The Tattooed Heart (Messenger of Fear 2)

“Did you? Ah.”

I wanted to ask him about Ariadne. The shadow of Ariadne had been on him since our first encounter and at times his obvious devotion to this girl annoyed me. Oriax would no doubt have some snarky remark to offer on the subject, along with the rude suggestion that I was attracted to Messenger in a most un-apprentice-like way, and thus jealous.

Was I jealous of Ariadne for being the object of such love? How could I not be? Who does not want to be loved beyond all reason? Who does not want to be needed as Messenger needed his Ariadne?

For Messenger I felt sadness. He did not speak of his pain, but knowing some small part of what his life had been during his service as Messenger, having touched him for a fleeting second and thus felt viscerally some fraction of what he had felt, I could only be sad.

But another part of me was jealous in a different way, not of him as a boy in love with someone else, but of the fact that he had something to hold on to.

Did I?

Had I ever loved anyone in that way? Could I ever love someone that way?

Yes, I thought, in time. But the one I might someday come to love was not to be touched.

4

WE WERE BACK AT THE IOWA SCHOOL. IT WAS TIME to see what was happening with Trent.

Trent was in the office of the school’s vice principal, along with Pete. The vice principal’s name—on her desktop nameplate—was Constance Conamarra.

“I’ve got a report of an incident between the two of you and a Muslim student yesterday,” she was saying.

Messenger and I stood in the corner of the cramped room, invisible, of course, inaudible. But I felt conspicuous just the same.

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“That’s bull . . . um, not true at all,” Trent said. “Is it, Pete?”

“Totally not true. Whatever that chick said—”

“I never mentioned it was a girl,” Conamarra said.

That stopped Pete, but not Trent, who said, “Whatever. Okay, look, I was just playing around, no big deal.”

“Actually it is quite a big deal. It’s a three-day suspension big deal. And I’d be within my rights to make it much worse, believe me.”

Pete groaned but Trent’s face turned sullen with rising fury.

“No way,” he said. “You can’t suspend me just for grabbing some towel-head’s scarf, that’s b.s.”

“I can and I have,” Conamarra said.

“This is crap! Special treatment just because she’s some terrorist.”

“Samira Kharoti is a terrorist?” The vice principal’s voice dripped scorn.

“They’re all terrorists. Bunch of foreigners come over here and start getting treated like celebrities. She’s not special. She’s not some big thing.” He did a hand-waving gesture around that “big thing” that started off sarcastic and ended with a violent thrust. He practically spit when he did it.

“All you had to do was leave her alone, Trent. And this is not your first incident. Last month you—”

“Yeah, whatever,” Trent said, shoved his chair back, and stood up. Conamarra was a small woman, and between Trent and Pete they made an intimidating pair. “Everyone’s special, because they’re girls or black or Mexican or a towel-head or—”

“That. Is. Enough. You can come back to school on Monday. Until then, you are not to come on to school grounds.”

They left on a wave of muttered curse words and slammed the door behind them.

In the hallway Trent said, “I’m going to find that bitch and give her something to complain about!”