Page 45 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“Indeed. Hey, want to get late-night-after-show breakfast once you check in at home?”

Jett nods. “And you can tell me what Len said. And how you managed not to get fired.”

“Achhhh! You won’t believe it!” I say, grabbing his shirtsleeve playfully, like I always do. This time, though, when my hand brushes his wrist, something inside me lurches in the space between my ribs and my spine. I imagine it’s how Harry Potter must’ve felt when he touched that first Portkey.

I drop my hand, and Jett’s eyes find mine.

“That bad?” he asks, making an unreadable face. He looks a little stunned, like he’s just gotten Portkeyed too.

Before I can reply, a thunderous, terrified scream—the sound of more than a hundred people yelling in shock all at once—swells from the arena behind us.

20

JETT AND I BOTH DASH TOWARD THE NEAREST DOOR. There’s not supposed to be a scream-worthy moment this late in the show. This is the wrap-up. Time for cheers and more beers. Almost time to trumpet the exit of the King.

But that’s not what we’re hearing.

The crowd is on its feet, and I can’t see much as we push back into the arena. Murmurs, concerned voices, and the sounds of little kids crying fill the air.

“I better get my money back,” says someone waspishly as we pass. “If this show doesn’t go on, I’m leaving a nasty review.”

I send a death glare over my shoulder, but I can’t make out who said it. There are people standing on the concrete stairs, trying to get a better view.

“Excuse me, pardon us, Castle staff coming through,” Jett says as we weave around the crowds.

We’re three steps from the edge of the arena when I understand what’s happened.

“Oh no,” I whisper in a strangled voice.

A riderless horse stands in front of my section. It wears the colors of the Red Knight. But I can’t see Chris anywhere.

In the front row, Bettina grips Eddy’s arm, both of them peering into the arena. One of the frat boys next to us looks down at the arena, his beer halfway to his mouth.

“Is he dead, bro?” he asks the guy standing next to him.

“Is who dead?” Jett asks, spinning toward the frat dude. “What happened?”

The frat boys point toward the arena right as the riderless horse moves aside.

Now we have a clear view.

The Red Knight lies on his back. Not moving. Completely still. His helmet is in the dirt a few feet away and his leg is twisted underneath him.

A scream tears out of my throat. My feet somehow move down the last three stairs, and I’m at the front of the arena.

From here, I can see the blood soaking Chris’s white undershirt. His forehead is slick with it. He still doesn’t move, but there’s a flurry of activity in the arena that some part of my brain processes: A group of Castle medics runs out onto the pitch, their boots throwing up sand. Chris’s horse whinnies nervously. The Red Squire catches the horse’s reins and runs a hand over its flanks. The Green, Blue, and Yellow Knights huddle together at the far end of the arena. The Purple Knight, Chris’s friend Austin, has thrown off his helmet and is running across the arena toward Chris.

From two sections over, I catch sight of Penny with her hands over her mouth. Layla’s pushing her way through the crowds on my left, calling out my name.

“Help me, Jett!” I scream as I tear at the netting that separates the guests from the arena. It tangles around my hands maddeningly, as if it can sense how frantic I am to get to Chris. I can’t let my brother die three feet away from me while I’m snarled like a fish in some cheap netting.

Eddy and Jett are by my side at once. Both of them lift the netting, freeing me. I clamber over the low wall and land in the sand of the arena. Jett’s a second behind me, but I’m already running toward Chris. Pushing my way into the circle of medics, I kneel in the filthy sand beside him. My hands fly to the wound on his head, trying to stop the blood.

“Don’t touch him,” snaps one of the medics. “That cut is deep.”

“What happened?” I insist. “Why isn’t he moving? Somebody help him!”

“Back up,” says one of the medics, as he pushes my hands away and gently holds gauze over the wound. “He’s unconscious and he’s likely broken something after that fall.”