I woke to someone pounding on the door.
For a second my half-asleep brain whispered, it's just the wind, but my hand was already on the revolver before my eyes were even open. The escort. It had to be the escort. Too early. They weren't supposed to come until noon. I hadn't even had breakfast. I wasn't ready.
Another knock. Softer this time. Not official sounding, more like somebody trying not to wake the neighbours.
I slid out of bed, heart hammering, trying to look like I wasn't about to jump out the window.
Phisto cracked one eye at me. "I wouldn't do it if I were you, will be a mighty long trek on two broken legs."
"I wasn't going to jump out the window," I huffed.
Phisto's tail flicked. "Wouldn't be the first questionable decision you've made."
I squinted at him. "I liked you better when you were silent."
"I was never silent. You just never bothered to listen. I told you this yesterday."
"Sorry I didn't speak Cat."
He gave a long, theatrical sigh. "Cat? You think cats speak Cat? Why? Because we're cats?"
"Then what's it called?"
"Cat."
I stared. "That's the same word."
He yawned, then looked at the wall.
It occurred to me then why my mother had been so quick to send him with me. Not so I wouldn't be alone, or because he was special, or wise. He wasn't a familiar, he was just a cat—loud now, opinionated, and annoying.
When he couldn't talk, I used to think he was charming in that aloof, mysterious way cats are. The way he'd stare off into the middle distance, flicking his tail like he was judging the world and finding it dull. I thought that was depth. Turned out it was probably boredom, and maybe even a superiority complex.
Now that he could talk, there was no mystery left, just commentary. He didn't meow anymore, he editorialized. Every twitch of my hand or sigh or misplaced thought was a new opportunity for him to chime in with something smug.
It wasn't even noon and I already wanted to toss him into the nearest laundry basket and close the lid. My mother hadn't sent me company. She'd sent me a punishment.
I rubbed my temples. "Is there a way to unlearn a skill?"
"Afraid not," he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You're stuck with charming old Phisto now."
Another knock from the door.
Phisto turned his head toward it. "Don't keep Perry's parents waiting."
"How do you know it's them?"
He blinked slowly. "Don't you have ears?"
I shoved my hair up and pulled my tunic on. The floor was cold. I walked to the door and opened it.
Perry's parents stood there.
His father looked older than he had yesterday. Not in the poetic way—ravaged by grief, or whatever people say in stories—but just older. Like time had kept going for him when it hadn't for anyone else. His tunic was wrinkled, sleeves rolled up wrong. His hair looked like he'd run his fingers through it once, then forgotten halfway through. Maybe ravaged by grief was a good description after all.
His mother was worse. She hadn't even tried. Her eyes were puffy, red-rimmed. She was holding one of Perry's old cloaks, clutched in both arms like she couldn't let it go, like maybe she'd woken up holding it and just kept going. Her mouth opened once before she spoke, like she'd rehearsed what to say and then forgotten every word.
"We're sorry," she said finally. "We didn't mean to wake anyone."
I shook my head. I wasn't going to tell her it was fine. Nothing was.
Perry's father stepped forward and held something out. A small, cloth-wrapped bundle, tied at the corners. "He wanted you to have this."
I took it carefully. It was light. Thin. Folded with care. My fingers itched to open it, but I didn't, not yet.
"He wrote something," his mother said. "A note. He said he wanted you to know he didn't blame you. That you shouldn't blame yourself either, he knew you would."
I stared down at the bundle.
"He said he was proud of you," she added. "That you always stood up for him. That you never let people talk down to him, or push him around. He always lit up when he talked about you. He was so happy you were his friend."
That broke something in me.
"He said to tell you that again," his father said, gently. "Not to blame yourself. This wasn't your fault. He also said to ask you if you heard it, if you understood."
I hadn't heard it. Not really. Not in the way he meant. I still felt like it was my fault. Like I'd dragged him into it just by being me. I didn't trust myself to speak yet, so I nodded. For their sake. For his. And maybe for mine, if I ever caught up to the feeling.
They stepped forward. His mother wrapped her arms around me. Her grip was so tight it hurt, like if she let go, she'd lose me too. His father joined a second later, and for a moment it was the three of us, holding each other.
Then she pulled back. "Please," she said, "just survive."
I looked them both in the eye.
"I'm not just going to survive," I said. "I'm going to get strong. I'm going to come back. And I'm going to kill Menekrates."
His father didn't even blink. He just nodded once. "He said you'd say that, too."
Of course he did.
Of course Perry knew I'd go straight to rage, to revenge, to the certainty of killing the man who caused it all. That was always my answer. When I didn't know how to fix something, I broke it worse. And now he was dead. And I was still doing it, exactly like he knew I would. Then again, what else was there?
The life I had was already gone. I was being exiled to a place that hunted people like me for sport. If I even made it there. If the escort didn't kill me on the road. I was already as good as dead. And if I was already dead it didn't really matter what I did, or who I pissed off, or how many bodies I left behind.
People would be coming for me? Let them. Every one of them was just another step toward getting strong enough to come back. And when I did, Menekrates was going to wish it had been me under that blade instead of Perry.
Just before they left, his mother looked back at me. "If you make it back, you'll always have a place with us."
That nearly broke me worse than the bundle. They left after that.
I closed the door behind them and leaned against it, holding the bundle against my chest. After a while I sat down on the floor and opened it.
Inside was a charm, just an old, worn bit of horn on a leather cord. Perry used to swear it was from a minotaur. I wasn't so sure. It looked more like cow. Said he'd get me a whole minotaur horn one day, once he got his class and got strong enough.
He always said it was for good luck.
Some luck it brought him.
I ran my thumb along the edge. Minotaur, huh.
I couldn't sleep anymore after that, so I packed.
Checked my ammo again. Recounted the potions. Adjusted the strap on my belt three times. Put Perry's bundle into the inner pocket of my satchel where it wouldn't get lost.
By the time I heard footsteps behind me, I was already dressed and laced up.
My father handed me a small knife. Alongside it: a leather leg sheath and a thin booklet. "How to make bullets," he said. "In case you run out."
I strapped the knife to my thigh. He pulled me into a tight hug.
"I love you," he said. "I'm proud of what you did. Be careful out there, and don't die."
"I'll try," I muttered.
From across the room my mother said, "Don't act so worried, Kleon. You know she's too stubborn to die."
My father gave a small shrug, like he couldn't argue with that.
Stubborn? I wasn't stubborn. I just knew when I was right. That wasn't the same thing. Stubborn was refusing to move for no reason. Stubborn was being wrong and digging your heels in anyway. I moved all the time. I adapted. I just didn't back down when it mattered.
Before I could protest, there was a knock on the door.
It was time.