Page 235 of Because I Killed Him
I pull up the live Grandmaster map on the dashboard. Charlotte is logged in, her avatar racing across campus like a bat out of hell, far too fast to be on foot. I zoom out and see she’s headed toward the beach.
My hand stiffens on the thrust lever as I replay our conversation from yesterday: how she said she was done waiting for someone to save her, that she had to save herself, and that if it all went to hell, she’d find a way totake the spider down with her. I don’t want to accept what these words might mean, but I still punch Rosamund’s name into the map. Her avatar appears on the beach.
That’s when I know.
I slam my foot down hard enough to rock the frame. The hovercar surges left into an aerial lane, taking the fastest route to the beach. A Copper cruiser jolts to life at the curb behind me, its siren howling, but I only drive faster. I blow through a red light, forcing a passing hovercar to veer off course, its horn shrieking in protest. My civil credits are ticking down like water swirling down a drain, but I barely spare the counter a glance. The Copper tailing me is caught at the red light, swallowed by a cross-stream of traffic. I check the Grandmaster map for Edmund, Jack, and Dickie—hoping they’re at the beach, hoping they see Charlotte first and stop her—but all three are logged out.
Hold on, Char. Please. I’m coming.
Minutes later, I reach the beach, kicking up a cloud of sand as I slam the hovercar to a stop at the curb. The crowd on the shore is a motionless line of bodies, all facing the energy shield, where hundreds of AI patrol jets swarm the edge like a pale shroud, ready to open fire if the Rangers launch another attack strong enough to breach it. The jets’ engines roar until students clap their hands over their ears.
As I sprint across the sand, I use the binocular feature on my Bond to scan for Charlotte. I spot her near the water, walking toward Rosamund with a tall, steady stride. Rosamund and the group of Blues she’s with are still in their Fraternity uniforms, staring at the shield with wide-eyed reverence, as if realizing the value of a bulletproof vest they once took for granted.
Charlotte calls out something I can’t hear over the patrol jets, but it makes Rosamund turn. Her hair is matted, her face streaked with blood and dust, and for a moment she looks startled. Then, slowly, a faint, creeping smile spreads across her face, and she holds out her Blood Ring toward Charlotte.
“No,” I choke, pushing through the sand that drags at my ankles. “Please, no.”
Charlotte accepts the scan and yanks her saber free in a quick, awkwardmotion. Heads turn as students notice the death duel. Dozens of them move closer, whistling and cheering as they form a ring around Charlotte and Rosamund. A moment passes before Rosamund draws her saber, gleaming poison-bright in the sun.
I push myself faster, my lungs burning as I reach the crowd. Sand grinds under my boots as I shove my way to the front, just in time to see Charlotte raise her saber and swing it at Rosamund’s with a burst of sparks.
“Char, no!” I cry.
Charlotte meets my gaze, the blade casting light across her face. Her grip is firm, though her brows knit in a way that suggests regret, as if she’s asking me to forgive her, because she never meant for me to watch her die.
The day a high-citizen publicly stands up in defense of a low-citizen is the day the world stops, flips us the bird, and starts spinning the other way.
HARVEY HOLT, THE DIRTY FLAPPER
CHAPTER 58
Charlotte never learned to fence. It’s one of the many skills she refused to acquire for the sake of fitting in. “Why bother with all that fluff?” she’d laugh, propping her stilettos on my vanity. “Why use a saber when I’m strong enough to snap a neck?”
Now, under this ashen sun and a circle of Blues licking their lips for blood, I see the cost of that stubbornness etched in every clumsy swing of her blade. She lunges wildly and desperately, her shoulders wide open, her footing sloppy in the sand. Rosamund remains patient, playing with Charlotte like a cat pawing at a wounded bird. She toys with distance, drifting in and out of reach before lashing in low and fast. A cut to the shin blooms green across the fabric of Charlotte’s Fraternity uniform. Another slice lands beneath the knee, deep enough to force a gasp from her.
“Kneel,” Rosamund calls, loud enough for every Blue to hear. Her saber drags through the sand before she snaps the blade up again and grazes Charlotte’s calf. “Kneel and beg for mercy.”
Around us, more Blues close in, an eager ring of spectators in ragged Fraternity uniforms, already betting how many swings it’ll take to finish Charlotte off. Laughter ripples across the sand each time she stumbles and steadies herself. Beyond the ring, William Lee watches too, his eyes vacant, his arms hanging limp at his sides. I don’t know why he’s here or why the hell he keeps following me, but I don’t have room in my head forhim right now. My body locks up, every muscle straining with resistance as I force my hand away from my saber. Charlotte wouldn’t want me to step in. She might take it as an insult to her pride, or worse, her honor.
Don’t do it. Don’t interfere.
But my heart refuses to listen. Every sharp cry of pain, every new bloodstain on her uniform, tears another hole in my chest. I can’t lose her like this, crawling and bleeding out on the sand while I watch.
Rosamund slices again, the blade carving open the flesh below Charlotte’s right kneecap. Charlotte chokes out a hiss. Her left knee buckles, and she flops to the sand. I squeeze my eyes shut, choking back a sob and a scream all at once.
“There it is,” Rosamund says, towering over Charlotte. “Almost humble enough. One more knee, then you can crawl for the mercy you’ll never get.”
The muscles coil in Rosamund’s arm as she lifts the saber for another swing. Even from here, I can tell it won’t be just a cut this time. She means to follow through and cleave Charlotte’s leg clean off. I see the aftermath before it happens: Charlotte writhing in her own blood at the feet of a dozen jeering Blues because I chose not to be the protection she waited for from Jack, but never received.
The image detonates inside me, and with it, my leash snaps.
I remove the energy shield from my chest and pocket it. Sand scours beneath my boots as I move, drawing my saber with a screech of graphene. Rosamund’s blade drops, and mine clashes with it midway, the sound cracking the air like thunder over the waves.
Exclamations of shock erupt from bystanders, but I barely hear. I only see Rosamund’s wide, confused eyes, fixed on me as if I’m a kill she confirmed too soon.
Charlotte trembles on her knees, blood seeping through the tears in her trousers. I plant my boots deeper in the sand, shielding her with my body, and shout, “I, Loredana Waldsten, stand as second for Charlotte Deering. I bind my life to hers and claim her debt as my own. If I prevail, she walks free. If I fail, you, Rosamund Prew, alone hold the right to determine her fate.”
Rosamund’s lip curls in irritation. “You can’t stand as second. I know you have a weaponsrestric—”
