10
Forbidden Responses
“Dude, I’m telling you, it’s all anyone can talk about. Everyone thinks you’re becoming a scythe to take revenge on the school!”
On an mild day in March—on one of the rare afternoons that Scythe Faraday allowed Rowan downtime—Rowan had gone to visit his friend Tyger, who had not splatted once in the past three months. Now they shot hoops at a park just a few blocks away from Rowan’s home—where he wasn’t allowed to visit, and might not have even if he were allowed.
Rowan threw Tyger the ball. “That’s not why I accepted the apprenticeship.”
“I know that, and you know that, but people will believe whatever they want to believe.” He grinned. “Suddenly I got all sorts of game because I’m your friend. They think I can get them access to your ring. Immunity talks; death walks.”
The thought of Tyger playing intercessor on his behalf almost made Rowan laugh. He could see Tyger milking that for all it was worth. Probably charging people for the service.
Rowan stole the ball and took a shot. He hadn’t played since before moving in with the scythe, but he found his arm, if not his aim. He was stronger than ever—and had endless stamina, all thanks to his Bokator training.
“So when you get your ring, you are gonna give me immunity, right?” Tyger took a shot and missed. It was clearly intentional. He was letting Rowan win.
“First of all, I don’t know that he’ll choose me to get the ring. And secondly, I can’t give you immunity.”
Tyger looked genuinely shocked. “What? Why not?”
“That’s playing favorites.”
“Isn’t that what friends are for?”
A few other kids came to the court and asked if maybe they wanted to play a pick-up game—but the second they saw Rowan’s armband, they had a change of heart.
“No worries,” the oldest one said. “It’s all yours.”
It was exasperating. “No, we can all play. . . .”
“Naah . . . we’ll go somewhere else.”
“I said we can all play!” Rowan insisted—and he saw such fear in the other kid’s eyes, he felt ashamed for pushing.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” said the other kid. He turned to his friends “You heard the man! Play!”
They took to the court in earnest, and in earnest played to lose, just as Tyger had. Was this how it would always be? Was he now such an intimidating presence that even his own friends would be afraid to truly challenge him? The only one who ever challenged him in any way now was Citra.
Rowan quickly lost interest in the game and left with Tyger, who found it all amusing. “Dude, you’re not lettuce anymore, you’re deadly nightshade. You’re the mean greens now!”
Tyger was right. If Rowan had told those other kids to get down on all fours and lick the pavement, they would have. It was heady, and horrible, and he didn’t want to think about it.
Rowan didn’t know what possessed him to do what he did next. Frustration at his isolation maybe—or maybe just wanting to bring a sliver of his old life into his new one.
“Wanna come over and see the scythe’s place?”
Tyger was a little dubious. “Will he mind?”
“He’s not there,” Rowan told him. “He’s gleaning in another city today. He won’t be home till late.” He knew that Scythe Faraday would blow a brainstem if he found out Rowan had someone over. It made the desire to do it even more enticing. He had been so good, so obedient; it was about time he did something that he wanted to do.
When they arrived, the house was empty. Citra, who also was granted a free afternoon by Scythe Faraday, was out. He had wanted Tyger to meet her, but then thought, What if they happen to like each other? What if Tyger charms her? He always had a way with girls. He had even convinced a girl to splat with him once, just so he could say, “Girls fall for me—literally.”
“It’ll be like Romeo and Juliet,” he had told her. “Except we get to come back.”
Needless to say, the girl’s parents were livid, and after she was revived, they forbade her to see Tyger ever again.
Tyger shrugged it off. “What can I say? Her life is a tale told by idiots,” which, Rowan believed, was a very bad Shakespeare misquote.
The thought of Citra falling for Tyger—even just figuratively—made Rowan a bit nauseated.
“This is it?” Tyger said as he looked around the place. “It’s just a house.”
“What did you expect? A secret underground lair?”
“Actually, yeah. Or something like it. I mean, look at this furniture—I can’t believe he makes you live in this hell hole.”
“It’s not so bad. C’mon, I’ll show you something cool.”
He took Tyger to the weapons den, which, as expected, Tyger found truly impressive.
“This is so edge! I’ve never seen so many knives—and are those guns? I’ve only seen pictures!” He took a pistol off the wall and looked in the barrel.
“Don’t do that!”
“Calm down—I’m a splatter, not a blaster.”
Rowan took it away from him anyway, and in the time it took to put it back on the wall, Tyger had taken down a machete and was swishing it through the air.
“Think I could borrow this?”
“Absolutely not!”
“C’mon—he’s got so many, he’ll never miss it.”
Tyger, Rowan knew, was the very definition of “bad idea.” That had always been part of the fun of being his friend. But now that was a major liability. Rowan grabbed Tyger’s arm, kicked him behind the knee to buckle his leg, and spun him to the ground—all in a single Bokator move. Then he held Tyger’s arm at an unnatural angle, with just enough leverage for it to hurt.
“What the hell!” Tyger said through gritted teeth.
“Drop the machete. Now!”
Tyger did—and just then, they heard the front door being opened. Rowan let go. “Be quiet,” he said in a power-whisper.
He peeked out the door, but couldn’t see who had come in. “Stay here,” he told Tyger, then he slipped out to find Citra closing the front door behind her. She must have been running, because she wore a workout outfit that was much more revealing than Rowan needed at the moment—it drained far too much blood from his brain. So he focused on her apprentice armband to remind himself that hormonal responses were strictly forbidden. Citra looked up and gave him an obligatory greeting.
“Hey, Rowan.”
“Hey.”
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
“Why are you just standing there?”
“Where should I be standing?”
She rolled her eyes and went into the bathroom, closing the door. Rowan slipped back into the weapons den.
“Who is it?” asked Tyger. “Is it what’s-her-name? I want to meet your competition. Maybe she’ll give me immunity. Or something else.”
“No,” Rowan told him. “It’s Scythe Faraday, and he’ll glean you on the spot if he finds you here.”
Suddenly Tyger’s bravado evaporated. “Oh crap! What are we gonna do?”
“Calm down. He’s taking a shower. As long as you’re quiet I can get you out.”
They came out into the hallway. Sure enough, the sound of a shower hissed behind the closed bathroom door.
“He’s washing off the blood?”
“Yeah. There was a lot of it.” He led Tyger to the front door, and did everything short of pushing him out.
• • •
After being an apprentice for nearly three months, Citra couldn’t deny that she wanted to be chosen by Scythe Faraday to receive the ring. As much as she resisted, as much as she told herself this was not the life for her, she had come to see its importance, and how good a scythe she would be. She had always wanted to live a life of substance and to make a difference. As a scythe, she would. Yes, she would have blood on her hands, but blood can be a cleansing thing.
It was certainly treated as such in Bokator.
Citra found Black Widow Bokator to be the most physically demanding thing she had ever done. Their trainer was Scythe Yingxing, who used no weapons but his own hands and feet to glean. He had taken a vow of silence. It seemed every scythe had surrendered something of themselves—not because they had to but because they chose to—as a way to pay for the lives they took.
“What would you give up?” Rowan once asked Citra. The question made her uncomfortable.
“If I become a scythe, I’m giving up my life, aren’t I? I think that’s enough.”
“You’re also giving up a family.” Rowan reminded her.
She nodded, not wanting to speak to it. The idea of having a family was so far off to her, the idea of not having one felt equally distant. It was hard to have feelings about something she was years away from even considering. Besides, such things had to be kept far from her mind during Bokator. One’s mind had to be clear.
Citra had never taken any sort of martial art before. She had always been a non-contact sport kind of girl. Track, swimming, tennis—any sport that had a clear lane line or net between her and her opponent. Bokator was the antithesis of that. Hand to hand, body to body combat. Even communication was entirely physical in the class, as their mute instructor would correct their positions as if they were action figures. It was all mind and body, without the brash mediation of words.
There were eight in their class, and although their instructor was a scythe, Citra and Rowan were the only apprentices. The others were junior scythes, in the first years of their scythehood. There was one other girl, who made no overtures of friendship to Citra. The girls were given no special treatment, and were expected to be every bit the equal of the boys.
Sparring was punishing in Bokator. Each match began simply enough, with a ritualistic strutting around the circle, the two combatants physically taunting each other in a sort of aggressive dance. Then things got serious, and brutal. All nature of kicks and punches and body slams.
Today she sparred against Rowan. He had more finesse to his moves, but she had the advantage of speed. He was stronger, but he was also taller, which was not an asset. Citra’s lower center of gravity made her more stable. All taken into account, they were evenly matched.
She spun and gave Rowan a powerful kick to the chest that almost took him down.
“Good one,” Rowan said. Scythe Yingxing zipped his own lip to remind them that there was no cross talk during combat.
She came at him from his left, and he countered so quickly, she had no idea where his hand had come from. It was as if he suddenly had three. She was thrown off-balance, but only for an instant. She felt heat where his hand had connected with her side. There’ll be a bruise. She grinned. He’ll pay for that!
She feinted left again, then came at him from the right with the full force of her body. She took him down and had him pinned—but it was as if gravity reversed, and suddenly she realized he had turned the tables. Now he was on top, pinning her. She could have flipped him again—she had the leverage—but she didn’t do it. She could feel his heartbeat now as if it were beating in her own chest . . . and she realized she wanted to feel that a little longer. She wanted to feel it more than she wanted to win the match.
That made her angry. Angry enough to pull away from his grip and put some space between them. There was no lane line, no net, nothing to keep them apart but the wall of her will. But that wall kept losing bricks.
Scythe Yingxing signaled the end of the match. Citra and Rowan bowed to each other, then took their places on opposite sides of the circle as two others were called up to spar. Citra watched intently, determined not to give Rowan a single glance.