A/N: I hope you're happy now. Especially you, Julia456. (I know I am...) And when you realize what I mean, you can all thank me for this chapter in the review box. :)

I'm starting to like fencing, really.

The thought occurs to me during practice Thursday morning, after I've successfully disarmed my partner for the third time. Melissa isn't so happy about it, but she pats me on the back anyway and takes her starting position again.

The feeling continues through lunch, although I frown to see that Alek isn't back in school yet. After Saturday, when they both heaved their guts up onto the sidewalk, the rest of us were all rushed off as quickly as Coach Wrathbone could get rid of us. But Newkirk and I hung around for a while–or, at least, I did, because Newkirk hasn't much of a stomach around that sort of thing.

Neither of them had much to say aside from the occasional moan, but just from their body language I could tell it upset Alek more than it did Robert. Which makes sense, I suppose; Alek is from somewhere all proper, where I'm sure they hardly ever get sick. And that also explains why he isn't back in school yet, even though he's been gone four days.

Robert is sitting next to me, looking entirely back to normal, if not a little more reluctant to shovel down his food than usual. "That was the worst bout of food poisoning I've ever had," he says, picking at the bun on his chicken sandwich. "I couldn't eat anything solid until yesterday. And I now officially hate pudding."

"And I now know what I'm getting you for your birthday," announces Newkirk.

Next to me, Matt grins. "What's that kind that has the little chewy bits in it?"

"Tapioca," I offer, and we all laugh at the way Fitzroy blanches.

"It's good to have you back, man," Newkirk says, and pats his friend on the back. "Especially because that means I don't have to work for you tonight–it'll be the first night I've had off all week."

Robert groans. "I totally forgot. Deryn, you're working with me tonight, aren't you?"

I nod.

"That's not so bad, then. I was afraid I'd have to work with Wilson tonight; that boy is right awful to be around when we aren't busy. Never stops talking about his dog or his girlfriend."

"Public school kids," Newkirk scoffs, shaking his head. "The only ones who talk about their dogs as much as their girlfriends. How fortunate we are to have escaped them."

"Sod off, Newkirk," I scold, "We aren't so bad; I was one last year."

He breaks into a broad grin. "Case and point."

Matt frowns. "Don't you mean until you transferred? You were at your old school half this year."

I clear my throat, looking down at my hands as my face heats. "Aye, that's what I meant," I amend, feeling stupid. None of them know about the car wreck, and I intend to keep it that way. "Have any of you heard anything from Alek?" I ask, changing the subject.

They shake their heads. "Not since Saturday," Fitzroy explains. "His uncles picked him up a few minutes before my mum came for me, and he looked more terrified of them than he did about leaving his dinner on the lawn."

"He's dead," Newkirk jokes. "The Zeppelins put out a hit on him after we took their qualifying spot. It's sad, really. I was beginning to like that boy."

Robert lowers his eyebrows at Newkirk and promptly punches his arm, hard. "Don't joke about that. I honestly thought I was going to die for a few hours that night. Worst. Food poisoning. Ever."

"So it was the sandwich that did it?" I ask.

"More than likely. It was the only thing both he and I ate that no one else did. And, looking back on it, it did taste a bit odd." He grimaces. "I suppose I should have taken a closer look at it before eating it."

"That is so nasty," Matt adds, tugging at the cuffs on his navy blazer. "But it's good that you're feeling better now. Will you be able to fence on Saturday, do you think?" he asks, just as the bell rings.

Fitzroy nods as he stands up, gathering his things. "Probably. And we'll need to use the alternate if Alek isn't back by tomorrow, anyway."

"If I serve you coffee, you're coming to school tomorrow," I inform the boy standing at the counter.

Alek huffs out a breath and runs a hand over his head. "I told you, it isn't my decision, Deryn. Cou–my uncle insists that I cannot return to school until Monday. He doesn't even know I am here!"

I raise one eyebrow. "Then no caffeine for you." I give him my best sorry-but-I'm-not-sorry smile and set myself to the task of pointedly ignoring him, which to my entertainment seems to bother him quite a bit.

"I am very sorry, Deryn. Good luck to you, though. I know you'll do well." When I say nothing, he sighs. "Are you responsible for the chalkboard, Deryn? It looks splendid," he adds, trying to pull a response out of me by changing the subject. I can't help but smile.

The back door groans open, announcing Fitzroy's arrival with a box of cream. He seems to be struggling under the weight of three cubic feet of French Vanilla.

"Ah, Robert. How nice to see you." Alek turns his attention to Fitzroy as he sits down on one of the armchairs, accepting his unfortunate lack of coffee. "You're feeling better, I assume."

He nods, and grunts as he hefts the box onto the ledge of the counter. "Aye. I even went to school today. You'll be back tomorrow, right? If you aren't, you can't fence on Saturday."

A breath hisses out between Alek's teeth, and he looks away from Robert quickly. "I am aware of that. But I will not be returning until Monday."

There is a short silence as Robert fills the cream dispenser to the brim and refastens the lid. He turns on Alek with a frown. "Why not?"

Again, silence. Alek is biting his lip, obviously thinking his answer over. "I–it's difficult to explain. There are many things I cannot tell you." As he adds this last bit, a squick of fear shows on his face before he forces it back.

I narrow my eyes, stomach hardening. That was the look of someone who's been hurt. Deliberately, I take a paper cup off the stack under the cash register, and fill it with coffee. I bring it out from behind the counter and place it directly in Alek's hands. His eyes meet mine, puzzled.

Shrugging, I say, "I'm not actually allowed to refuse drinks to customers, so this is on the house. Enjoy."

His dark red eyebrows lower, and his eyes dart between me and the cup in his hands before he takes a sip. "Thank you."

I bite my lip. "So what can you tell us?"

"Not much." He breathes in slowly, looking down at the green sweater he's wearing, which I'm certain would make his eyes captivating if it weren't faded and so obviously second-hand. He looks so different now from when I first met him, the day I started work here at Rigby's. He came in with freshly pressed trousers and a blazer that looked like it came straight off the designer-store shelves that day, just over a month ago. I can't help but wonder what exactly happened.

"Say what you can." Robert joins us, having collapsed the box that held the creamer and tossed it behind the counter. Confusion shows clearly in his frown. Worry, too.

Alek looks between Fitzroy and me, so many emotions playing across his face it looks like one of those old silent films where everything is exaggerated and moves just a little too fast. Several times, he opens his mouth to speak, but then stops. "I can't," he says, face ashen.

Frustration rises in my throat. "Alek. Is someone abusing you?" I ask seriously. It makes sense–the constant fear in his eyes, the way he hunches when he sits even though he looks like the kind of person who would be sitting straight, how reluctant he is to share anything about himself.

He blinks. "What?"

"Are you being abused? Is some hitting you, putting you down, touching you–whatever! Is someone abusing you?" It feels profoundly awkward to ask, but I'd never forgive myself if he needed help and I didn't offer because it felt stupid.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," he assures me, a mix between relief–which makes no sense–and awe–which makes even less sense.

But Fitzroy isn't convinced. "Alek, really, if some–"

"It really isn't," Alek insists. "I'll tell the two of you something, but you have to promise that you never tell anyone else, and not ask me to say any more than what I am going to tell you."

Robert and I nod, because it would seem wrong to interrupt the relative silence of the shop.

He spreads his hands, searching for how to best word what he is going to say. "I'm in a witness protection program, of sorts. And it is a matter of life and death that I remain undiscovered." He looks each of us in the eye, clearly terrified that he is telling us this secret. "But I cannot say anymore, and we must never speak of this again. No one can know you know this. Please."

"Okay," I agree. "We swear not to."

"That's right," adds Robert.

Alek wants to tell us something else. It's written all over his face that he isn't finished. And I want to know more–what did he see that is so dangerous? Is his life really at stake? How much of what we know about him isn't real?–but I won't ask. I swore I wouldn't.

His mouth is open and the first bit of a word has come out when the bell on the door rings angrily, the way it does when someone slams it open. Robert and I both jump, realizing we should be at the counter.

As Alek turns to face the door, he goes pale and freezes as solid as ice.

Walking through the door is a man, tall and well built with gray hairs showing through in his dark brown mustache and carefully styled hair. His nose, large and hawk-like, is pointed straight at Alek. With the way Alek flinches under his cool glare, I'd almost expect him to have entered as hot as hellfire and screaming like a banshee. But instead, he is quiet aside from the clicking of his shoes across the floor toward us.

"Come with me, Ryan," he commands.

The boy's eyes are as wide as saucers. "Volger, I–"

"Come with me. You know you are grounded." The voice is stern, unflinching.

Not looking at us, Alek stands, mumbling an insincere "yes, sir" as follows the man obediently. Robert and I exchange a worried glance as they exit, and the moment the door closes behind them the man leans in and begins a whispered argument with Alek, all the while holding his arm in a vice-like grip. We watch them in stunned silence through the storefront windows until they disappear around the corner.

Robert swallows. "He wouldn't have gone with him if..."

"No. No, he wouldn't."

"So was that his handler–"

"We're not supposed to talk about this, Robert."

"Right. I'll go get some more cream, then."

"Good idea."

And so we act like it never happened.

I'm starting to really like fencing.

And I mean really like it.

Even after the meet has wrapped up, excitement still gives me a pleasant buzz, and I can't help but grin at the fact that I made it to the quarter finals. It may not have been a qualifying meet–so it didn't really matter how well any of us did–but that doesn't affect how proud I am. With a foil in my hand, I feel invincible.

I'll admit, the day lacked a sense of completeness without Alek there. Newkirk was in fine form, though, cracking jokes in any attempt to make his sort-of-girlfriend laugh–I'm not sure even they know exactly where their relationship stands–and Fitzroy even made an attempt to be more social than usual. He and Rachel's brother, Nathan, seem to be good friends now. And no one has gotten food poisoning at this point, which is a plus.

So, because it's been a good day, all in all, and I have a spring in my step as Matt and I make our way to a local restaurant within walking distance from the school. It's just before nine, but neither of us have eaten dinner yet, and mom isn't expecting me home until past ten.

Matt's hand is warm in mine, more noticeable in the moments when the wind picks up and bites through my coat.

"I'm glad we can finally have dinner together," he muses. "It's been a while since our last date."

I shrug, and it pulls my hand out of his a little, breaking the warm held between them. "Unless you count last Saturday as one."

"I don't," he replies. "Too many people and too much vomiting."

A giggle rises in my throat, and I let my shoulder bump into his. "You said it. That reminds me–I talked to Ryan, and he'll be back on Monday."

"When did you see him?" Matt's voice lowers some, like a growl.

I glance down at the ground to avoid the look of suppressed agitation he wears. "He came in to Rigby's on Thursday, when I was working," I explain, and squeeze his hand to relieve the tension there.

"Shouldn't he have been well enough to come to school yesterday, then?"

My stomach tightens and I bite my lip. I shouldn't have brought Alek into this; what am I supposed to say now? "Um–he's got a bollixed immune system, I guess, and until he got full doctor's clearance wasn't allowed to be around so many people. It could have made him really sick or something," I lie, hoping Matt doesn't notice how much I'm rambling.

He frowns for a moment, but then shrugs it off. "Whatever. We didn't need him, anyway, and the varsity practice is good for Collins."

"He's the alternate, isn't he?"

"That's right." As we draw nearer to the restaurant–I can see the sign reflected in the puddles on the road–Matt slows his pace. We've been following a well-trafficked avenue, and just across a street dark enough it could be an alley the restaurant waits, warm and beckoning. Using our interlocked fingers to trail me behind him, Matt turns off onto the side-street.

I point, half-heartedly, in the direction we'd been headed. "I thought we were going to that one." My stomach rumbles, echoing my disappointment.

"We are, in a few minutes," he says, and something in his tone turns my hands into ice and fills them with needles. I barely feel it when he takes hold of my other hand, and nudges me back a few steps. My back meets the wall softly, just enough to let me know it's there. He is very, very close to me now, and I can smell the mint gum he was chewing earlier on his breath.

I push him back, and use my arms to keep a distance of almost two feet between us. "What are you doing?" I demand, as calmly as I can muster.

"I have to talk to you," replies Matt, leaning down so our faces are almost level.

Swallowing, I set my mouth into a hard line. "Talk, huh? I thought that was what people were supposed to do while they were eating dinner."

"No, no, no." He uses the weight of his body to lean in closer. My arms are getting sore from holding him back. "I don't want anyone else to hear this."

"Get off me." My voice is a growl, and it isn't a question.

He ignores me. "I want you to stay away from Ryan from now on."

Using all my strength and leverage, I force him away, and he stumbles back a few steps. "Why?"

"I don't like him being around you," he says, as if that explains it.

I'd wonder if he was drunk, alcohol clouding his thinking, but I know he isn't. His speech and his eyes are clear, and I've been with his since we left the stadium.

"That's not your decision to make," I inform him, almost ready to spit in my disgust.

"No, no, no," he repeats, as if scolding a five-year-old. "It is. You're my girl, so you do what I say. And I say, don't hang around Ryan anymore."

My lip curls in utter contempt. This side of Matt is new to me, and though I now know that I'm done with him, I'm not done with this conversation just yet. "Why do you have such a problem with Ryan, huh? Why not with Fitzroy or Newkirk?"

He tries to take a step toward me again, and I shove my hand out to keep him at bay. "Because Newkirk follows that Rachel girl around like a hopeless puppy."

"And Fitzroy?" I prod.

Matt scoffs, throwing up a dismissive hand. "He's gay. Harmless. But Ryan, he likes you." For emphasis, he jabs a finger in my direction. "He likes you too much, and I don't like that. So stay away from him." He says it so simply, like he's just asked what the Trig assignment is.

"I don't have to do what you say, bum-rag," I snarl. My hands, now hot with anger, clench and unclench slowly. Oddly enough, I think of my fencing matches today, and how strong I felt with a foil in my hand. I wish I had one now, so I could whack Matt repeatedly with the blunted tip.

He laughs, cold and mocking. The combination lighting from the moon and the street lamps reflects off his hair and his bright, blue eyes. It rests on top of his sharp cheekbones, casting dark shadows over the rest of his angular face. "But you do, Deryn. You need me, and I won't stay if you don't listen to me."

Now I do spit, right at his feet. It may have landed on his sneakers, but I'm beyond caring. "Then don't."

He blinks, clearly shocked.

"Don't stay. I don't need you!" I explode, flinging my arms in exasperation. I turn to stomp away, upset at how quickly everything has changed, when Matt's iron grip closes around my arm, tight enough to bruise.

"You don't understand," he hisses into my ear from behind me. "If I leave, it will destroy you. Without me you are nothing. No one would want you."

"Good. Because I don't want them, and I definitely do not want you–" to punctuate my statement, I jam my elbow right into his gut. He lets out a surprised umph and lets go of my arm, and I jump out of his grasp before he can regain his bearings. "This is over," I say menacingly. "I'm done with you."

He straightens most of the way, still curled slightly around his stomach, and as he opens his mouth to say something more, I pull my arm back and then thrust it forward with all my strength. My fisted hand impacts solidly with the spot where his perfectly sculpted nose meets his perfectly disgusting face.

I can't believe I haven't seen the monster hidden underneath his smile until now. No, I realize bitterly. I have. I just refused to admit it.

Reeling backward in shock, Matt hits the ground with a moan of pain. Hours of fencing practice have turned my arms into slender cords of muscle, so I must have hit him very, very hard. His nose may even be broken, and the thought almost makes me smile.

Almost.

Instead I pivot on one foot and take off, running as fast as I can away from him and my own stupidity, too upset to even remember how hungry I am.