Cara Shultz: The Dark World

Blaise rested both hands on the back of the red plastic seat. It exploded into flames, burning pieces of wood and molten lumps of metal and plastic scattering across the floor. Blaise stepped through the fire, unfazed, and I ran to the windows on the far wall, flinging one open. I grabbed the weak iron bars and shook them, the screws rattling in the weather-rotted wood frame. If I got the bars off, maybe I could survive the jump—aim to land in a snow bank or a Dumpster. I’d rather be alive with two broken legs than suffer an excruciating, fiery death in this classroom.

The door to the classroom swung open, the knob slamming into the plaster wall with a loud bang. I whirled around to see Blaise staring at the door with an entertained smile on her face—probably expecting another student to murder—but her smile faded when she saw Logan standing there, fists clenched at his side.

“Get out of here! Call the cops!” I shouted, slamming my palms onto the desk nearest me in frustration. First, Travis, now, Logan. How many more, because of me? But Logan merely held his hand up, giving me a slight nod—he never took his steely focus off Blaise.

“Stay away from her, incindia, ” Logan ordered, a hateful look on his face as he spat out the unfamiliar word. Blaise took a hesitant step toward him.

“I wondered if you were to blame for Viola’s sudden disappearance today.” Her voice was full of bravado, but her once-arrogant movements were cautious, almost tentative, as she crossed the length of the room to confront Logan. “The proditori, isn’t it?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed as she spoke.

“You’re about to find out how I earned that nickname,” he said, striding toward her. She scrambled back into the corner of the room, her back pressed against the file cabinet as Logan reached over his shoulder, pulling a sword from behind his back. But there was nothing strapped to his back—the sword Logan brandished materialized out of nothing.

Logan expertly twirled the sword—Blaise’s sparkling eyes tracking its movements as it gracefully sliced through the air. The weapon looked like it was made of ice—long, translucent and pale blue, rising from an intricate silver handle that curled over his knuckles.

This wasn’t the quiet, somewhat shy boy from the back of the class. Instead, Logan was a commanding presence, his back straight and his voice confident and controlled as he ordered me to hit the floor. I crouched on the other side of the classroom, against the windows. Ducking behind a desk, I peeked out to watch as Blaise held her hand out, a massive swirl of smoke, red mist and flames churning above her palm until it condensed into a fireball—which she hurled at Logan.

He deftly blocked the fireball with the broad side of the sword, sending licks of fire raining onto the linoleum. She conjured another fireball, and I could hear a slight hiss as the frosty blade again sliced through the whirling flames, scattering burning embers on the floor. Blaise began to panic, her sparkling black eyes searching the classroom for an escape as she quickly created another fireball. Logan closed the gap between them, arms held high as he adjusted his grip on the sword, pointing the tip of the blade down until it was just a few feet from the base of Blaise’s throat. She reared her arm back, but switched the fireball’s target at the last moment—to me.

I scrambled backward on the floor, pinned against the corner of the classroom.

This is it. I’m going to die. Again .

The fireball exploded, temporarily blinding me with a burst of heat and light as Logan sent his weapon spinning in my direction, the blade cutting across the fireball’s path mere seconds before it would have hit me. The sword embedded itself in the French class poster on the wall between the two windows.

“Get behind the desk!” Logan yelled. I scrambled to the front of the room and dove behind Miller’s desk, flames raining around me as a fireball smashed into the desk, then another. I huddled against the gray metal desk, which began to burn my back as it absorbed the heat of the fireballs.

The shower of fire stopped, and I cautiously peered out from behind the desk in time to see Logan pinning Blaise against the file cabinet. She clawed for his face but he was quick—too quick—blocking her hands. She spit a wad of fire in his face, and he turned his head quickly, the flames singeing his cheek as he grimaced.

“Paige, hand me my sword, will you? I need to teach this incindia some manners,” Logan asked calmly, holding her immobile. I ran to the spot where the blade was embedded in the wall and grasped the handle of the sword. My body jolted at its touch—the sword hummed with power in my grip. I braced my foot against the wall and yanked the sword free, stumbling a few feet backward.

And then I felt it, the burning, searing pain in my side as I was hit with a blast of heat and fire. I fell on the ground, trying to make sense of the agonizing pain, trying to extinguish the flames that felt like they were boring through my skin, tearing through muscle and bone before settling in my very cells. I heard Blaise’s voice and tried to focus on her, on something—anything—to force myself out of my pain-induced stupor.

“Killing you should make up for killing the Traveler.” Blaise was gloating. She thinks you’re dead. I heard a pained grunt from Logan, and I forced my eyes open to see that he was wrestling with Blaise, who had him pinned on the ground. She was sitting on his chest, her mouth stretched even wider in a triumphant grin as her hands closed around his throat. The brilliant crimson veins began to form a web around her hands, spreading up his throat and across his face as his mouth opened in a silent scream.

I crawled along the back of the classroom, staying out of Blaise’s eyeshot as I dragged the sword behind me. I used it as a crutch to push myself off the floor, fighting back the agony in my right side as I stumbled behind Blaise, who was straddling Logan’s chest, blanketing him in those glowing ruby veins that were sucking the life out of him. Killing him.

I raised the sword with trembling arms, wincing in agony as I aimed the tip of the blade down. Using all the strength I had left in my withering muscles, I rushed toward them, plunging the blade between Blaise’s shoulder blades. She threw her head back, her wide mouth opening in a scream that sounded more like a feral roar. She dropped her hands from Logan’s neck, and the fiery red trails slowly receded. Blaise began convulsing, and Logan pushed her off him. I stumbled forward with her body, still keeping my grip on the handle. The blade began to glow, changing from the frosty blue to crimson, yellow and black, colors which undulated like lit firewood that was dying out.

It started at my hands—a scorching burn that raced through my veins and colored the edges of my vision. Everything shimmered, like pavement on a hot day. I screamed in agony, my chest pitching forward as a sudden blast of heat ripped through my heart, which beat painfully against my ribs. A red filter had been dropped in front of my vision—everything appeared in dizzying shades of crimson.

I yanked the sword out of her back, staring at Blaise’s face-down body where it lay sprawled out next to Travis’s ashes. Her body was the same dusty gray color, and plumes of sickly sweet smoke rose from her joints.

Travis... Just stay behind me. Travis, who tried to protect me from Blaise. Travis, who saw her hellish eyes and let me know I wasn’t crazy. Travis, who was only seventeen. And now he’s dead.

“I got someone killed. I killed someone,” I whispered, gripping the handle of the sword tightly. It vibrated with power in response.