Page 25 of Poet & Protector

“What did you guys get?” Mason asked them.

“The athletics trophy case,” Bryn replied.

“That’s right down the hall!” Mason exclaimed. Apparently he was as unhappy about our long walk as I was.

Bryn frowned at him. “Why? Where are you guys going?”

“The other side of the school gardens,” Mason answered sullenly. “Roses and reflecting pool.”

Fey laughed. “Sucks for you. Come on, Bryn.”

“Tough luck, Mason.” Bryn reached out to squeeze his hand. “At least it will be pretty.”

“All the roses are dead this time of year,” I said in a flat tone, knowing it would rattle her.

When her eyes widened, I had to work hard not to laugh.

“Uh…I guess I forgot about that,” she replied warily.

I couldn’t tell if she was more thrown by my comment or the fact that I’d just spoken to her. “But the reflecting pool will still be nice, right?”

I didn’t respond and she threw Mason a sympathetic look before she and Fey left the room.

“You did that on purpose,” Mason accused.

I shrugged and walked out of the classroom with him on my heels.

“It’s not hard to be nice,” he said when he caught up to me.

“Maybe not,” I replied. “But it’s tiresome.”

He made a frustrated sound but didn’t bother arguing.

Yes, I was needling him, but not because I didn’t like him. Not that I was willing to say I did like Mason. I was riding the fence at this point and I was willing to concede our first meeting had not been the disaster I expected.

Mason was…interesting to be around. He would absolutely not give up on having a real conversation with me. While his persistence had been a little annoying, I respected his stubborn refusal to let me off the hook. When he talked about the Bunker, I could sense how hungry he was to know more about the community I’d found there and I could hear how lonely he was.

I’d been in that solitary place. I remembered what it was like before I connected with Caleb, who took it upon himself to befriend me when I’d first shown up in the hidden space beneath the Burnout.

While Caleb was an elder Bane, which meant he had a few decades on me, he was also a musician. That connection created a fast friendship between us. But had Caleb not been there, I would have felt adrift among the older generation of wolves, which seemed to be what Mason was struggling with.

Seeing his clear vulnerability, such a shocking contrast to his usual easy confidence, made it impossible to leave him hanging.

So, we’d talked.

And it had been…fine.

I wasn’t sure if he’d want to talk like that again. I chose to ignore the feeling that I wanted him to want to talk more. Either way, I wasn’t going to encourage him. Probably wasn’t. If he took the lead…God, why was I even thinking about this?

Mason scanned the page Ms. Castillo had handed him when he drew our location. He made an irritated sound.

“What?” I asked.

“She was tricky with this assignment,” he replied. “I figured we’d just use the time to work on our poem, but apparently inspiration comes with instructions.”

I groaned inwardly. “What do we have to do?”

“‘Understanding the creative process,’” he read off the paper. “‘Find three distinct objects within your site. For each object, propose a unique approach to creatively writing about that object. Describe why each approach could be effective and what challenges you might encounter with that approach. Extra credit: choose the approach you find most appealing and explain your preference.’”