“It’s always threats with you,” Marcus says. “You never actually do anything. Not surprising for a traitor whose mask hasn’t even melded yet.” He leans forward. “The mask knows you’re weak, Elias. It knows you don’t belong. That’s why it’s still not a part of you. That’s why I should kill you.”
His dagger cuts into my stomach, releasing a trickle of blood. One thrust, one pull upward, and he could gut me like a fish. I shake with anger. I’m at his mercy, and I hate him for it.
“But the Centurions are watching.” Marcus’s gaze flicks to our left, where the Combat Centurion is fast approaching. “And I’d rather kill you slow.” He strolls away lazily, saluting the Combat Centurion as he passes.
Furious with myself, with Helene, with Marcus, I shove open the armory door and go straight to the heavy weaponry rack, settling on a tri-flanged mace. I swing it through the air and pretend I’m taking off Marcus’s head.
When I get back out to the field, the Combat Centurion pairs me with Helene. My rage spills out of me, tainting every move. Helene, on the other hand, channels her fury into a steely efficiency. She sends my mace flying, and only a few minutes later, I’m forced to yield. Disgusted, she stalks away to battle her next opponent while I’m still scrambling to my feet.
From the other side of the field, I see Marcus watching—not me but her, his eyes gleaming, his fingers caressing a dagger.
Faris gives me a hand up, and I call Dex and Tristas over, grimacing at the bruises Helene’s gifted me. “Is Aquilla still avoiding you?”
Dex nods. “Like the pox.”
“Keep an eye on her anyway,” I say. “Even if she wants you to stay away.
Marcus knows she’s avoiding us. It’s only a matter of time before he decides to attack.”
“You do know that she’ll kill us if she catches us playing guard dog,” Faris says.
“Which do you prefer,” I say, “angry Helene or raped Helene?”
Faris goes pale, but he and Dex vow to keep an eye on her, glaring at Marcus as they leave the field.
“Elias,” Tristas lingers, looking alarmingly awkward. “If you like, we can discuss...uh...” He scratches his tattoo. “Well, it’s just I’ve had some ups and downs with Aelia. So with Helene, if you want to talk about it...”
Ah. Right. “Helene and I aren’t—we’re just friends.”
Tristas sighs. “You know she’s in love with you, right?”
“She’s—not—no—” I can’t seem to make my mouth work, so I just close it and look at him in mute appeal. Any second, he’s going to grin and slap me on the back. He’s going to say, “Just kidding! Ha, Veturius, the look on your face...”
Any second.
“Trust me,” Tristas says. “I have four older sisters. And I’m the only one of the guys who’s been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than a month. I can see it every time she looks at you. She’s in love with you. She has been for a while.”
“But she’s Helene,” I say stupidly. “I mean—come on, we’ve all thought about Helene.” Tristas nods gamely. “But she doesn’t think of us. She’s seen us at our worst.” I think of the Trial of Courage, of my sobs when I realized that she was real and not a hallucination. “Why would she—”
“Who knows, Elias,” Tristas says. “She can kill a man with a twist of her hand, she’s a demon with a sword, and she can drink most of us under the table. And because of all that, maybe we’ve forgotten that she’s a girl.”
“I have not forgotten that Helene’s a girl.”
“I’m not talking about physically. I’m talking about in her head. Girls think about things like this differently than we do. She’s in love with you. And whatever happened between you two is because of it. I promise you.”
It’s not true, my head tells me with the zeal of denial. Just lust. Not love.
Shut it, head, my heart says. I know Helene like I know fighting, like I know killing. I know the smell of her fear and the rawness of blood against her skin. I know that she flares her nostrils very slightly when she lies and that she puts her hands between her knees when she sleeps. I know the beautiful parts. The ugly parts.
Her anger at me is from a deep place. A dark place. A place she doesn’t admit she has. The day I looked at her so thoughtlessly, I made her think that maybe I had that place too. That maybe she wasn’t alone in that place.
“She’s my best friend,” I say to Tristas. “I can’t go down that road with her.”
“No, you can’t.” There’s sympathy in Tristas’s eyes. He knows what she means to me. “And that’s the problem.”
XXXI: Laia
My sleep is fitful and scanty, haunted by the Commandant’s threat.
Time enough for that yet. When I wake before dawn, scraps of nightmare stay with me: my face carved and branded; my brother hanging from the gallows, fair hair fluttering in the wind.
Think of something else. I close my eyes and see Keenan, remembering how he asked me to dance, so shy and unlike himself. That fire in his eyes as he spun me around—I thought it must mean something. But he left so abruptly. Is he all right? Did he escape the raid? Did he hear Veturius shout out the warning?
Veturius. I hear his laugh and smell the spice of his body, and I have to force those sensations away and replace them with the truth. He’s a Mask.