Page 93 of Because I Killed Him
Watching the duelers awakens the same phantom pain in my empty hand that I feel every Monday night. Each swing of their blades reminds me of what I’ve lost. It’s unbearable to feel the call to participate while knowing I can’t.
Across the room, Miss Linwood watches me with a broad, grateful smile, still thankful for the transfer I sent her last week. I don’t know if seventeen civil credits were enough to remove her name from the expulsion list, but she looks steadier now, less pale and frantic than before. I smile back, trying to seem friendly and to look like I’m enjoying the duel as much as everyone else.
Most nights, I can stand with the crowd and breathe through it, but tonight my body won’t cooperate. My feet carry me away from the crush of students toward a bench hidden in the shadows. Charlotte wriggles free between two shouting boys and starts after me, but I shake my head. She pauses, concern crossing her face, then nods and stays put.
The air here is cooler, clashing with the heat on my face. I try to sit still and calm the fire inside me. No one understands why I don’t fight. Besides Charlotte, no one knows about my weapons restriction. They think I hate fencing or never learned. Since participation is optional, no one questions my lack of a saber.
My gaze lifts to the upper floors as a fourth-year student descends, his flat-top cap pulled low over his brow. The crowd parts before him in a wave of black leather boots. My chest tightens as I get a better look at his broad shoulders, dark, slicked-back hair, and mustache that appears sharp enough to cut his cheek.Vincent Lee.
I couldn’t forget him even if I tried. After the way he betrayed Harrison on the train platform—demanding that Harrison formally introduce us so Vincent could challenge me to a death duel—I’ll forever see him as a two-faced,backstabbing bastard.
Vincent stops at the edge of the piste. At first, I think he’s here to watch the fight. His eyes lock onto one of the duelists, who looks like a younger version of him. It’s his brother, William Lee.
William fights like a whirlwind, darting in and out relentlessly, forcing his opponent to overreach and leave openings. Vincent watches with pride, his mouth twitching at his brother’s clever feints and clean counters. He looks healthier than the last time I saw him; his face is flushed, and his skin is fuller around his bones. He even stands taller.
Vincent steps back from the duel and walks over to our Grandmaster. Each year has its own Grandmaster, and ours is Eve Weathers. She’s a sixth-year with the force of a jackhammer and long yellow hair tied at the nape of her neck. I don’t know much about her, but rumors say she’s in love with a Purple.
The freckles on her face bunch together as Vincent talks. With a curt nod, she hands control of the duel to the Deputy and walks with Vincent toward me.
I sit up straighter as I meet his gaze through the moving bodies. Whatever he wants from me, this won’t be like our last encounter. I don’t have to be afraid of him anymore.
“Miss Waldsten,” Grandmaster Weathers says. “I have been requested by Mr. Lee to provide an introduction to you. Do you accept?”
“I accept.”
She runs through the formalities, reminding us to log the introduction in our Blood Rings, then returns to the duel.
Vincent lowers himself onto the bench beside me. For a moment, the only sound is the clashing of blades on the piste. His left hand is clenched on his knee, revealing a long, winding saber scar across his wrist. It must be his honor scar, the one mark we’re allowed to keep from the duel we consider our most noble. The rest we heal with rejuvenation cream. I have an honor scar on my chin from my very first duel. But there’s something about seeing this traitor with one that makes my blood boil.
What does Vincent want from me? And why now?
The duel ends with a decisive final touch. William Lee stands victorious, while his opponent lowers his blade in defeat. Cheers and stomping erupt as the crowd applauds. Kegs of dark beer are rolled out,and students swarm the tables, their voices rising as they launch into an old Fraternity song,Drink, Brothers and Sisters, Drink.
Two students climb onto the bar, their laughter echoing as they tap dance between the beer tankards. The room feels lively and warm, but Vincent sits in silence, staring ahead. His jaw works, and his mouth opens, then closes again, as if he’s practicing lines that still don’t sit right in his mouth.
His shyness reminds me of the first time I saw him. He was standing on our front porch, waiting to pick up Harrison and Vivian for drinks at the Silver Stiletto Lounge in the Green District. I was coming down the stairs, but Vincent didn’t notice me because his eyes were fixed on Vivian. He blushed when she opened the screen door, a deep red that contrasted with his pale green suit.
I wasn’t surprised. Most men react the same way when they see her. But with Vincent, it looked sweet, in a handsome way. That’s why it never made sense that this man was the one who tried to kill me, and even worse, that he tried to kill his own friend.
But that’s what Bliss does.
As the song transitions to another, Vincent finally takes off his cap and says, “During our prior meeting, Miss Waldsten, I was not myself. There is no excuse for my actions, and no way to justify them. However, if there is a path to make amends, I hope you will guide me toward it and, in time, forgive my shameful conduct.”
I scoff so sharply that he flinches. “With hopes so high, Mr. Lee, you could be a Blue.”
Color rises in his face, and he clears his throat, fingers twisting the cap as if he wants to crush it. For a moment, I think he’ll walk away and pretend this never happened. But then he leans back against the bench and laughs—slightly bitter, yet amused and oddly self-aware.
“I do not expect us to be friends, Miss Waldsten. I seek only to offer my apologies. To right a wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because when the Bliss withdrawals ended…” Vincent falters, his voice trailing off.
Desperation flashes in his eyes, like a man surfacing from deep water,his lungs still burning. “When the withdrawals ended and I finally broke free of it, I realized your father was right.”
Vincent turns away, jaw tightening, mustache bristling like the pelt of a proud animal. His eyes scan the crowd, laughing, singing, and clinking glasses, but I know he’s not truly seeing them.
He’s still waiting on me.
