Page 85 of Because I Killed Him
I turn on Edmund, furious to see him grinning. “I broke the law for scrambled eggs?”
“And an introduction.” Edmund pulls an eyedropper from his pocket, uncaps it, and tilts his head back, squeezing a drop of clear liquid into each eye. “All my friends wanna know if you’re really mine, Miss Waldsten. Today, we’ll make it official.”
He smooths his hair, then pockets the eyedropper and steps out of the hovercar with the others. Jack is already swigging from a flask, Dickie is clutching his newly repaired airplane, and Charlotte is still stewing over her lost civil credits.
“Don’t worry, Lady Charlotte,” Dickie elbows her. “The food here’ll blow the hair clean off your—” His eyes bug out as they dart across her head. “I mean, the food’s a real touch of terrific.”
Charlotte yanks her scarf lower, mutters something I can’t catch, and brushes past Dickie without a glance.
I follow behind, fuming even hotter. An introduction? Why? I’ve already been part of Edmund’s entourage for four days. Everyone, including the students and professors, acts as if they know. Word spread faster than a leaked sex tape. The truth is, my membership cost Edmund nothing. He snaps his fingers, and people fall over themselves to obey. None of this is difficult for him. The deal I thought would give me protection has turned into him parading me around like a trophy.
At the door, a Pinkie checks our badges, and we file into a cafe bathed in electric blue. I catch only a glimpse of the tables inside before I hear cutlery clinking onto plates and chairs scraping as people turn. A hush ripples outward from the center of the cafe, stopping the holographic jazz band in the corner mid-note.
I drift sideways and see Edmund locked in a stare-down with the room.
There are too many high-citizens to count. The tide of blue blurs at theedges: men in shawl-collared jackets and high-waisted trousers, their large hands heavy with rings and their hair so fine you could count the threads; women with lips like open flower petals, their headdresses sagging under the weight of jewels, and cigarettes burning between their fingers in slender holders.
Their eyes—blue, icy, and slit-thin—dart between Edmund and me, as if his bringing me here were a personal affront. The tension stretches until the whole room seems poised to tear in half if anyone so much as coughs.
Edmund’s hand twitches toward his scabbard, then stops, hovering over his saber hilt. “Jack,” he says.
Jack moves, calm but quick, as if he knows the grenade’s already been thrown and the only thing left is to hit the ground before it blows. He hooks his arms through Charlotte’s and mine, pulling us close. Dickie trails behind us, eyes darting as if he’s counting exits.
We walk.
Past the tables where crystal glasses sweat under gloved hands. Past the slow tap of polished shoes. Past the steely glances that tick like cocking guns.
It’s the longest walk of my life.
At the back of the cafe, a stained-glass door glows with swirling tangerine branches. Jack shoulders the door open, shoves us through into a private breakfast room, and yanks it shut behind us.
Locking Edmund out there alone.
Charlotte, Jack, Dickie, and I sit in silence as two Pinkies deliver breakfast we didn’t order. The robots slip through a hidden waiter’s door, balancing tray after tray of flaky butter croissants, eggs with yolks that beg to spill, skewers of plump fruit, and truffle-infused potatoes so fresh I almost expect to find garden dirt still clinging to their skins. But none of us touches a thing.
Dickie hangs off his seat, his gaze glued to the wall clock. His freckles stand out against skin that’s turned gray, and his eyes glaze over with each tick. Beside him, Jack shifts with drunk-fueled, jerky movements. His leg jitters beneath him, rattling the table, as if at any second he might launch through the door and drag Edmund back himself.
If Edmund needed help, we wouldn’t know.
The door is soundproof, so we can’t hear a thing.
The minutes stretch and swell until the silence feels alive, feeding on Jack and Dickie. The way they strain and struggle, buckling under its weight, doesn’t lie. This isn’t about their entourage membership or even their blue bands. It’s Edmund they’re breaking for.
Jack’s hands clamp so tightly around the table’s edge that the tendons stand out like bones. The wood groans, then splinters with a loud crack under his grip. He lurches upright, slamming his hand on his saber hilt, ready to bolt, when the door bursts open.
Jack pitches forward, off balance, until Edmund’s hand snaps out and catches him by the front of his shirt.
Jack curses under his breath as he grounds himself.
We all stare at Edmund.
His face is flushed, glistening with two long streaks of blue blood, fierce in the chandelier light slanting across it. A welt swells high on his cheekbone, as if he took a pommel strike to the face. His hair tumbles wildly across his forehead. His suit jacket is missing, and his white dress shirt hangs half-untucked. His saber, still faintly sparking with heat, hangs crookedly in its scabbard.
For a heartbeat, no one moves.
Then Jack steps forward and rests his hand on Edmund’s arm. “Ed.”
It’s more than his name. It’s a question.
