The Slippery Slope [Worm AU]

The Slippery Slope

Part Seven: Preparations


I ran for my life.

That wasn't a figure of speech; once the switchblades had come out and I'd seen the blood, I knew that this wasn't going to end in a few shoves and posturing. People were going to get hurt. People had gotten hurt. There was a good chance that someone would die.

And from the look of it, they intended for that someone to be me.

At one time, I might have tried to reason with them, to explain that no matter who my boyfriend was, I didn't hate Asians or blacks. But I now knew that they wouldn't listen, and even if they did listen, they wouldn't believe me. I wasn't a person to them; I was a target.

Dammit, Peter, the thought flashed through my head, I thought you said they didn't do this.

I resolved to have words with my boyfriend regarding the difference between what he thought they didn't do and what they actually didn't do. Then I put the matter from my mind and concentrated on running just as hard as I could.

My backpack was hampering me, bumping around on my back; I discarded it, letting my arms slip free of the straps. Maybe one of them will trip over it. It was a forlorn hope, but right now, that was all I had. Behind me, I heard their footsteps, all too close; I found a new burst of energy and ran on.

Peter said to call him if anything happened. The phone he'd given me was in my pocket, but there was no way in hell I was going to be able to get it out, wake it up and send a text, or make a call, while running down the road. There were people I knew who could probably do it. I wasn't one of them.

The footsteps came closer. A glance over my shoulder told me that there were two following me, and that they were gaining. I tried to run faster, terror pushing me on. But the human body has limits, and I was reaching mine all too quickly, while it looked like they weren't.

Still, I tried. The breath sobbed in my lungs; my chest burned and my eyes blurred as I tried to exceed my limits, snatch myself a few more seconds of life before they caught me.

Oh god, if there was ever a time I need to get super-powers, this is it.

But I didn't. Still plain old Taylor Hebert, I ran on down the road.

They were so close behind me that their harsh breathing was plainly audible. Even over the roaring of blood in my ears, I heard the distinct snick of a switchblade opening. I needed to run faster. I couldn't run any faster.

I was going to die.

A car beeped its horn behind us, a very familiar sound. Despite my best intentions – keep running, don't look back – I glanced back over my shoulder. In that instant, I saw my salvation. Peter's father had bought him a big four-by-four for Christmas, and he was pretty good at driving it. Right now, he was coming down the road behind us. Veering toward us. He had one hand on the wheel and one off. The free hand was gesturing, palm downward, pushing down.

Down.

I didn't hesitate; I threw myself flat. I had been running all-out and didn't have time to slow down, so I skidded on the concrete pavement. Skin abraded off of my hands and arms, but I was past caring.

Behind us, the engine roared as the wheels bumped up over the curb; the ABB kids must have had less than a second of warning. I might even have imagined hearing the impacts before darkness blotted out my world. Then the roar of the engine overrode everything, except the screech of tyres. The stink of oil and gasoline was overpowering. Something pressed down on my left foot. I cowered, face-down on the concrete, eyes clenched shut, hands clasped over the back of my head.

Then the engine noise died away. In the sudden silence, the sound of the doors opening was very plain; several sets of boots jumped out on to the pavement. I could hear the vehicle lifting on its springs, or whatever holds a car up.

"Taylor?" It was Peter. "Taylor? Are you all right?"

Unlacing my fingers from the back of my head, I raised it, only for it to go clunk against something hot and metallic about two inches above me. It was that close. Opening my eyes, I turned my head. There was a car tyre beside me; further back, behind it, Peter was kneeling, looking under the vehicle. Other faces could be seen, but I only had eyes for him. His worried expression made my heart melt.

"I think?" It came out more as a question than a statement. "What's on my foot?"

He leaned down and twisted his neck to see. "I think it's the back wheel. Does it hurt?"

"Just – just pressure," I said. I tried to move it. "It's stuck."

"Just hold on one second." He stood up, then climbed into the truck. I hard the engine start, and the gears grind. The truck moved, rolling backward a foot or so. The pressure lifted off of my foot. I stayed right where I was, in case the vehicle moved again.

But it didn't. He shut it off again, and climbed out. "Is that better?"

"Y-yes." I tried to keep the whimper out of my voice. "I want to get out from under here."

"Can you wriggle out?"

"I'll try."

I did more than try. I'd never done the whole commando-crawl thing, but I discovered an unexpected talent for it. Directly ahead was bright daylight and fresh air; I was going to get there or die trying.

Peter was waiting for me when I scrambled out from under the truck. He steadied me as I got up; I clung to him. The others crowded around, looking worried.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked, concern written all over his face.

"Y-yeah," I said uncertainly. My foot was a little sore, but there was no stabbing pain, nothing to indicate any damage. "Oh god, George."

His eyes became alert. "Where is he?"

"Back – back at the school. They ambushed us." I was almost in tears. "He told me – he told me to run."

"Then you did the right thing." Taking my arm, he guided me around to the passenger side of the truck, where Bronson already had the door open for me.

"You okay?" Bronson asked as he climbed into the back seat; the other guys piled in with him. It had to have been more than a little cramped, with four big guys squashed into a seat meant for three, but there were no complaints.

"I am now, thanks," I told him as I climbed in. "But George … there were about six of them -"

"Shit." Leaving me to close the door, Peter ran around the front of the vehicle and got in on the driver's side. He started the engine and backed down off of the pavement. As he did so, I looked ahead, to see the crumpled forms of the two ABB kids who had been chasing me. They hadn't moved the whole time.

"Wh-what about them?" I asked tentatively.

"What about 'em?" asked Peter grimly. "They were gonna kill you. Or worse."

"I can stay and make sure of 'em," Bronson offered. Somehow I got the idea he didn't mean applying first aid.

"No time," Peter told him, pulling a hard U-turn. I wanted to protest; they were people too, after all.

People who wanted to kill me. Or worse, whatever that means.

Leaning back in my seat, I did my seat belt up. They wanted to hurt me, but they got hurt instead. I didn't exactly feel good about it, but I didn't start that fight.

As we drove away, I didn't look back.


My hands and elbows were beginning to sting when we pulled up at the school, but I wasn't paying any attention. Instead, I was staring at the schoolyard, hoping against hope to see George waving to us. He wasn't; in fact, he wasn't there at all.

"Bronson, stay with Taylor. Rest of you, with me." Peter snapped the orders, and the others obeyed without a moment's hesitation. They piled from the four-by-four and spread out, calling out for George. To my utter astonishment, I saw a small pistol in Peter's hand; I'd had no idea that he even owned one, let alone carried it.

Bronson got out of the back seat and stepped up to the passenger side front door. "It might be an idea to lock the doors, just in case," he suggested. "Not telling you what to do, but just saying."

"It's a good idea," I agreed, and reached across to hit the locking button on Peter's door, then I did the same with mine. "Oh god, I hope he's okay." Tears were beginning to run down my cheeks. "They were coming after me, but he pulled them off of me and he told me to run, and I -" I hiccuped then started again. "I ran away. He told me to."

"Hey." Bronson's voice was warm and comforting. "Like Peter said, you did exactly the right thing. If you were still there, he'd have had to watch out for you and him both. He made the call to tell you to run, and you ran. Soon as you were gone, he had a better chance. Trust me on this."

As he spoke, he wasn't looking at me; his eyes were quartering the schoolyard. Searching for danger, I realised. Despite the fact that the only people visible were Peter and his friends, he didn't relax or let down his guard.

"I hate this," I whispered.

"Hate what?" he asked; despite his attention being on his surroundings, he wasn't ignoring me.

"Feeling stupid and weak and useless. I hate it. I don't know why Peter puts up with me. I'm nothing but trouble for him, and now George -" I gulped back a sob. "Because of me -"

"Hey." His voice was a little firmer, a little sharper. There wasn't anger in there, exactly, but he didn't sound quite so comforting. "Peter likes you for you. I like you, too. You're smart and brave and you're willing to face up to him and tell him what's what, and trust me, we all appreciate that. So things happened that you weren't prepared for? That's on Peter, not on you." He took a deep breath then looked into my eyes, just for a moment. "Yeah, we took our eye off the ball. That's our bad. But you can be damn sure that Peter's never gonna let that happen again. You're that important to him. To us."

And then, as if he had never spoken, he was scanning our surroundings again. Which was fine with me, because I had to stop and try to process his words. My thoughts were already churning in a dozen different directions at once; this just increased the chaos three times over.

Peter is willing to kill for me. I was under no illusions as to the state those kids had been left in after the four-by-four had hit them. Dead or badly hurt, we had just left them lying in the road. Peter didn't care, so long as I was all right.

I should have been horrified at the callousness, should have insisted that they be given first aid, medical attention. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that I didn't care. Not really. Peter had said that they would have killed me or worse – and I really wasn't sure if I wanted to know what 'worse' was – when I hadn't invited any attacks, or even done something against them to justify it. They were just going to attack me for the crime of being in love with Peter.

Well, screw them.

My thoughts turned to Bronson. He had spoken frankly about Peter's feelings for me. I was pretty sure that Peter hadn't told him to, or even knew about it. He'd been willing to get in trouble to make sure I knew what was going on in Peter's head about me, to set me straight. That spoke to a loyalty deeper than almost anything I'd ever seen before. Not only loyalty to Peter – that went without saying – but loyalty toward me.

I'd seen it before; a guy gets a girlfriend and she immediately has to run the gauntlet of his friends' judgement. And all too often, when they disapprove, he has to choose between one and the other. Peter's friends weren't just going along with his choice of me; they were actively supporting it. They want me to be with him. They want me to be one of them. It was an amazingly warm feeling, one that spread through my chest and out to my extremities. Wow.

Tears were forming in my eyes again, for a different reason this time. I blinked them away and turned to Bronson. "Can you tell me something?"

"Sure." He didn't look away from his self-imposed vigil.

"When Peter said 'worse' … what did he mean?"

His jaw hardened; I knew right then that it was really bad. "Not sure if I should tell you."

"I'm asking. Please."

Muscles bunched at the corner of his jaw. "Dammit," he muttered, then took a deep breath. "You didn't hear this from me, okay?"

"I promise."

"Right then." He continued to look around, even as he spoke in a low tone. "Few years ago, one of Peter's cousins had a girlfriend outside the Empire. They were silly in love. ABB got wind, kidnapped her. Kept her. Tortured her. Worse. Every week they sent him a packet of photos and a finger joint or some other part of her, freshly severed."

I felt sick to my stomach. "Oh god."

"You asked."

"And they would have done this to me, this time?"

The slightest of shrugs. "Probably."

All of a sudden, I felt even less worried about the welfare of the ones who had been chasing me. But I had to know the end of the story. "What … what happened?"

"To her, or to him?"

"Uh, both?" I wasn't certain that I wanted to know. But I was certain that it would eat at me until I did know.

"He cracked. Couldn't take it any more. Got a gun and went after the ABB. They killed him, of course, but I'm pretty sure he took a few with him. Then they sent her back. What was left of her. She needed full-time care. Died about six months later."

I hunched in on myself. "But why do they even do this?"

"To win." His voice was low and hard. "They're brutes. Cowards. They'll hit loved ones to hurt our leadership. Bleed us of our best and brightest."

I knew the answer to what I was saying, but I said it anyway. "I don't hate them. Why attack me?"

"Even if they knew it, even if they believed it, they wouldn't care," he said. "They don't want peace. They want to win. To grind us down. To draw us out and destroy us. And someone who doesn't hate them is someone they can't draw out."

"Oh, god." So, damned if I do, damned if I don't.

"Yeah. But just so you know." He was looking at me again. "We won't let that shit happen again." There was absolute sincerity in his voice. I believed him, implicitly. The warm feeling inside me redoubled. If a cop had walked up to me right then and asked about the two ABB kids who had been hit by the truck, I would have lied my ass off to protect Peter.

"I -" But I was interrupted by a shout from across the parking lot.

We both looked around; it was repeated. "Found him! Bring the truck!"

My head came up, as did Bronson's. An image of the way I had seen him last crossed my mind. All I could see was the blood and the knives. "Why the truck?"

"We'll be taking him away for burial. Not leaving him here." Then Bronson was hustling around the vehicle. I leaned across and unlocked the door to let him in. He climbed in; the keys were still in the ignition. The engine roared to life and he started the vehicle moving.

There was a garden bed between us and where we had to go. Bronson just aimed the four-by-four at it and bumped up and over it. I heard straggly plants crunching under the wheels. Neither of us commented; I just hung on.

When we got to where they were, I saw that George had managed to back up into a corner of the building so that he was protected on two sides. There was blood splattered around, on the brick exterior wall of the school, and on the ground around him. That can't all be his, I told myself. There's too much of it. For the first time, I hoped that the ABB who had attacked us were all suffering extremely painful wounds.

I got out of the vehicle and moved closer, brushing aside hands that tried to stop me. He was covered in blood; I could see white bone through a scalp wound, and one eye was just gone. There was something odd about the way he was lying back in the corner, until I realised that he had an ABB guy on top of him. One arm was clutched around his enemy, fist clenched around a switchblade that was driven into the guy's back, while the other held a second switchblade. Even in death, he had not let loose of it.

"Killed the guy and used him as a shield," muttered Bronson behind me. "God damn, that's badass."

I couldn't help but agree. Moving right up to George, I crouched down. From here I could see the slashes on his shoulders and arms. He had fought with everything he had, to keep them from chasing me.

"I'm sorry I got you into this," I whispered. "Thank you for saving me."

And then his one good eye opened.

I jumped, just a little. "George?"

"Taylor?" It was the barest breath of a whisper.

"Holy shit, he's alive!" That was Peter. "Get that fucker off of him!"

"Yeah, it's me," I told George. "You saved me. I'm fine."

Peter and Bronson moved up past me, crouched down to take hold of the dead ABB guy. George resisted, holding on to the switchblade, or perhaps it was the crusted blood that refused to let his hand unstick from the knife.

"You can let him go now," I urged him. "We're going to get you to help."

Slowly, the gore-coated fingers loosened, allowing Peter and Bronson to lift the corpse away. Under it, his clothes were just as covered in blood; I couldn't believe that he was still alive. I put my knuckles in my mouth and bit down so I wouldn't break down and cry. This had happened to him because he was defending me.

"Taylor." It was Peter's voice, low and calm. "In the truck, under the front seat. First aid kit. Can you get it, please?"

George didn't need first aid; he needed a hospital. But I didn't argue. Tearing my eyes away from George, I hurried over to the vehicle and felt under the front seat. Pulling the plastic box out, I opened it. Bandages, pads … this is the one.

Closing the box again, I took it back to Peter. "Anyone here know first aid?" he asked.

Bronson cleared his throat. "I haven't, uh, done a proper course, but I've helped patch guys up before."

"Good, then you're it," Peter told him, shoving the box at him. "Patch him up so we can get him to proper medical attention."

"Shit." Bronson looked down at George. "I've never dealt with anything this bad before."

"First time for everything," Peter said. "This is George. He's had your back a dozen times. Come on, Bronson. Man up and do it."

A grimace crossed Bronson's face, then he took a deep breath. "Crap. Okay then. I need his shirt open. Off. All the way off. I need to see what I'm dealing with."

It was so sticky with blood that they couldn't even unbutton it, so they had to cut it off of him. Then Bronson started flushing away the blood with a squeeze-bottle full of water and wiping off the residue with cotton balls. As each ball became too sodden to use, he discarded it. A quick glance at the first aid box and he frowned. "We're not gonna have enough pads."

The word triggered an association in my mind, and my head came up. "I have some, in my backpack."

"What?" His voice was distracted.

"Pads. In my backpack." I gestured at myself. "For, you know, periods."

"Oh. Oh!" The revelation burst upon him. "They'd be perfect. Where?"

I pointed. "Down that way. Maybe a hundred yards."

"Tom." Peter didn't need to say more; one of the guys broke away from the group and took off running.

Bronson kept working; as he found each cut, he pressed a pad over it and got someone to hold it in place. Pretty soon, each of us had a hand on at least one pad. Thomas returned with my pack, and my emergency stash of feminine hygiene products was also pressed into service. Nobody made any jokes about it, for which I was grateful. The stab wounds got cotton balls. Then Bronson got the guys to sit George up while I wound a bandage around him to keep all the pads and cotton balls in place.

George's legs and arms were also cut and bleeding; Bronson was out of pads, so he just wound bandages around them as well, then around his head. By the time he'd finished, George looked like a very inexpertly mummified corpse, with fresh blood seeping through at more than one spot.

Eventually, he sat back. His hands were bloody to the elbows, but George's chest was still rising and falling, so he was still alive, which was enough.

"We've got to get him to the hospital," I urged Peter.

"No," he told me. "We've got a better place. Hospitals will involve the police."

I knew better than to argue. "Okay, fine." I shot an agonised look at George. "But do it fast. Please."


It took all four of them to get George over to the truck, where they carefully slid him on to the back seat. I helped as much as I could, anxiously trying to make sure that the blood-stained bandages stayed in place. I would have worried about getting blood on to the seats of Peter's truck, but he didn't seem to care at all.

"Taylor, I want you talking to him," Peter told me grimly. "Hold his hand. Keep him alive. He seems to respond to you."

"Okay, I'll do that," I said. "I'll try, anyway." I looked at the truck, then at the other boys. "Uh, how are you getting home?"

"We'll call up for lifts," Bronson assured me, using the bottle of water to clean the dried blood from his hands and arms. He nodded to Peter. "We'll be fine. Go."

Peter negotiated the garden bed with more finesse than Bronson had, but even then, the bumps drew a faint groan from George. "It's okay," I assured him, leaning back between the seats so I could take his hand in mine. "That's the last of it. It'll be smooth from here on. Just hold on."

In answer, he squeezed my hand; I squeezed back. Through the rear window, I saw the boys stamping on something in the garden bed. For a moment I was puzzled, then I realised that they were obliterating the wheeltracks. Wow, they really do think of everything.

"Taylor." Peter was hunched over the wheel, driving with careful concentration. "My phone, right back pocket."

"Okay. Skootch forward."

He shuffled his butt forward on the seat and I reached down awkwardly with my right hand – my left was occupied with holding George's hand – and eventually pulled out Peter's phone. At his direction, I slotted it into the bracket on the dash. It woke up; he told me the PIN to enter to unlock it.

"Call … Father," he directed it. I heard the dial tone, then the phone was picked up.

"Peter?" It was Mr Ferguson's voice, coming out of the speakers all around us.

"Yes, sir," Peter replied. "We have a situation. George is badly hurt. The ABB tried to take Taylor."

"Is she all right?"

"She's fine. Just a bit shaken. She's with me now. But George needs urgent medical help. I'm taking him to M- to the clinic. Can you make sure that, uh, that the best doctors are ready when we get there?"

"I can try. Does Taylor know about where the clinic is?"

Peter took a deep breath. "Not yet, sir. But I trust her."

"Trust is immaterial in this case. We need to discuss this matter before revealing more information to her. Taylor, can you hear me?"

"Uh, yes, sir," I said nervously.

"It's not that we don't trust you. It's just that there is certain information, very sensitive, involved here. Peter vouches for you, and I trust his judgement, which is why we're even considering letting you in on it. But it has to be discussed before you are given full access. Do you understand?"

"I – yes, sir, I understand," I replied. "I really do. You can't just let anyone in on it." I had a sneaking suspicion that I already knew some of it, but I wasn't about to admit to that. Better to let them think that they were telling me of their own free will. It wasn't as if I was about to tell anyone, anyway.

"Good. Peter, until this matter has been discussed, she is not to know the location of the clinic. Do you understand?"

"Understood, sir," he said. His tone was firm, but his expression was a grimace.

"Very well. I will do my best to make sure that your friend gets all the care he needs. And Taylor?"

"Uh, yes, sir?"

"I'm glad you're all right. Very glad."

"Thank you, sir."

The call ended; I glanced at Peter. He glanced back at me. "I, uh, I'm sorry -"

"No need," I told him briskly. "It's important to keep it secret. I'll go with that." I gave him a quick smile, then shut my eyes. "I'll keep my eyes closed till we get there. How about that?"

His voice was full of wonder. "You're amazing, Taylor. Anyone ever tell you that?"

My smile widened. "Nobody but you. But I could stand to hear more of it." As I spoke, I used my free hand to take my glasses off and hang them off of my shirt. I wasn't going to be using them, and if I did happen to open my eyes, I didn't want to see anything incriminating.

"I'd kiss you, but I'm driving. Maybe later?"

"Definitely later."


The drive seemed to take far too long. George was still alive by the time we got there, but his grip on my hand was weaker than when we had started. I gave him what encouragement I could, and it seemed that my voice helped, but there was only so much I could do.

Behind my closed eyelids, I saw the light levels drop, then Peter pulled the four-by-four to a stop. The doors were opened from the outside and I felt George start to move, being lifted out of the back seat.

"Holy crap, he's a mess." That was a voice I didn't know, female. "Injuries?"

"Multiple cuts and stab wounds, from switchblades." Peter. "He's lost a lot of blood."

"Type?"

"AB negative," he replied crisply. Somehow it didn't surprise me that he knew George's blood type.

"Roger that," the woman said. "We've got it from here." I felt George's hand slip from mine.

"Who's she?" asked a male voice.

"She's with me," Peter replied firmly. "She'll be coming in with me. No names, no reference to where we are."

"If she's not cleared, then why did you -" The man stopped talking.

"She's. With. Me." Peter's voice was even sharper. "Is there a problem?"

"Uh, no. No problem at all."

George was out of reach; I heard the clatter of wheels on concrete. "Peter?"

"They've got him on a gurney. Taking him inside. Keep your eyes closed; I'll walk you in."

"Okay."

He was as good as his word; moments after he got out, the door on my side opened and he assisted me out. With a steadying hand at my elbow, we walked forward; I heard automatic doors open and felt the chill of air conditioning.

"I'm not prying for information, but is this clinic very good?" I asked.

"It's the best," he replied shortly. "All our guys who get hurt badly come here. Most of them walk out again."

It occurred to me that the Empire must have serious money behind it to be able to afford their own private clinic, or to perhaps be able to request the services of a regular clinic for themselves when they needed to. I didn't voice any of this, of course; any comment Peter made would probably give away information he wasn't allowed to reveal to me, and I didn't want to put him on that spot.

"That's good," I said, for want of anything better to say. "I'm glad. I hope he makes it. If it wasn't for him …"

Peter let go my elbow and wrapped his arms around me; for the first time, I realise that I was shaking. I buried my face in his shoulder as the tears began, then the sobs. He didn't say anything, just held me and rubbed my back gently in circles as I cried. I didn't even know why I was crying; the danger was long past, and George was getting the medical help that he needed. Reaction, I supposed.

Still, I guess that I needed it. I needed someone to hold on to, and I needed to get it out of my system. Peter let me take my time, merely guiding me to the side of the corridor (I guessed) so that people could get past.

"Oh, god," I muttered eventually. "I must look a mess." I sniffled; he pressed a handkerchief into my hand. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

"You look just fine to me," he told me seriously.

"You sure I'm the one with my eyes shut?" I asked him with a damp giggle. "I mean, seriously, nobody looks at their best after crying. It's kind of a law of nature."

"Ooh, ouch," he muttered. "Talking about a mess. We need to get your hands seen to."

"My hands?" I asked. "What about my hands?" That was when the stinging started up again in full force; all too readily, I recalled diving headlong on to the concrete pavement, my hands and elbows catching the impact, skin shredding off of them. "Ow. Ow ow ow."

"Come on, you can open your eyes now," he said. "Let's get this sorted out."


A little to my disappointment, the clinic looked like a clinic and not, as I had secretly hoped, like a supervillain lair. Off-white painted walls, hard plastic chairs and examination tables with just enough mattress to be uncomfortable all added to the general decor. I had no idea where it was, which was probably the idea; it could have been in the basement of Brockton Bay General or hidden inside a fake apartment block in midtown.

With Peter in attendance, I sat on an examination table while a motherly nurse – or someone who was dressed like a nurse and had the attitude down pat – cleaned and disinfected my hands and arms, then put a topical cream on them. The disinfectant stung like crazy, but I refused to make a sound. I'd already shown myself up to be a wimp enough times today.

"I'll just put a light dressing on them for the time being," the possibly-a-nurse told me. "Take it off when you shower, then cover them again afterward. They should be healing inside a day or so. If they show signs of infection, see a doctor as soon as you can."

"Okay," I told her. "Thanks." I turned to Peter. "What about George?"

"If this is the young man that you brought in," the maybe-a-nurse said, "he's in surgery. Given his injuries, he might be there for some time yet."

"But will he be all right?" I tried to keep the pleading note out of my voice as she wrapped bandages around my hands and wrists. Please, give me some good news.

She shook her head. "I can't say. You got most of the bleeding stopped, and you got him here in good time, so he has a chance. But beyond that …"

"He's a fighter," Peter reassured me. "We both know that. He'll pull through." He helped me down off the examination table. "How do your hands feel?"

"A little sore, but nothing that I can't handle," I said honestly. "That cream helped a lot."

"Good. Let's get out of here." He smiled at me. "Up to keeping your eyes closed a little longer?"

"Well, I'd much rather look at you," I told him mischievously, "but I suppose I can stand it for a while. Where are we going?"

It was his turn to grin back at me. "It's a surprise."


"Okay, you can open your eyes."

Putting my glasses on, I looked around, blinking a little at the glare. I'd had no idea where we were going in the truck, and Peter hadn't explained anything. The cryptic phone calls he'd made on the drive hadn't served to clear anything up either.

"Okay, where are we?" I asked. "I don't think I've ever been here before."

Peter leaned forward a little and pointed. "Over there."

I turned and looked; the only building of note that I could see was an old run-down gym. "The gym?" I asked as I turned back to Peter, only to be surprised – but not displeased – as he stole a kiss. I stole one right back, so we were even.

"The gym, yeah," he said. His arm slid around my shoulders; almost automatically, I snuggled into him. "But you know, we can sit here a bit longer, if you want."

So we sat there for a bit longer. It was very pleasant, and a good way to take my mind off of what had happened earlier. But all good things must come to an end, although my glasses were starting to steam up by the time he reluctantly opened his door.

"Come on," he told me. "I'll introduce you to Harry. We did him a favour a few years ago, got rid of a gang called the West Side Demons who were pushing for protection money. These days, we help him keep going and he teaches our guys how to fight."

Harry, as it turned out, was a blocky fireplug of a man, maybe Dad's age or a little older. He was a little shorter than me, but broad enough in the shoulders to make two or three of Peter. The way he held himself and the scarring around his eyes marked him out as a boxer; one who was getting on a bit, sure, but someone who could still take care of himself.

Waiting with him was Jenna; we hugged, then I turned to greet Harry as Peter introduced us. For his part, the ageing pugilist looked less than impressed to see me. He looked me up and down with an intense scowl on his face, then growled, "Okay, girl. Let me see your hands."

Obediently, I held up my hands. He took them, one at a time, and worked the fingers, pressing his thumb in between the knuckles.

"Ever thrown a punch?" he asked gruffly.

"Uh, no, sir," I answered hesitantly. "I've never had to."

"Don't call me sir, girl. Call me Harry. I work for a living. If young Ferguson here thinks you need to learn to throw a punch, then you need to learn. Make a fist for me."

I curled my fingers into a fist with a wince at the pain from my hand; with a snort, he pulled them open again. Oh, he's realised that I'm hurting.

But no such luck. "Thumb on the outside, girl. Otherwise you'll break it, first time you hit someone hard enough to hurt." Crap.

I closed my fist again, this time with my thumb on the outside. He nodded and held up his hand, palm out. "Hit it."

Hesitantly, I swung my fist. This is going to hurt. My knuckles impacted with his palm with a light smack; sure enough, it sent a spike of pain up my arm from the heavy abrasions. I tried not to show it, but I couldn't resist grimacing and tucking my hand under my left armpit. Some of the more vile words I had learned from the Dockworkers welled up in my mind, but I gritted my teeth and kept my mouth shut. Tears welled in my eyes and I blinked them back.

"Let me see that, girl," Harry told me. Taking my arm, he turned my hand over and peeled away some of the dressing. "What happened here?"

"Gravel rash," I told him. "I was running and then I fell flat to avoid being run over by some idiot in a car." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter's lips twitch as my barb went home. Jenna, on the other hand, grinned.

"I see. Well, makes sense that you need to know how to fight." He eyed my hands. "But no way you can hit anything till that heals."

"Hmm, good point," Peter acknowledged. "Jenna. Think you can train Taylor to fight with Harry coaching?"

Jenna looked me over with a smile tugging at her lips. "She's tougher than she knows," she decided at last. "I figure we can do this. Taylor, you up for it? We can start with footwork."

I had to admit, I felt better at the idea of being trained to fight by Jenna rather than this gruff old man. Although the idea of being trained to fight at all made me feel a little less than thrilled.

On the other hand, I never again wanted to feel so helpless as I had when the ABB had attacked us. And Jenna's comment had heartened me; she wasn't one to pay a meaningless compliment. With the feeling of stepping out over a bottomless pit, I nodded.

"Okay," I said. "Let's do this thing."


End of Part Seven

Part Eight

The Slippery Slope

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal and her teenage daughter, who shall remain nameless.]

Part Eight: Best-Laid Plans


"Let's do this thing."

It was as if the world had been waiting for me to say that. The moment the words left my mouth, I heard a muffled ringing from deep inside my backpack.

I stared at Peter, and he looked back at me. "Uh, that's not me," he said, quite unnecessarily. "And anyone else who'd be calling you is right here."

"Not necessarily," I replied, as belated recollection clicked in my head. "Dad gave me a phone too. I never told him about the one you gave me." As I spoke, I was delving into my bag.

My hand closed around it and I yanked it from the backpack. Pressing the answer button, I held it to my ear. "Hello, Dad?" There was no reply. A moment later, I realised that the ringing sound was still coming from my bag. "Argh, wrong phone! Here, hold this!" Thrusting the silent device at Peter, I dug into my bag again.

It stopped ringing the moment I found it, because life sucked that way. But I pulled it out anyway and checked the number. Sure enough, it was Dad. Because who else has the number to this phone, duh? Taking a deep breath, I looked at the others. "I'm gonna have to call him back."

Still holding my other phone, Peter nodded seriously. "That's a good idea. If he's heard about what happened at Winslow, you need to let him know you're all right."

"Yeah, what he said." Jenna started strolling toward where benches lined the wall of the old gym. "I'll be over here."

Harry, not even bothering to say anything, had also faded back out of earshot; I wondered briefly how many urgent phone calls came in to people working out in his gym. Then I looked at Peter, who was also moving away. "Stay," I told him.

"But it's your dad -" he began.

"I'm gonna be telling you how it went anyways," I said impatiently. "It'll save time to have you here. Okay?"

Slowly, he nodded, his eyes searching mine. "Okay."

I took another deep breath, feeling my heart thudding in my chest. A single button press would call Dad back. He had to be worried, given that he was calling me at all. How much did he know already? How much could I tell him?

Just as I went to press the button, the phone rang again. I jumped, nearly dropping it. "Shit!"

It was Dad again. Fuck, he must be frantic. I pressed the button to answer, and held the phone to my ear.

"Hi," I said brightly, forcing myself to sound upbeat and cheerful. "I'm fiiiine." Well, that last bit wasn't exactly true, except for a very limited version of 'fine', but Mom had taught me the power of words once upon a time.

"Taylor. Where the hell are you?" God, he sounded terrified.

Humour. Go with humour. I snorted. "Well, duh. I'm with Peter. My phone was in the bottom of my bag and I didn't get to it in time. I'm fine."

There was silence on the other end, for about as long as it would have taken to draw two deep breaths. Then he spoke again, sounding much calmer. "You're certain you're all right? You're not being … made to say that, are you?"

"Yes, Dad, I'm being held hostage. There's a gun to my head." I made sure that the sarcasm was obvious, and forced a chuckle. His fears were a little too close to the mark, considering what had almost happened earlier. "Here."

Peter blinked as I handed the phone over, but he took it and held it to his ear. "Hello, sir?"

Dad must have asked him something, because his face took on an intent expression. "No, sir, she's fine. We're both fine. I picked her up after school and we've been driving around." Another pause, as Dad spoke. "No, not just the two of us. We've got a couple of the others with us. I'm actually just showing her the gym where I work out. Jenna wants to do some exercise training with her." Yet another pause. "Yes, sir." He handed the phone back toward me.

I took it. "Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I'll be home soon."

"That's not what I'm worried about," he said. "I was watching the news and I saw that the police had been called to a gang fight outside Winslow. And then when you didn't come home and didn't call …"

"Oh," I said, trying to sound surprised. "Oh, that. No, I wasn't mixed up in that. I saw it starting, so I ran away."

"Wait, you didn't mention that before," he said, suspicion growing in his voice. "Nor did Peter."

"Well, Peter wasn't even there when it started." I tried to sound perfectly reasonable. "And you do know that the gang kids clash about once a week in Winslow, right? If you're not part of it, you just go around it."

"But you are part of it now." The worry was back in his voice. "You're dating a member of the Empire Eighty-Eight." I could hear in his voice, even now, the faint hint of disbelief, as if he had trouble comprehending what he was saying.

"But, Dad, I …" I trailed off, not even sure why I was defending my relationship with Peter. I loved him, I was pretty sure of that, but then there was that thing Bronson had told me about. I needed to talk to Peter, in private, about that. What else hasn't he told me about?

"Taylor, I need you to be totally honest with me. Is there any chance at all that some other gang will try to get at Peter through you?"

"Um …" About one hundred percent, I admitted to myself. "Dad, it's not that likely."

"That's not saying that it won't happen." From his tone, he'd picked up on the hesitation in my voice.

This conversation was not going the way I wanted it to. "Dad, chill. It's not going to happen."

"You're damn right it's not going to happen. I want you home right now."

That didn't sound good. "Uh …"

"Where are you? I'll come and pick you up." I could hear the tension in his voice.

"Uh, no need. Peter can drive me." I met Peter's eyes; he must have seen the worry in them, because he stepped closer to me.

"He'll drive you straight home, then. No detours, no delays. Is that perfectly understood?"

I hadn't heard that tone in Dad's voice in a long time, if ever. "Uh, yeah. Straight home. Got it."

"Good. When you get here, we need to talk."

Dad hung up without giving me a chance to argue – or even answer – and I stared at the phone.

Peter spoke, breaking me out of the daze. "I guess I'm driving you home?"

Jerkily, I nodded. "Yeah. I think …"

"He knows?" Peter's voice was questioning. I guessed that he was referring to the attack.

"Not that it was about me." I looked at him, scared. Peter meant more to me than just about anyone else in the world. I didn't want to lose him, but the way Dad was talking … "But he knows something happened."

"Ouch." He grimaced. "Well, we should be going then."

"Where to?" I was still a little dazed from the conversation with Dad. Did Peter want to spirit me away, hide me in the ranks of the Empire Eighty-Eight?

"Home, of course." He gave me a serious look. "Your best bet for clearing this up is to talk to him." He started out of the gym; I hurried to catch up.

We were halfway back to the truck by the time I found my voice again. "But what if he tells me I can't see you again?" I don't want to lose you.

He hit the key fob, and the truck unlocked with a bip-bip. We climbed in and fastened our seatbelts before he answered. "We'll work that out if it happens. But Father and Uncle Max have always taught me two things." The key was in the ignition, and the engine started with a roar. "Never ignore a direct order from above. It's better to obey it and then run damage control than to get in trouble for disobedience. And secondly, never assume that those above you know everything that you've been doing until they actually prove it."

He put the truck into gear and drove out of the parking lot. I looked sideways at him. "I can't really see anyone actually teaching their kid that second one."

His return grin made me feel warm all over. "Well, let's just say that they didn't actually teach it to me. But I sure learned it."

I didn't have anything to say to that; the next mile or so rolled by under the tyres. Neither of us spoke, until the ominous silence began to weigh heavily in the cabin of the truck.

"I think -" he began, just as I said, "I need -"

We both stopped. He glanced over at me and made a 'go-on' gesture. "You first."

I considered arguing that he could go first, but I didn't know if we'd have time to say everything we wanted, so I nodded. "Uh, okay. Um, there was something that Bronson said, about a cousin of yours whose girlfriend got abducted? Really bad things happened to her?"

He missed a gear change, and I regretted bringing the topic up at all. But then he got his driving back under control, and turned to me. "Yeah, that happened. Bronson told you?" His voice wasn't harsh, or even angry. He was just … matter of fact.

"Don't do anything to him, please," I said hastily. "I asked questions, and he gave me answers. I just need to know – why didn't you warn me that something like that could happen?" Anxiously, I searched his face. I didn't want him thinking I was angry at him. I just wanted to know.

He looked straight ahead through the windshield, his hands tight on the wheel. I could see a muscle in his jaw jumping, the skin of his knuckles whitening under the strain. Is he pissed that I asked? He didn't look at me, and he didn't speak.

We went through another traffic light before he finally released a long sigh. "I'm sorry, Taylor. I fucked up. Badly. I've been trying to convince myself that it wasn't my fault, but I'm just fooling myself. What happened was my fault, and I should've seen it coming."

To hear him admit it was a little scary. Peter was always the competent one, the single person I knew who never screwed up. His admission made him a little more human, but it also made me feel all the more worried. "Peter, talk to me. What made you think they wouldn't come after me?"
He fell silent again. I began to feel concern that we wouldn't finish the talk before we got home. Another city block passed behind us before he spoke.

"He was a few years older than me. His name was Andre. He fell in love with a girl called Dell. She was Jewish, I think, but he didn't care. She wasn't a Friend to the Empire, but we didn't mess with her, because she was with Andre. I didn't think it was the same because you're affiliated with us and I had George with you. Anyway, they don't often go after Friends because we really do come back at them hard if they do. She wasn't a Friend, so the rest of the Empire had no stake in the matter. The only people the other gangs usually go after are the skinheads, because it's the skinheads who go after them."

I swallowed a lump in my throat. "But they came after me. Because I'm with you."

"But even that shouldn't have meant anything," he said, sounding a little perplexed. "I mean, nobody ever went after Julie."

Now I was on firmer ground. "I know why. Two reasons."

He blinked. "Well, that's two reasons more than I know about."

It was odd, being two steps ahead of Peter for once. "First reason. Sophia and her fucking hand puppets. They've been making it real well-known that I'm with you, and thus with the Empire, just to fuck with me. Even Blackwell and Gladly have bought into the act. But they've also been saying that I'm weak. An easy target."

He drove on, but his expression was intent. I could almost hear the cogs clicking behind his eyes as he thought about what I was saying. "Okay, second reason?"

"Fucking Winslow." I left it at that. I could've elaborated on the topic, but he'd seen Winslow for himself. There was no doubt, with the strong ABB presence at the school, that they would have known of me before I met Peter. The constant bullying I was undergoing would not have impressed anyone with my toughness. And then I came to their attention again, thanks to Sophia … "Fuck. It's almost like Sophia planned it this way."

"I wouldn't be surprised." Peter's voice was hard. "But she's already proven that she's a dangerous animal. I doubt we'll see her back at school any time soon."

"Yeah." I saw my house up ahead. "Fuck. We're home already. Come in with me?"

"Sorry." He shook his head. "Right now, depending on what he knows, he probably sees me as the enemy. If I go in there, he won't listen to a word I say."

"But I don't want to stop seeing you!" I tried not to wail, but it was a close thing.

Carefully, he pulled to a halt in the driveway behind Dad's beat-up car. "We'll do whatever we have to. But you can't give your father any reason to distrust you." He took my hands in his. I shivered as he kissed my knuckles gently.

Unfastening my seat-belt, I pulled him close to me. He held me tightly, his arms warm around my body. In his embrace, I felt safe. I felt at home.

We didn't kiss. Every other time we'd kissed, it had been a celebration of our love. This would have felt too much like a goodbye, and I didn't want that. I will be with you again. I clung to that thought, as I clung to Peter.

Eventually, his hold on me loosened. "Taylor," he murmured.

"Don't go," I protested.

"Your father just came out," he said softly.

I let out a wordless groan, but let him go. Blinking the tears from my eyes – when had I started crying? - I looked around and saw Dad there. Standing at the top of the steps. Waiting.

"I love you," I said urgently.

"I love you too," he replied. "Here." I glanced down as he pushed something into my bag. It was the phone he'd given me. I vaguely recalled shoving it at him while I searched for Dad's phone.

"I'll call," I promised.

"Be careful," he urged me. "Don't do anything to make him distrust you." He leaned forward, and for a moment I thought he was going to hold me again, or even kiss me, but instead he reached past and opened my door instead. Cool air spilled into the car, and I let out a long, shuddering sigh.

I had so much to say to Peter. He'd saved my life. He'd saved my sanity, in the months gone by. I didn't care that he was a future leader of the Empire. I wanted to be with him so much it ached.

But then I looked over and saw Dad. He was still standing on the porch, but his fingers were gripping the rail. If he has to come over here and tell me to get in the house, it'll be much worse. I didn't need Peter to tell me that.

Reluctantly, as if every movement could be my last, I climbed out of the truck. With my feet firmly on the ground, I looked at Peter. "Thank you," I said. For everything.

He shot me a beaming grin. "You're welcome." I'd do it all again.

Right then, I wanted to do nothing more than climb back into the truck and tell Peter to drive me away, to wherever. His father would put me up, I was sure. Jenna could train me and I'd join the Empire and be at Peter's side.

But I didn't. I closed the door of the truck, and I turned away from Peter, and I trudged over to the front steps, where Dad was waiting.

It was the hardest thing I'd ever done.

Behind me, I heard the truck engine start up. Gravel crunched under the wheels as he backed up. I heard the change in noise as he reversed on to the asphalt. A tiny squeak of brakes, then the muted crunch as he shifted into first.

I didn't look around as he drove away. I couldn't. Just hearing it tore my heart clear in half. If I'd been looking, I wasn't sure if I could stand it. It was like he was driving out of my life.

As slowly as anyone ever climbed the stairs to the scaffold, I went up the front steps to meet my father. He stepped forward, letting go of the rail. His hand came up, palm open, and I thought for a split second that he was going to hit me. But he didn't; his arms wrapped around me, and he hugged me as tightly, as fiercely, as Peter had. There was nothing for it; I hugged him back.

"Taylor, I was so worried," he groaned as he held me. "The police found a body at Winslow. And so much blood, all over the ground. When you didn't answer your phone, I thought …"

I tried to take a deep breath, but his arms around me prevented that. "Dad," I husked, "I'm all right."

There was a pause, then he let me go and held me at arms' length with his hands on my shoulders. His eyes went downward; too late, I realised that he was looking at my hands. A moment later, he was holding them, turning them palm upward, inspecting the dressings. "What happened?" His voice was ragged. "What happened to your hands?"

I didn't want to lie, but I didn't want to tell him what had happened, either. "I … fell."

"Fell, or were you pushed?" His eyes, haggard with worry, met mine. "Taylor, I thought you said the bullying was over."

"It is over," I insisted. "This wasn't them! They were arrested!"

"If this wasn't them," he pressed, "then who was it? How did this happen?"

The question took me back to the chase, air rasping in my lungs, the pounding footsteps behind me. I heard again the clearly audible snk of switchblades popping open. And then the honk of Peter's truck. Diving to the ground …

"Taylor?" Dad was looking at me carefully. "Taylor? What happened?"

My mouth was open, but words would not come. I nearly died, or worse. "Dad, I …"

He put his arm around my shoulders. "Inside."

I let him guide me into the house. When he closed the door, I didn't miss the fact that he locked it behind him. He pointed at the couch. "Sit."

I sat. There was no strength in me to do anything else.

Walking into the kitchen, he returned with a chair, which he placed opposite me. Carefully, he lowered himself into it. "Taylor."

I raised my eyes to his. "What?"

"Those dressings are hospital-grade," he said, pointing at my hands. "But you haven't been to the hospital. If you had, you'd still be there. I know what the waiting time is for injuries like that. So you got patched up elsewhere, on the quiet. And you didn't call me. Which means that you didn't want me to know what happened." He leaned forward in his chair. "Which means that you've been lying to me."

The look of betrayal on his face was almost more than I could bear. I tried to meet his eyes, and failed. "Dad, I … I didn't lie. Not exactly."

His hands, in his lap, clenched into fists. I wasn't even sure if he knew that he was doing it. "Taylor, please. No more lies. No more evasions. No more deceptions. Just tell me what's going on. Is it Peter? Is he hurting you?"

"No!" I almost shouted the word, and he jolted with surprise. "No, Peter would never hurt me! He loves me!" I could barely see straight, with the indignation that I was feeling. I couldn't believe that Dad would even think that. After everything Peter's done for me …

"He's Empire!" Dad did shout, that time. "He can't be trusted!"

"He saved my life!" I screamed it at him. A second later, I realised what I'd said, and wished I could take it back. "I – I mean …"

Dad stared at me. "What. Happened?"

Again, I couldn't meet his eyes. "It was nothing. Nothing happened." Well, not to me. But to George … A huge lump welled up in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes again.

"I don't believe you." His accusatory tone stung. "Try again."

Peter's voice came back to me. Don't do anything to make him distrust you. I took a deep breath and looked at him. "Dad, I … I really need you not to freak out. Okay?"

His return stare was incredulous. "How can you even say that, and not expect me to freak out? Taylor, something happened to you, and you won't tell me! What am I supposed to believe, if you keep lying to me?" The anguish in his voice cut me to the quick. I closed my eyes, and just for a moment I saw Mom's face in front of mine, her expression one of disappointment. Is this what it's come to? Am I lying to Dad now? How can I even call myself a good person any more?

I took another deep breath, flushing my lungs out with oxygen. "How about … the truth." Forcing my eyes to meet his, I blurted, "But you've got to promise not to freak out. Promise me."

His lips tightened. "I don't know if I can promise that. Not right now."

I felt the first stirrings of desperation. He was pushing me into a corner, one that I couldn't escape from without either lying about everything or telling him some version of the truth. "Dad. You've got to promise not to freak out or call the cops or anything. I'll tell you everything, I swear. But you have to promise, first. Please."

"The truth?" He nailed me with a stare that pinned me to the sofa. "Not holding anything back?"

I nodded miserably. "Just promise. Please."

His eyes searched mine, and he seemed to come to a conclusion. "Fine. Unless someone hurt you and got away with it, I promise not to freak out or call the cops."

It wasn't quite what I'd asked for, but it was close enough. I hadn't wanted to tell him, but we don't always get what we want. But if I told it right, nothing would come back on Peter.

"It started today at school," I said. "Some of the Asian kids framed me for an attack on a girl, and planted her purse on me. Even though I said I didn't do it, Blackwell put me in detention." I saw him raise an eyebrow. "What? Dad, seriously. I didn't do it. I told you, they framed me."

He relaxed slightly. "Okay, I'll accept that. Though I'll be having harsh words with your principal. She didn't even bother calling me about it."

I hadn't known that, but it didn't surprise me. "Yeah, she's had it in for me since the locker thing."

"But … you were the victim, there." He frowned. "Why would she take it out on you?"

"Because I made her look bad?" I shrugged. "All I know is that Mr Gladly was letting the kids throw spitballs at me all the way through detention, and not doing a fucking thing. But when George stood up for me, he got really pissy."

He didn't comment on my swearing. "Who's George?"

"A friend of Peter's. Peter told him to get detention so he could keep an eye on me."

"Wait." Dad held up both hands. "So this friend of Peter's deliberately got detention so he could protect you? Because Peter said so?"

"I guess." I grimaced. "This next bit's the part you need to not freak out about."

His gaze sharpened. "This is where you hurt your hands?"

I took a deep breath. "Yeah." I paused, trying to figure out how to word what I was going to say next. "Some of the ABB kids were kind of waiting for us when we got outside. George told me to run away, so I did."

Dad's eyes widened more than a little. "ABB? How many of them were there?"

I squirmed. "I dunno. A few? I didn't stop to count them."

"And you ran away."

"George told me to." I felt the guilt welling up in me again.

"And he was the only one there."

"Yeah."

"And this was that fight that the police was called about." His voice was implacable.

My throat closed up; I just nodded, looking at the floor.

"And George? What happened to him?" Dad's voice was surprisingly gentle.

"Peter … we went back and got him." I bit my lip. "He … we got him to medical care."

"What aren't you telling me?" I didn't want to answer him; looking away, I pressed my lips together. "Taylor. You said you'd tell me everything."

I hugged myself, rocking back and forth on the sofa. I'm sorry, Peter. "A couple of them chased me. I ran. Then Peter was there, in his truck. He … he hit them with his truck. I fell over and scraped my hands. Then we went back and got George. He was still alive. Peter took him to some sort of clinic where they saved his life. They fixed my hands too. Then he took me to a gym because Jenna said I need to learn to defend myself. That's where we were when you called." I realised that I was babbling, and took a couple of breaths. "That's everything that happened, I promise."

He stared at me. "Peter … hit them with his truck?"

"They were chasing me!" I burst out. "With knives! So yes, he hit them with his truck!"

His eyes searched me up and down. "And they didn't hurt you?"

Convulsively, I shook my head. "No. Peter got there first." I reached out and grabbed his hands. "You can't tell the cops about this. You promised."

"Jesus, what am I supposed to do?" he demanded. "You come in and tell me that you were witness to a fucking felony, maybe even murder, and I'm just supposed to do nothing about it?"

"He was defending me, Dad," I pleaded. "Can't you see that? If he hadn't been there, I wouldn't be here." Either dead or abducted, and I don't want to think about either one. But I could tell there'd be nightmares in my future.

"And what about when the police question you about it?" His gaze was direct.

I managed to look defiantly back at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about, officer."

Despite his obvious unhappiness, one corner of his mouth tilted upward and he chuckled very softly. "I suppose that it would be a dick move to testify against the kid after he saved you like that. But still."

"But still?" I didn't like the sound of that. Not in the slightest.

All humour was gone from his expression now. "This is direct proof that it's far too dangerous for you to even associate with that boy or his Empire friends."

"But they were protecting me!"

"And see what a great job they did of it!" He held up my hands, the dressings still on them. "You yourself said that you were running for your life with two ABB gangsters coming after you with knives. If he'd been thirty seconds later, would you have been okay?"

He had a point, but I didn't want to admit it. "I'm still safer with Peter than without him. That's kind of obvious." Plus, I love him and I don't want to lose him.

"But just being with him makes you a target. That's even more obvious!" His voice was getting louder again.

"But they're protecting me!" I knew I was repeating myself, but didn't know how to avoid it.

"If you weren't with them, they wouldn't need to protect you!" He reached out and took hold of my shoulders. "Taylor. You have to cut ties. It's the only way you'll be safe from this."

I shook my head. "Dad, I can't."

"You mean you won't." His tone was serious. "I know you think you love him. I know you think he's the one. But he's dangerous to be around. I've said this before. Maybe now you'll actually understand what I'm talking about. None of this would've happened if you'd never met him."

"No, Dad. I mean that I can't." I tried to match my tone to his. "I literally can't walk away. Not now."

He frowned. "What, you mean they might hurt you if you -"

"God, no!" I shook my head wildly, my hair swinging back and forth. "Peter wouldn't harm a hair on my head. Nor would the rest of them. But if I stopped being a Friend to the Empire, they'd have to stop protecting me. And even if I made a huge production of quitting in the middle of the cafeteria, all it would take is one ABB kid who didn't get the message, or didn't believe it, or just decided that an ex-Friend was still a worthwhile target. After all, Sophia made damn sure everyone thought I was a racist the moment I started talking to Peter. It's not like they're gonna think I've changed, right?"

He sat back, folding his arms. "So, what you're saying is that if you walk away, you're going to get hurt because you used to be friends with them. Is that it?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that -"

"I would." He overrode me. "They've got it all figured out, haven't they?" Anger flooded through his voice. "Fucking Empire. Once you're in, you can never get out. They don't even have to put any effort into punishing you for leaving. They'll let the other gangs do it for them."

"It's not like that!" I protested. "They're not doing it deliberately!"

"They may as well be," he pointed out. "And I'm pretty damn sure they point it out to anyone who does want to leave."

"No, it's just a Winslow thing," I said desperately. "Look, if you can use this to get me out of Winslow and into Arcadia, I'll be away from the gang kids. They're not about to attack me outside of school." And I'll be away from Peter. But I can always arrange to meet him elsewhere.

He shook his head. "No."

I blinked. "No? But it's the perfect solution." Out of Winslow, still with Peter.

"No. It's not." His voice was harsh. "If it leaves you within reach of the goddamn Empire, then it's not a solution at all. I'm going to have to take drastic measures."

Oh, that doesn't sound good at all. "Uh, drastic measures …?"

"We're moving."

His words didn't really register on me. "Uh, moving?"

"To Boston. We're leaving town." He stood up and checked his watch. "I'll make the call tomorrow, start proceedings to sell the house. In the meantime, I'd advise you to start packing. Decide what you're taking and what you're leaving. Once we go, we're not coming back."

"Wait, what?" I jumped to my feet. "Dad, seriously? We're moving to another city? Holy shit, isn't that kind of going overboard just a little bit?"

Taking a step forward, he laid his hands on my shoulders. "Taylor. You're all I've got left. I'll do whatever I have to, to keep you safe. I can't do that here in Brockton Bay." The desperation in his voice tore at my heart. "Please, let me protect you. This is the only way I can do it."

"But … Peter …" I pulled away from his hands. "Dad, I love him!"

"And he's also the reason this is all happening to you," he pointed out.

"But he -"

"I know he doesn't want you being hurt," he interrupted. "I respect him for that much, at least. But he can't protect you every hour of every day. That's been proven. And if they'll try once, they'll keep trying. So the only way out is to remove you from the situation."

"But I can still go to Arcadia," I tried again.

"You'd still be in the same city as the ABB," he said flatly. "Not an option."

"They wouldn't attack me outside of school -"

"Until they do." His tone was uncompromising. "I'm not about to take that chance."

"What about your job?" I figured I wasn't going to shift him on anything else, but I hadn't tried this tack yet. "How are we even going to pay for this? And where are we even going to live in Boston?" Boston. I felt a wrench at my heart. Where Peter isn't.

"We've got a little put away," he said. "Once the house is sold, that'll be a bit more. As for my job, head of hiring doesn't mean much when there's no hiring going on. Pretty sure they can replace me without much effort. And there's a Dock Workers' Association in Boston. I'll make a few phone calls tonight and see if they've got any vacancies going."

I stared at him. "What about the ferry? And the Boat Graveyard? You've put years of your life into trying to get that fixed up, getting the ferry running again. And you're just going to walk away?"

Dad shook his head, his lips tightening. "The ferry is just a thing. The Boat Graveyard is a thing. You're more important to me than either one. Than anything, really."

"But …" I trailed off. How do I say "I don't want to leave Brockton Bay" without making it sound like "I don't want to leave Peter"? Especially when that's what I really mean?

Dad looked at me, his gaze softening. "I'm sorry, kiddo," he said softly. "But my hands are tied. I really don't see that I've got another option. If it's a choice between your safety and basically anything else, I'll pick your safety every time."

"What about Winslow?" I asked hopefully. "I'm still going to school until we leave, right?"

"Hell. No." He shook his head again. "If you think I'm letting you near that hellhole again, you've got another think coming. You're staying right here at home."

Irony, thy name is Taylor Hebert. Before I met Peter, I would have rejoiced to hear those words from Dad. Now, they filled me with dread. "But nobody bullies me any more."

"No. Apparently, they're trying to kill you instead." Apparently, Dad wasn't above sarcasm. "Not an improvement."

The point wasn't one I could argue against, especially given that I'd emphasised that they were only going to attack me in the school. "Okay. So can I go out -"

"No. You're not leaving this house until we're ready to hit the road for Boston." His tone was firm.

I rolled my eyes. "Wow, house arrest much?"

"I think the term is 'protective custody'," he corrected me. "Seriously, Taylor. You're in danger. Leaving the house on your own is asking for trouble. Especially since they know your face and name, so they can probably find out our address."

"But the police -"

"Well, for one thing, you were the one who made me promise not to talk to the police. For the other, if I started explaining that you were in danger because you were dating a member of the Empire Eighty-Eight, do you think they'd be more likely to help, or to try to get you to wear a wire for them?"

I was a little taken aback by the way the conversation was going. "A wire? I'm pretty sure that's not exactly legal. I'm not even sixteen yet, let alone eighteen. And I'd tell them to go screw themselves anyway."

He grimaced. "Legalities are one thing. Facts of life are another. We live in a town where just one of the gangs has more capes than the local Protectorate. The cops will take any advantage they can get. And if they don't, the PRT will. If you didn't cooperate, I can see all sorts of harassment happening. So I'm nipping that in the bud. The cops don't hear about this." He pointed at me. "And you don't leave the house, young lady."

I sighed. "Fiiiine. I get it. I don't leave the house."

"Good." He pulled me into another hug. "It'll be for the best. You'll see."

I highly doubted that, but I didn't argue.


Dinner was a quiet affair. We spoke mainly in monosyllables; I asked him to pass the grated cheese, while he requested the salt. Neither of us referred to the elephant in the room.

Afterward, I washed the dishes while he dried them. As I let the water out of the sink, he gestured toward the living room. "I think I'll watch some TV before bed."

"Not me," I said. "I'm kind of beat. Bed for me."

He nodded. "Okay. Good night."

"Night." I headed for the entrance hall.

"Taylor." His voice was quiet.

"Yeah, Dad?" I turned to look at him.

"Don't … don't go sneaking out tonight? Please?"

I rolled my eyes. "Relax. The thought never crossed my mind."

One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Well, if that's the truth, your face is an awful liar."

My face flushed slightly. "Well, I thought about it, then I decided that I didn't want to try climbing out my window with these hands, and I figured you'd be waiting up just in case anyway."

"Damn right." His face took on an expression of something like pain. "Taylor, don't you get it? Every time you go outside, you're exposing yourself to danger. Going to meet that boy makes it even worse. Because the ABB hates him more than it hates you."

"His name is Peter, Dad. Not 'that boy'."

He sighed. "Sorry. I'm just not feeling very charitable toward him right now."

It was my turn to hug him. "That's okay. I kind of understand how you feel." I wasn't feeling particularly friendly toward the ABB myself.

I took myself upstairs and showered, examining the abrasions as I did so. The water stung as I washed them; I hissed a little, but made sure they were okay. Getting the first aid kit out, I put some basic antiseptic cream on them, then awkwardly wrapped them with bandages. It wasn't easy doing it one-handed for either hand, but I got there eventually.

Dried and dressed for bed, I closed my bedroom door then carefully dug in my backpack. Getting both phones out, I put Dad's on my bedside table and took Peter's to bed with me. Lying there in the dark, I looked out the window at the night sky for a while. Then I thumbed the phone on.

I didn't dare ring Peter; as quietly as I tried to speak, Dad would probably hear it. So I went through the settings and turned off all alerts, then sent him a text. Hi, how are you?

He didn't answer immediately, but I wasn't surprised. If he was already in bed asleep, or the phone was turned off, I might not get an answer until morning. However, I didn't put the phone away straight away. Instead, I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in Boston. I'd gotten as far as 'no Lung, and no goddamn ABB' when the phone vibrated in my grasp.

Great now, how did the talk with your father go?

I let out a huff of breath that I hadn't known I was holding. My lips curved upward as I imagined his answering smile.

Not so great. I hesitated for a long moment, then added more. He wants to move us both to Boston to get away from the ABB.

This time, the delay was barely any time at all. And from me, no doubt. A smiley face was appended.

Mainly the ABB, but I'm not going to lie. I tacked on a frowny face.

How soon are you moving?

I grimaced. My fingers didn't want to type out the message. Maybe a week. He wants to just sell the house and go.

Wow. Holy crap. Your father does not waste time.

I want to see you. Tears ran down my face.

Tomorrow at school?

I can't. I can't leave the house, in case the ABB is looking for me. I felt the first shudders running through my body. The sobs would come soon.

I can't argue with that. Probably wise. But I want to see you too.

What if I just ran away? Would your dad take me in? It was a wild and crazy thought. But I wasn't feeling very sensible right about then. Too many things were being decided for me.

There was a long pause, and I wondered what was happening at his end. Was he asking his father for permission for me to run away and join him? Would that be seen as initiative or recklessness?

Probably not a good idea. Not because I don't want to see you.

I let out another long breath. Mostly it was out of frustration, but a little tiny bit was due to relief. I didn't really want to run away, and it was good that Peter agreed with me. But I had to ask the question. I had to rephrase it several times to get it the way I wanted, blinking tears from my eyes.

Okay, why isn't it a good idea then?

His reply popped up almost immediately, so I figured that he must have been already typing it. Your father would not let it go. He would come after you. He might go to Father, or directly to the Empire, to demand that we hand you back over. At best, Father would indeed hand you over. At worst, your father might be hurt or killed.

I squeezed my eyes tightly closed. Peter was right. Dad would do exactly that. And it would probably get him killed. I couldn't even begin to risk it. Opening my eyes again, I typed a reply. I wish you weren't right all the time.

Me too.

Any chance of you coming to see me in Boston once we're settled?

I think there might be a reasonable chance of that, yes.

Instead of filling with warmth as it should have, my heart ached more than ever when I read that.

I still want to be in the Empire, with you.

And I want to have you here. With me. I had to blink tears out of my eyes again before I could keep reading. With what I feel for you, if we have to wait, then I'm willing to wait.

But I don't want to wait! It was a cry from the heart, for all that it was electronically transmitted.

I don't want to wait either. But Father and Uncle Max have both taught me that sometimes it's a good idea to take your time over a big decision.

I began to type out my reply, but was cut short by a knock at my bedroom door.

"What?" I called out, shoving the phone under the covers.

The door opened, spilling in light from the hall. "I just remembered that I gave you a cell-phone to call on if things got dicey." He raised an eyebrow. "You also failed to call me once things did get dicey. So I'll have it back, thanks."

"Geez, Dad, Indian giver much?" I muttered. I was proud that I wasn't showing any of my inner anguish.

He shook his head. "You're unhappy."

Well, I wasn't showing much of it.

"I get that," he continued. "But when we get to Boston, you'll have the chance to make more friends." He didn't add who aren't in gangs but I heard it loud and clear anyway. Crossing the room, he scooped the phone up off the bedside table.

I made a non-committal noise, trying not to let it become a sob. He ruffled my hair. "Good night, Taylor."

"Mm," I replied, which was all I could say right then without bursting into tears.

He exited the room, closing the door carefully behind him. I waited till I heard his bedroom door open then close before pulling out Peter's phone. Blinking away the tears, I pecked out the message. Yeah, I got it. I just don't have to like it. Night.

A moment later, his answer came back. I know. Night.

I turned the phone off, then rolled over and let the tears come.

The last time I had cried myself to sleep was when Mom died. Even the worst that Sophia had put Emma up to doing to me hadn't managed to achieve that. But now, with the possibility of never seeing Peter again, I bawled into my pillow.


Waking up the next morning was weird and surreal. For the longest moment, I gloried in the idea that the previous day had been one big nightmare, until my abraded hands sharply reminded me otherwise. With that point settled, the rest of it crashed in on me. The ABB had tried to kidnap or kill me, and possibly wanted to try again. We were moving to Boston. I might never see Peter again.

That one thought kept me in bed until Dad finished his shower and knocked on my door. "What?" I called out, a little more sharply than I really should have. Finding my glasses, I put them on.

"Shower's free. I'm going to start breakfast now. Scrambled eggs okay?" I could hear the forced cheer in his voice. For a moment, I wondered why he had to pretend to be happy, then I realised that he'd listened to me crying all night and was maybe feeling a little guilty.

Good. Maybe he'll rethink the Boston thing. "Don't feel like breakfast."

This time, he opened the door. "Taylor, I'm sorry." I believed him; he didn't look much better than I felt. "But I can't take the risk that someone will get to you. At school or in the street or anywhere. The ABB is a big gang. The only way to avoid them is to move away. So it's what we've got to do."

"The Empire could protect us," I blurted without really meaning to say it. "If we asked them, I mean."

"No." His face set in uncompromising lines. "I made a vow, long ago, that I would never put myself or my family into debt with any gang."

"But -" I wanted to say that we wouldn't be going into debt, that I would be joining them as a full member, and from there they protected their own. However, I hesitated to make that particular revelation to Dad, and then he was speaking anyway.

"Because the next step would be to let me pay off the debt by giving them access to the Dock Workers Association, and that's something that I'll never do. I'm not going to let the gangs own me, my family or my work. It's that simple."

I stared at him. This was a side to Dad that I'd never seen before. He was strong, firm, principled. I'd always loved him for being my Dad, but for the first time I began to admire him as well. I think that this is maybe what Mom fell in love with. "Uh …"

He manufactured a smile. "Now, if you want to get up and have a shower, I'll put on some breakfast. We've got a long day ahead of us."

I got up and had a shower.


Dad hadn't been kidding. It was going to be a long day. Mainly for me; normally, I would've been getting ready for school and running to catch the bus. But instead, after eating breakfast, I washed the dishes and then sat on the sofa, watching TV. Dad, on the other hand, settled himself at the kitchen table with the phone and a notepad. I lost track of who he was talking to after the third phone call.

After the fifth call, I got bored and switched the TV off. Dad watched as I headed for the entrance hall. "Excuse me a moment," he said into the phone. "Taylor?" he asked, putting his hand over the mouthpiece.

"Just going upstairs to read," I said over my shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm not going to sneak out."

His expression tightened a bit at the snarkiness in my voice, but I didn't much care. If he wasn't going to take my feelings into account, then I didn't feel much in the way of obligation toward his feelings either.

"Okay, then," he said. "Have you started packing yet?"

"No." I bit back a sharper comment. "It's kind of hard, you know?"

His voice was sympathetic. "Yeah, I know. But I've got a possible place lined up. If I can get everything organised, we could be leaving in the next few days."

That jarred me to my heels. He was talking about moving, but I hadn't thought it physically possible to do it that soon. "Dad, how the hell can you even make that work?"

"We'll talk about it later." He took his hand away from the phone. "Sorry, where were we?"

I saw that his attention was back on the phone call, so I headed upstairs. Pulling a book off of the shelf in my room, I flopped on to the bed and started reading. Or trying to read, anyway. Every few lines, my thoughts would wander back to the shit that my life had become, and I'd lose track again. About twenty pages in, I gave up; I'd read the book a hundred times before and I still had no idea where the plot was going.

I wanted something to do. Anything to do. Sitting down at the computer that Dad had gotten for me for my fourteenth birthday, I tried to log on to PHO. Reading the mindless chatter about the doings of capes around Brockton Bay should take my mind off things.

Except that I couldn't log on. I couldn't even get online. The modem, when I checked it, was on, but showing a red light where it should have been showing a green light. I cycled it, but the red light stubbornly refused to turn green.

Getting up, I trotted along the corridor and down the stairs. Dad was just in the process of dialling another number on the phone. "Dad," I said before he could finish. "The internet's down."

"I know," he told me. "I had it cut off."

"What?" I stared at him, stunned. Was this some sort of punishment? "Why?"

"Because we won't be here much longer," he said patiently. "And I hear you can get better bandwidth, or whatever they call it, in Boston."

"But that doesn't help me much now," I protested.

"Well, it's a good thing that you don't need the internet to help you pack, isn't it?" He turned back to the phone and hit the last few buttons.

Wow. Okay. Fine. Hint taken. Turning, I left the kitchen and headed upstairs again.

My old suitcase was still under my bed since the last time I'd gone to summer camp, which was … jeez, two thousand and nine.

Sitting on the bed, I found myself indulging in a few satisfying daydreams of punching the living crap out of that black bitch Sophia Hess. To be honest, I'd been kind of looking forward to learning how to fight from Jenna, so I could track Sophia down and kick the shit out of her. Turn my best friend against me, will you?

But even that palled after a while, so I hauled the case out from under the bed and opened it. Then I pulled the nesting case out from inside it and opened that as well. There were still a few forgotten souvenirs from the camp in the cases, including a friendship bracelet from some girl whose name escaped me, and another that I'd made for Emma and never given to her. Both of them went into the trash. I have actual friends now.

Packing became a lot easier once I discarded a lot of the clothing that I wasn't wearing any more. Jenna and I had shopped at the Boardwalk more than once. She had convinced me that Peter liked seeing me in bright clothing; given the look on his face when I tried it out, I guessed that she had a point.

So, the shapeless hoodies went into the Goodwill pile, and the belly tees and the skinny jeans (not that I'd wear the shirts before doing something for my fitness) went into the suitcase. I found myself humming as I went through my wardrobe to determine what I'd keep and what I'd throw away; it wasn't as though I was happy to be moving away from Peter, but packing gave me something to do. And besides, he could come and see me on the weekends. It was only sixty miles, after all, and he had his truck.

The suitcases were halfway full before I realised that it was almost noon. Lunchtime at Winslow. I hadn't wanted to text Peter during class but if I was going to do it at any time, this was as good as any. Going to my door, I leaned out into the corridor. Downstairs, I could hear Dad's voice, making yet another phone call. Good.

Pushing a case aside to make room, I pulled out my phone and sent away a text. Hey. Able to talk?

Within thirty seconds, I got a reply back. For you, any time. How you holding up?

I may have sniffled just a little. Missing you.

I miss you too. And I'm not the only one. Everyone's been asking if you're all right.

I hugged the phone to my chest as I savoured the feeling. They care. They really care.

Tell them I'm fine. My hands are a bit sore, but I bet I'm doing better than the two who were chasing me.

Haha yeah. There was a smiley-face attached. Oh, just by the way? We sent a little message last night. Nobody does this to you. We didn't kill anyone, but we're pretty sure they got it loud and clear.

I blinked a little at that. If I was reading this right, Peter and his friends had gone and extracted revenge for the attempted abduction-or-murder, whichever it was, that the ABB had tried on me.

Wow.

I really wasn't sure what to feel about that. On the one hand, someone had gotten hurt. On the other, I had nearly fallen into the clutches of the ABB, and George had been hurt so badly defending me. Protecting me. Doing his duty, against impossible odds. He'd nearly died.

I'd been lying to myself. I did know what to feel about that. My lips skinned back from my teeth as I typed a single word. Good.

After I sent it, I thought for a moment and sent another text. Bronson isn't in too much trouble, is he?

I didn't have to wait long for an answer. Bronson's not in trouble. When I thought about it, I realised that he was just being honest with you. More honest than I was being. You deserved to know the full truth.

I let out a small sigh of relief. I liked Bronson. He wasn't 'just a skinhead' to me, not any more. He was a nice guy who told really stupid jokes and idolised Peter. But he hadn't shirked from telling me what he thought I needed to hear. Peter needs people like that around him.

Which reminded me of something else. How's George doing?

He came off the critical list this morning.

The knot in my chest unclenched slightly. I'm glad. Say hi for me when you see him next please?

His reply made me smile. I'll send him flowers for you.

Humming to myself, I typed out another message. Make it a set of knuckle-dusters instead. I'm sure he'll appreciate that more.

Haha yeah, you're probably right.

Then a serious issue occurred to me. Uh, another question. Just because I'm moving away, I don't have to stop being a Friend to the Empire, right?

His reply came back quickly. Pfft, as if. You only stop being a Friend if you want to stop.

He could always give me that deep-down warm feeling. Good.

We texted back and forth a little longer, nothing serious. I told him what I was packing into the suitcases, and he told me what the mystery meat looked like. I hadn't even known there was a puking emoticon. He passed on comments from the other people at the table, and I answered to them, chuckling at their replies. It gave me a warm feeling of belonging; even when I wasn't there, they were still including me in their group.

All too soon, Peter had to go back to class. I turned off the phone and put it away, then sat staring at the floor. It felt weird not to be at Winslow in the middle of a school day. I bet Peter and the others are the only ones who've even noticed that I'm not there. Except maybe the kids with the spitballs. Who are they gonna throw them at now? The thought raised a giggle, then I forgot why I was even laughing as Dad called me down for lunch.


"Report."

"She's not there."

"What do you mean, she's not there?"

"I mean, she eats lunch every day with the Ferguson kid, without fail. She even sits at their table. But she's not there today."

"Maybe one of our people hurt her before they got killed."

"I don't think so. He spent most of the lunch hour texting on his phone, and showing the texts to the others. They're laughing. That's not the face of someone whose girlfriend is in the hospital."

"So she's staying away from school."

"It looks like it. So, the afternoon's a wash then."

"Not necessarily. It won't be hard to find out where she lives. She's probably out right now, but she'll be home tonight. We'll get her then."

"With respect, may I ask a question?"

"You may."

"Why are we going after this one girl so hard? What's so special about her?"

"Her, personally? Nothing. It's what she represents."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"She's important to Ferguson. That much is clear. We don't quite know if he likes her for herself, or for the fact of who her father is. Either way, we don't want the Empire getting its hooks into the Dock Workers. They're too strong as it is. Also, fucking up Ferguson is a good thing. Especially after they roughed up some of our people last night. Someone needs to pay, and she's it."

"But if we kill her, won't her father blame us and turn to them?"

"Not if we make it look like their fault. In any case, we're not going to kill her."

"We're not?"

"No need. A week in one of our brothels should do the trick, so to speak. She'll still be alive, so there'll be no inconvenient murder charges to answer to. The Empire will wash their hands of her faster than a skinhead punching out a Merchant. We get her hooked on something in the process, so she keeps coming back. Her father will cover the whole thing up, of course. It'll never make the news. We get what we want, with profit on top. Win-win-win."


"So, how's your packing going?" Dad had made stir-fry, and he heaped it on to my plate. It smelled really nice.

"Kinda," I grunted. "What's the occasion?" I gestured at the stir-fry.

"Well, it's better to eat the food we've got than take up space packing it along with us," he pointed out. "So I looked at what we had, and decided to throw it all in together. What do you think?"

I took a forkful and chewed it thoughtfully. "Not bad," I allowed.

He rolled his eyes. "A ringing endorsement for the ages, if ever I've heard one."

If he was trying to wind me up, he was succeeding. I swallowed the food and poked my tongue out at him.

He chuckled. "Feeling a little better, I see."

"Maybe," I replied. "It's not like Peter can't come and see me in Boston."

From the look on his face, he wasn't hugely thrilled with that idea. "So long as he leaves any Empire business behind in Brockton Bay. Like I'm trying to do."

"It's not the Empire who's a danger to me. It's the ABB." My protest was reflexive, and I was sure it would be in vain.

His next words proved me correct. "If it wasn't for the Empire, the ABB wouldn't even be coming after you. So yes, in a very real way, they are a danger to you."

I did my best to hide my grimace. As much as I hated to admit it, he kind of had a point. Of course, as far as I was concerned, Peter was blameless. Hunching my shoulders, I ate some more stir-fry.

"So anyway," he went on, "I've managed to find us a place to live. We can pick up the keys in two days' time."

"So we're leaving in two days?" I tried not to hide my dismay. So quickly?

"Hah, no." He shook his head. "We drive down tonight. Two nights in a motel, then we'll be able to start moving into our now house. Our new life."

"Tonight." I'd been taken aback; now I was stunned. For all that Dad kept talking about moving, I hadn't truly believed that we'd be able to pull up stakes and relocate to Boston in less than a week, much less a single day. "We're leaving tonight."

Dad nodded. "Yes. I'll pack the car with everything we absolutely need, and we'll leave just after sunset."


"Yeah, that makes sense. So, tonight then?"

"Tonight. We'll hit them just after the sun goes down."


End of Part Eight

Part Nine