Page 87 of Because I Killed Him
The Blue charges in high, with a brutish downward cut that’s more street swing than saber strike. Edmund drops low, trying to slip beneath it, but the pommel catches him hard across the cheek. He stumbles back, and the cafe roars with excitement. Several Blues step out of the crowd and move behind Edmund, cupping their hands around their mouths as they shout. The video has no sound, but it looks like a show of support.
Whatever energy they send Edmund’s way seems to catch. He crouches low, bares his teeth, and slams the hilt of his saber into the floor. The marble splits under the impact, and the graphene blade begins to transform in his grip. The nanotech inside comes alive, sparking, lengthening, and splitting until two hilts emerge. Two blades.
Edmund rises.
And moves.
His body blurs with motion, weight, and speed, compressed into a single, punishing stride. The Blue is still recovering when Edmund strikes. One blade carves low across the abdomen, clean and horizontal beneath the ribs. The second follows like an echo, arcing upward with a bone-splitting force I’d recognize from a mile away.
The Prew Cut.
It’s a technique that originated in the old dueling rings, created by his grandfather, and honed in blood-soaked duels. One blade severs the aorta, while the other slices through the carotid artery.
A strike designed to execute.
The camera jolts, redirected by whoever is recording. The new perspective shows the crowd standing as still as the dead bodies on the floor.
Edmund turns slowly, surveying the onlookers. His cheek is already swollen, split high across the bone. Blood streaks down his body in thick rivulets, soaking the collar of his shirt and darkening his suit jacket. His eyes, bright and unblinking, burn through the screen with a clear readiness to do it again.
Dropping into a crouch, Edmund drags two fingers through the blood on the floor and smears it across his face in a long, defiant stroke.
The crowd erupts in anger. A dozen Blues draw their sabers, grapheneflashing as they step forward. But the Blues behind Edmund move faster. They draw in unison and close ranks at his side.
For a moment, the cafe feels like it’s one spark away from detonation. Then the would-be challengers fall back, one spitting at Edmund’s feet before walking away.
Edmund faces the crowd and raises one of his sabers. The blade’s edge still glows faintly, heat shimmering off the graphene. Then he speaks inaudibly, pointing the blade at his fellow Blues, one, another, and another.
The video cuts to black.
The irony of high-citizens having freedom is that most of us don’t know what to do with it.
—EDMUND PREW
CHAPTER 19
The next day feels different, or maybe I’m the one who’s changed. It’s not that I woke up wanting to be friends with Edmund Prew, or that I’ve come around to the Blues and their system of rule. But what happened in the Tangerine Tree has changed things.
Now I owe Edmund. And whether I like it or not, I’m grateful he risked his life to protect me. At first, I was sure the wind blew wherever he walked. I thought all of this was a game to him, a low-stakes show of power in which he paraded me around.
But I realize I was wrong.
So I bite the bullet and start being nice to him. I show up on time and greet him politely. I follow a step behind without complaining, even if it means breaking the law and losing civil credits. I sit through breakfast as Edmund, Jack, and Dickie fill the air with their rough, boyish laughter, ignoring Charlotte and me as if we’re nothing more than two extra slices in the bread basket.
The little things don’t matter anymore, so I let them slide.
At the same time, whenever I see Edmund’s proud, high-held face, I’m constantly reminded of my parents’ warning about the Prews. I desperately want to ask Dad what he and Mom have against the Prew family, but I know that if I do, I’ll invite questions I can’t afford to answer. Dad doesn’t know I’m part of Edmund’s entourage or that I spend nearly every waking hour by his side. And if I can help it, he never will. I’d rather lie by omission than see him disappointed in me.
I dodge Dad’s calls until the end of the week, placating him with detailed text messages about how I’m doing, until he starts leaving voice messages tinged with suspicion that I’m avoiding him. I know I shouldn’t wait much longer, especially since I want to ask him about Jack’s and Dickie’s blue bands. So when Dad calls on Saturday night, while I’m taking my daily vitamins in the lavatory of my suite, I finally answer.
He’s home for the weekend. It’s a rare break from the relentless march of politics, a chance to spend time with Mom, Hillaire, and Vivian. He’s in the library, seated on the tufted leather sofa where he usually enjoys a nightcap. Mom dozes beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. Even in sleep, her face is flawlessly made up. If she woke up now, she could walk straight onto a stage.
Dad sits still with his glass of brandy, careful not to disturb her. His suit is washed to a shine, and his hair is slicked back with pomade, yet none of it hides the weariness in his eyes. The shadows beneath them speak of sleepless nights and the weight of decisions I’ll never fully understand.
“It’s nice to see you, Loredana,” he says. His voice is softer and warmer than usual, but what strikes me most is its calm.
It’s the kind of calm I haven’t heard since I was a child; back when Dad still laughed easily, still hummed under his breath while polishing his saxophone, still stole playful kisses from Mom when he thought my sisters and I weren’t looking; back when the burden of his responsibilities hadn’t dulled the spark in him that now lives only in the old family portraits lining our home’s walls.
Vivian, Hillaire, and I are to blame. As we grew older, edging toward the threshold of becoming Public People, we stole Dad’s calm.
