“The Reaper—”

  “That was the Reaper—”

  “Did you see—”

  “The Reaper is here—”

  The name bounced around the circle like a pinball, hitting every pair.

  At the far side, Artem’s knees gave out. He dropped to the grass, practice sword falling from limp fingers. He looked green and gray all at once, like someone had pulled his bones out.

  “Hey, hey,” Hana said quickly, crouching beside him, patting between his shoulder blades in a helpless, repetitive motion. “Breathe. Artem, look at me. In. Out. Come on.”

  He didn’t, not right away.

  “Okay!” Vinh’s voice cut across the noise, sharper than usual. “Enough. Line up—”

  No one listened.

  They were still stealing glances at the doors, at Artem, at each other. The words kept circling: the Reaper like a spell, like a curse, like a celebrity sighting and a ghost story all at once.

  My heart was still hammering, but not just from awe. Anger bubbled up under the adrenaline, hot and irrational.

  He was terrified. Anyone with eyes could see that. And she’d just…cut him down in front of everyone, like he was a broken chair someone had left out in the rain.

  I turned to Theo. “Who was that?” I demanded. “And why is everyone acting like Beyoncé just walked through a horror movie?”

  His eyes were still on the gym doors, wide in a way I’d never seen on him.

  “The Reaper,” he breathed. There was something like reverence in it. “I never thought I’d ever see her.”

  He swallowed, grin trying to fight its way back onto his face and not quite making it.

  “She’s—” He groped for words. “She’s the strongest warrior who’s ever lived. Every line, every faction, they all tell stories about her. Wraith packs, nest queens, things nobody else walked away from. If I’m ever even half as good as her…” He trailed off, eyes shining.

  “She’s a monster,” I shot back before I could stop myself.

  He finally looked at me. Really looked. The expression on his face was almost…blank. Like I’d said something that didn’t compute in a language he didn’t speak.

  “What?” he asked, after a beat.

  “Look at him!” I snapped, jabbing a finger toward Artem.

  He was still on his knees, hunched over, sucking in air like it hurt. Hana hovered by his side, hand on his back, eyes flicking nervously between him and the gym doors.

  Theo blinked, like he had to fight through fog to refocus. I watched his eyes clear a little, the shine of hero?worship dulling just enough to let something else in.

  “Oh,” he breathed. “Diduch. I didn’t put it together. Never imagined…”

  He trailed off, brain clearly doing fast math.

  “He would be a grandkid. No—great?grandkid?” Theo went on, half to himself. “There are rumors. About her disappointment. With her family.” His mouth pulled to one side. “Damn. I never would’ve guessed he’s Banshee?kin. He’s so bad. I mean, they must have been training him since, well, forever, you know? Wow. That must be so embarrassing for her.”

  Embarrassing.

  Heat roared up my neck, into my face.

  Before my better judgment could get a word in, my fist did.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  I punched Theo. Right in the jaw.

  My knuckles met bone with a sharp, shocking crack. Pain zinged up my hand so fast I saw stars.

  “Ow—shit!” he yelped, stumbling back a step, hand flying to his face. His eyes went huge, less from the impact than from the shock that I’d actually hit him.

  “Don’t,” I said, chest heaving. “Talk about him like that.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. My hand throbbed like it had its own pulse now; I curled it into my palm and ignored it.

  I stormed across the grass and dropped to my knees beside Artem and Hana.

  Up close, he looked even worse. Sweat plastered his pale hair to his forehead; his eyes were fixed on the ground, unfocused. His breaths came in harsh, ragged pulls.

  “I don’t—” Hana started, helplessness plain on her face. “He just—”

  “I know,” I said, though I really didn’t. “Hey.” I kept my voice as soft as I could manage. “Artem. You’re not alone, okay?”

  I had no idea what I could actually do for him. I wasn’t a healer. I wasn’t Banshee-kin. I was just a girl whose hand already felt like it was swelling.

  But people around you who cared had to be better than no one at all.

  I knelt beside Artem, Hana still rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. His breathing was starting to slow, a little color creeping back into his cheeks, when the air split with a shout.

  “Hey! Baby! What are you doing here?”

  Every head turned.

  A girl in a short pink skirt covered in ruffles and a white crop top was carefully making her way across the grass like it was a minefield. Three?inch heels sank into the turf with each step. Her dark hair was tied into two high pigtails with matching pink bows, and she was wearing more makeup than I’d owned in my entire life. I thought she was probably pretty, but under all that it was hard to tell.

  One heel speared the ground; she giggled and yanked it free. “I wanted to see you fight!” she called, not even pretending to be quiet.

  Jamal broke from the circle and jogged out to meet her, sweeping her up with both arms before she could face?plant. He carried her back toward us princess?style; she looped her arms around his neck like this happened all the time.

  Her face changed the second she saw Artem.

  The sparkle dropped out of her eyes, like someone had hit a switch. Jamal set her down and she didn’t even wait to get her balance—she bolted the last few steps barefoot, her shoes instantly getting sucked off by the grass.

  She went to her knees beside him hard enough that I winced and pulled him against her without asking permission.

  My opinion of her took a drastic shift.

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” she asked, brushing his sweat?stuck hair off his forehead with a surprisingly gentle hand.

  “Grandmother,” he whispered.

  She pulled back a fraction, searching his face. Her eyeliner had smudged; she used the sleeve of her crop top to wipe at the dampness on his cheeks without caring what it did to the fabric.

  “She’s here?” she breathed.

  He nodded, breathing easier now, but his eyes still wide.

  “Oh.” For a second, everything loud and pink about her dimmed. A look of profound sadness crossed her face, older than her outfit and three times as heavy.

  “Ronni?”

  I looked up.

  The old woman—the Reaper—was walking back toward the group, but for a second it was hard to believe this was the same person. Same clothes, same face, but her expression and even her posture were different. There was warmth in her eyes now, a small, real smile softening her mouth, her shoulders looser.

  “Grandmother.” The girl’s voice was full of affection.

  Ronni gave Artem’s hair one last, gentle stroke and pushed to her feet, leaving him kneeling where he was. She crossed the grass to the Reaper without hesitation.

  The old woman opened her arms and Ronni stepped into them. The Reaper enfolded her in a hug, eyes closing as she leaned into her granddaughter.

  Up close, I realized Ronni was actually taller—even barefoot.

  My head reeled, trying—and failing—to reconcile the woman who’d just cut Artem down without sympathy with the one holding Ronni like she was precious.

  Ronni leaned back out of the hug, still holding on to her grandmother’s arms.

  “C’mon,” she said, grin flashing. “We haven’t had a chance to catch up in forever.”

  Barefoot, she tugged the Reaper across the lawn toward the dorms, heels abandoned where they’d been yanked off by the grass. The old woman let herself be led, expression soft in a way I never would’ve believed ten minutes ago.

  When they were finally out of earshot, Jamal let out a whoop.

  “Isn’t she amazing?” he said, practically vibrating. His eyes were shining with mindless love.

  I could only nod. A few minutes ago I’d written her off as walking cotton candy with bad footwear choices. Then she cradled a terrified Banshee?kin and dragged the scariest person I’d ever seen off for a heart?to?heart.

  “Smart too,” Jamal added, like he couldn’t help himself. “She’s on the alchemy track.”

  Of course she was.

  I promised myself, not for the first time, not to rush to judge people based on three seconds of outfit.

  Slowly, like someone had lifted a weight off the field, we eased back toward practice. Voices rose in cautious conversation, wooden swords were retrieved. Mr. Okafor, who had been several steps behind the Reaper when she had returned, clapped his hands once.

  “Back to pairs,” he called. “We’ve lost enough time.”