Page 36 of Kings of Sherwood

Maren breathes out. “Okay. Well, maybe thatimbalanceof power draws in the convergence,” she says slowly. “Like...I don’t know. A magnet, or something. The more the human power structures get out of whack, the more the supernatural powers get pulled to that place.”

Her words bring a quote to mind. One I always liked, from MLK:the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.Of course, he was really speaking metaphorically.

I rub my jaw. Look back at my map. Trace my finger up north, past New York and into...

“Massachusetts?” Maren bends in over the map and squints. “Salem. As in, the witch trials place?”

“Yes,” I say slowly. “That too. But I was thinking more like our friend...” I trace just slightly south, to Boston. “...Will Scarlet.” I screw my eyes shut, trying to remember something. “He was born in Salem. Technically. Something about a family vacation to Marblehead, mom went into labor early...”

I open my eyes. Look back at the map.

At humble old Paterson, New Jersey.

“The silk strike,” I mutter, standing up.

Maren sits forward a little. “The what now?”

I shake my head. “Local history. The kind of thing they always made us do reports on in elementary school. Turn of the century, there were a ton of silk mills just running people ragged—losing fingers, child labor, the works—and so the workers organized a strike. Or, wait, maybe a few strikes.” It’s been a long time since Mrs. DiLuigi’s class. “Anyway, people got hurt. It was ugly.”

“Did it work?” Maren asks. “The strike?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

I blink at my madman scribblings, computing this new information. Me, Will, and Rob—and, I note, darting a glance down south, maybe LJ, too, at this convergence in Louisiana. It’s not conclusive evidence, but it sure seems like...like everywhere the lines cross, shifters show up.

Not because of the lines. Because the lines hum with need.

Maren slips to standing next to me, and my heart jumps.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “The ley lines mark where the balance of power’s tilted too far. And the universe—or whatever it is—responds.”

“Right,” she says. “Withyou.”

“With you, too.” My voice is barely a breath. “Think about it. Historical precedent. The pressure on the people gets too great—there’s revolution. Resistance. A breaking point. But then things have to be rebuilt, too. Healed.”

Lightning flashes. We both jump. Then—

“God,” I say. “You’re brilliant, Maren.”

And I kiss her.

It’s instinct. Heat and wine and awe. And when she kisses me back, I lose the thread entirely.

She pulls back just a little. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m... kind of wound up. Like I said. I didn’t mean to jump you.”

“No,” I say, hoarse. “I mean, jump away. If you want. But I don’t...” I cough. “Never mind.”

“What?” A look comes over her face. One that’s less studious and more...sensual.

“But I don’t mind,” I finish. “Is all I was going to say.”

“Don’t mind?” Now she’s grinning. “What, is this not a romantic enough atmosphere for you?” She sweeps her arms around us, at the bookcases, the mess of papers, the plush furniture.

“No! No,” I explain hurriedly. “Actually, it’s...” I swallow. “If anything it’s the opposite.”

She cocks her head. “I’m listening.”

Oh, dear Lord.

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