clinging to his cocktail. “Hello.” He sounds tired, bored. He looks morose.
I dash over to him in an instant and hug him with all my might.
He glances down at me, surprised. It takes a while for his arms to wrap around me, but when he does, I hear his longing sigh, his slowing breath, the press of his lips soft against the hair on the back of my head. He smells like citrus and peeled oranges. When I kiss him slowly, his lips taste like Christmas.
Mr. MacKechnie clears his throat and stands, telling us he’ll be outside the entrance if required.
“Whit are ye daein’ here?” Finlay glances around the church, staring at the gilt altar and gleaming porcelain font. “Strange wee hidey-hole.”
“Turns out religion isn’t all that popular these days,” Luke murmurs, his fingers tangling unhurriedly in my hair. “Sometimes sanctuary can still be found in the most obvious place.”
“I’m not so certain,” Rory mutters, thrusting his hands deep into his jean pockets. “If you’d been with us, I think you’d have witnessed plenty of religious fervor.”
“Things that bad?”
Rory shrugs. “Rich kids doing anarchist cosplay. A modern-day religion and their god is Benjamin Moncrieff. Speak against him and be cast as a heretic.”
