Page 112 of Riot Rules
The blade flashes out of nowhere, blood-tinged and cruel. I barely have time to jump back before Fitz lashes out with it, swinging it at my stomach. He looks disappointed that he didn’t eviscerate me on the first try. Disappointed but not deterred.
Forward, he comes.
Unarmed, I retreat at first, ducking, dodging, evading each slash of the sharp steel, but then he says something that changes everything.
“You’re quick on your feet, Lovett. Good for you. Shame your little girlfriend didn’t have your sense of self-preservation just now. She actually ranontothe blade.”
I halt, the humid night air thick and suffocating in my lungs. “What did you say?”
“Carina.” Fitz licks his lips. “Fucking busy body. I’ve never really given a shit about her, but…” He shrugs, spinning the knife over in his hand. “She interfered. She read Mara’s diary. She was always glued to that stupid bitch who’s been following Wren around like a bad smell. Andshechargedmetonight. She got what she had coming.”
The blood on the whetted edge of Fitz’s knife takes on a whole new meaning. The splatter across his chest, which was just a red spray a second ago, suddenly takes on a far more macabre meaning. My body stills. Everything slows. I force my racing thoughts to quiet. It’s vital that I concentrate now. “Where is she, Fitz?” I whisper.
“How the fuck shouldIknow? That Stillwater bitch knocked me out. They tied me up, but I can’t have been out long. My hands hadn’t even gone numb when I woke up. They can’t have gotten far. Doesn’t change anything, pretty boy. Wherever they are, the upshot’s still the same. Your precious Carrie’s dead. And you will be too, as soon as you stop asking so many infernal questions.”
Carrie’s dead.
Carrie’s dead.
Carrie’s…
No. Carrie isnotdead. I won’t believe it until I see it with my own two eyes. And I’m not letting Fitz end me in a fucking forest, either. If I get shanked and bleed to death, it’ll be on a council estate in London to spite my father and not fuckinghere.
“Give me the knife, Fitz.”
He points the tip of it at me, grinning at me likeI’mthe crazy one. “Only way you’re getting this thing is if it lodges in your ribs, or you take it from me.”
“Suit yourself.” I’m not trained in martial arts but living with Pax has taught me more about warfare than I thought I’d ever need to know. Right now, I amsoglad for all of the times my asshole roommate has tried to get the jump on me and take me to the ground.
Fitz comes in hot. The way he holds the bowie knife, spine resting flat against his forearm, blade projected out, is a warning. He knows how to fight with that thing. He doesn’t have a clue what I’m capable of, though. This time, I don’t give him any ground. He lunges. Swings. I block his arm while bringing in my left fist in a powerful hook, clipping him on the jaw.
Dazed, he shakes his head, face split open in a mad grin. “Ohhh. Not just a pretty face, then. I’m surprised. I thought you—”
I smash my fist into his face again, growling out my satisfaction when he stumbles back a step. His mouth is bleeding; I’ve split his bottom lip wide open. “And you sayIdon’t have an off switch?”
Fitz comes for me. Looks like I’ve kicked the hornet’s nest, but I don’t have time for this. I have to get back to the house. I have to find Carrie. The knife snakes out, faster, slicker, more unpredictable this time. I’m still way ahead of him. I bring my knee up, blocking and attacking at the same time again. Fitz reels back but throws his arm out in a wild attempt at hitting me. The cold kiss of pain blossoms over my right thigh. He’s nicked me, though I have no idea how bad. The pain isn’t so bad. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but it motivates the living shit out of me.
I’m burning time with this fool. Every second I spend here with him is a second wasted, that ought to be spent finding Carina. I dart forward, grappling with him, trying to grab hold of his arm, but I miscalculate the distance in my haste, and…
I’m spinning.
Fuck, I—ow!
I hit the ground hard. Fitz is on me in a second. His left hand closes around my throat, his right pulling back, the knife flashing savagely in the yellow glow of the flashlight on my cellphone, which is half buried in the leaf-litter right next to my head. If he brings that thing down on me, it’s game over. If I give him half a chance, I’m fucking de—
What happens next is surreal. One minute, Wesley Fitzpatrick is straddling me, about to stab me right through the fucking heart, and the next he’s reeling sideways, knocked off me by—
What the hell?
A streak of grey.
A blur of black fur.
A silver-tinged muzzle, exposing bone-white fangs.
Rasputin.
I let out a stunned, wordless cry, too surprised to do anything else, as the old, limping wolf snarls, stalking toward Fitz. The English teacher’s lying on his back, groping around in the leaves for his knife. He finds it and turns it on Rasputin, but the wolf does not back down. His hackles raised and standing on end, he releases a low, threatening rumble that fills even me with fear.
