Odin's Murder

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” she whispers. “I think it’s bigger than we realize. Faye knows it, too.”

“Well, between the four of us, we can figure it all out. Let’s go find Faye. Is she still at the library?” She nods, sniffs, blinks back more tears, and then smiles a little. One hand with glittery red nails moves to my waist, clutches at my shirt. I ask, “What started all this? What made you upset?”

“Faye and I were at the chapel and we found symbols above each door. It all seems too close to us, too personal, y’know? And I’m starting to get creeped out, and I really wish I could talk to Jules, but they’re keeping him another night, and—”

“Tyrell. Get away from her.”

I jerk my hands back in guilty reflex before the anger slides down my spine. Memory’s eyes flick to our left, but she doesn’t let go of my t-shirt. “Jeremy, we talked about this,” she calls back to him.

College Boy is several years older than me, but at least three inches shorter. He’s bearing down on us, face red under his tan. “You don’t understand, Memory.”

Memory runs a hand down my arm. It quells the rage for a moment. How does this girl manage to fry my brain with a kiss and then soothe me with a simple touch? She steps toward the soccer-jock, who rises on his toes, trying to loom over us. “Jer, it was fun, and thank you. But we’re done,” she says.

They are? I look at her, the way she stands, the distance between them. She’s not holding onto his shirt.

“I’m trying to protect you, Memory! You have no idea how dangerous he is!” He points in my direction without looking.

“I don’t need your protection, Jeremy. I can take care of myself.”

The student counselor’s face twists in disbelief. “You’re choosing to listen to this jack-ass over me?”

Is she?

“I’m not choosing anyone, or anything. Let it go.”

“I’ve seen his file.” He warns her. “All ten pounds of it. You know he’s been in jail, right? Assault, aggravated battery, disturbing the peace. He’s a thief, and he’s got diagnosed anger management issues since grade school.” He grabs her arm. “His own mother didn’t even—”

Jeremy doesn’t get to finish that sentence. Two steps and a pivot on my toes, and I ram him in the stomach, under his ribs, a straight arm drive across his diaphragm, shutting him up and knocking him down. I tumble with him, but roll off fast, snap to my feet before

he’s scrambled to stand up straight.

He pushes my chest with both hands, like a kid on a playground. Doesn’t even make me take a step backward. I let go of my fists, take a deep breath. Hitting this guy gets me sent home, and Memory needs me right now. I’m no good to her back in lock-up. Her hand is still out, reaching to me.

Crack. My head rocks with the impact, cheek split against bone, the pain coming slower than my fury.

Jeremy is staring at his hand, one knuckle pulped and bloody. “Mother f—”

I jump him, two short jabs in his belly with tight square fists, and one hard pop in the sternum that drives him to the ground. He flails, gasping, but kicks me in the knee, busts up my balance and I stagger.

Then he’s on his feet, arms stretched out, and he kicks again, misses my balls when I twist away. I land a weak uppercut and a good, low sock to his gut, but he shakes it off, dances away fast, kicking out again. I dodge. Soccer-boy doesn’t know how to use his hands. He’s not even making fists at all, but he’s quick on his toes.

“Stop!”

We ignore Cherry’s plea. I go in again, avoid his knee as it comes up, swing a roundhouse to his ear that connects with an ugly sound, but then he head-butts me in the face, and I don’t see it coming fast enough, and take it on the mouth, hard.

I go down. He does, too, pawing at his ear with both hands. I try to stand, but a hand on my shoulder is pulling me down, I shake it off, but another pushes at my chest.

“Ethan, stop! Ethan!”

I see the sparkly red nails. Breathe. Spit blood on the ground.

Jeremy stands. I do, too, slowly, heart pounding with the heavy, hard beat of a fight. Adrenaline is singing in my veins.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

Jeremy is covered in blood and dirt. He points a finger at me, like he’s going to poke my chest, thinks better of it. “You’re screwed, Tyrell. Burnett’s gonna have your ass for fighting. Better get ready for that jumpsuit.”

Does he want me to stomp his ass? Before I react, Memory steps between us.