When she hits me again, I grab her phone. “Ah-ah, Ember. Hitting people isn’t very nice. Haven’t you learned that from all your books?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Actually, most of them seem to advocate for violence, not against it.”
I sigh dramatically. “If you want a better moral standpoint, read less fantasy.”
“But then there wouldn’t be swordfights.” She grins, her previous anger forgotten.
“You should take a sword fighting class,” I tell her. “Fencing, maybe. I’m sure there are some in the city.”
She glances away and mumbles something under her breath. I arch an eyebrow. “Speak up, buttercup.”
“I can’t afford them,” she mumbles. “Dad…” she trails off, her lips thinning. She draws her knees up to her chest, rests her chin on them, and cranes her head up, searching the sky for answers to whatever question’s floating around in her head.
I don’t say anything. I’ve told her repeatedly that if she wants something, I’ll get it for her, but she doesn’t like charity. She chased me with my own fuckingbaseball batwhen I got her this couch. I managed to diffuse her by sayingIwanted to be comfortable when she was helping me with reading. Since her dad is finicky about letting boys into the house, she let it slide.
“Do you like mythology?” she asks out of the blue.
I blink, not sure what it has to do with our conversation. “Sure.” Not that I know anything about it. But I tend to like whatever she likes.
“Prometheus gave fire to mortals,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her cheek on them. “For that kindness, he was chained to a rock and tortured for millennia.” She blinks up at the sky. “I read about that last week. An eagle would peck at his liver every day, and then he’d regenerate, just to live through the pain all over again, until Hercules shot the eagle with an arrow.” She pointsa finger up at the sky, indicating a batch of stars. I squint up in the general direction she’s motioning at.
“The constellation Sagitta—the one in the shape of an arrow. That tells the story. Do you see it?”
Nope. “Yeah. It’s nice.”
Her soft snort tells me she sees straight through my lie. “I want to be like Hercules when I grow up. Slay the bad guys, free the good ones. And I want to do the right thing—like giving fire to mortals. Imagine what mankind would be like without it.”
A smile curves my lips. “Alright, Little Flame.”
“Flame?” she turns her head to look at me.
“Yeah. All I really heard was something about fire, mortals, a bow, and some stars. I like the fire part.” I grin. “You are fiery as fuck.”
“And you like to forget that there are more words in the dictionary than your favorite swear words.”
I shrug. “Fuck fancy words. Profanity covers all of the important bases.”
She sighs. “If you say so.”
We stare at the stars for a while, sitting in comfortable silence. “Why are you here?” she asks. “Everything okay at home?”
Not really, though I’m not sure exactly what the problem is. “Yeah,” I lie easily. “Why areyouout here?”
“Waiting for Dad to get home.”
My jaw tightens. “He out gambling and getting blitzed again?”
She doesn’t respond, but her silence tells me all I need to know. As a groundskeeper and gardener, her father is brilliant—has a green thumb, keeps the estate’s property in tip-top shape with minimal outside help. As a father and a human, however, he fucking sucks.
I might be biased on that front, but he outright neglects Ember. She has to go tomyparents when she needs permission slips signedfor school trips. I hate how hands-off he is with her—it leaves a gaping hole in her life, where she needs protection.
I don’t mind stepping into that role—warning off boys who sniff around her, telling petty girls to go fuck themselves, making sure teachers handle her kindly—but I’m going to college soon enough. Then, she’ll be alone, and that doesn’t sit well with me.
I’ve grown used to being her protector. Ilikebeing her protector. I like knowing she relies on me, because she’s so damn self-reliant. With a dad as shitty as hers, she has to be.
“You know you can stay over at the main house any time,” I mumble. “If you get scared or something. My parents love you.” They do love her, probably because they know she’s the reason I stopped failing English.
“Thanks,” she says noncommittally, and I know it means she won’t be taking me up on my offer.
