He still doesn’t get it. Baz isn’t into games. He holds out the foam blade. “En garde, you knave. You reprobate scapegrace.”
I tap his blade with mine. He tries to parry. He’s terrible at this.
I can’t think of anything else Baz is terrible at. He’s someone else here, too.
“You breaketh, you buyeth!” a man shouts at us.
We ignore him, banging our swords and shuffling out into the road. I’m going easy on Baz. Just batting him back. He’s trying to look fierce, but he keeps laughing.
He breaks through my cover just once to tap my leg. “You’re losing it, Snow! Is this how you defeated the hobgoblin horde?”
“You’re more distracting than a hobgoblin,” I say. “Your hair is shinier.”
“‘You have witchcraft in your lips,’”Baz says.
“Is that more Shakespeare?”
“Yeah, sorry. I know you prefer Homer.”
He’s pushing me back into a wooden post. I’m totally letting him. I hold my foam sword up in front of my chest. His is pressed against it. “Check. Mate,” he says.
“That’s completely wrong,” I say.
“I win.”
“I’m letting you win.”
“That’s still a win, Snow. That might even be a more conclusive win.”
Baz’s grey eyes are shining. He smells like sunblock. I’m trying to think of an insult. I’m wondering if I could kiss him. If the other person I am today could kiss the other person he is. Is that legal in Nebraska? Is it allowed at the Faire?
Baz hisses, turning his head and body away from me, like he smells blood.
I turn after him. “What…”
He’s staring at a pack of people coming our way—six or seven of them dressed like vampires, plus a few of the busty women in corsets that you see everywhere. (I still haven’t sorted whether I’m still attracted to women or whether I ever was, or whether I’m some kind of Baz-only-sexual. But the cleavage at this place is abundant, and I’m not mad about it.)
“Look,” I say, trying to draw his attention away from the fake vampires, “I know this is—whatever Penny called it, appropriation—but don’t let it get your back up.”
Baz’s lip is curled. The band of vampires swaggers closer. They’re dressed like various bloodsucking stereotypes. A couple of them have capes. One’s a girl, dressed like Captain Hook or something. There’s fake blood splattered all over their costumes. Only their mirrored sunglasses are ruining the effect.
Whatever they’re selling, the wenches are buying it. One of the vampires has already got a girl in his arms, her legs wrapped around his hips. He must be wicked strong. Baz turns away, just as the guy nearest us pulls down his sunglasses to look at me. His skin is pale as ash, and his cheeks look too full. He winks.
I shudder. “Baz.”
“I know.” Baz’s fangs are popped. He’s turned back to watch them again.
“They’re—”
“Simon, I know.”
“Where’s Penny?”
“We’ll find her when we’re done.”
“Done what?”
He takes a determined breath. “Slaying these vampires.”
