blood away. It was still muffled a bit, but I could make out Dad's words.
"Just give it up," the boy said, sidestepping to dodge another gust of wind. "You couldn't keep her forever. You must have known that."
Dad paused, off guard, and the boy took the opportunity to strike back. He moved swiftly and struck at Dad in the stomach and sides, dozens of punches performed in a blur of precision. Dad fell to one knee, but continued to punch wind in desperation.
I wanted to help, but I wasn't sure how. All I knew was that I had to save Dad.
Then I remembered my blade. It lay in a puddle of water next to Pyke's ice slick. I kicked open the car door with a rusty creak and dashed toward it. I stumbled a bit, not completely on balance yet, but managed to reach the other side of the yard and grip the handle and pull it from the water.
Dad was beaten and bloody in the face as the boy circled him, like a predator stalking prey. I trod carefully, keeping low, until I was just behind him. Perhaps if I'd had time to think about the situation I would have contemplated the act of stabbing someone, killing them, but sometimes you just have to let instinct kick in and deal with your emotions later.
The boy knocked Dad in the jaw and he fell backwards in the mud. I knew then it was time to strike. I lunged at the boy, taking him by surprise with a tackle.
"Kyra!" Dad shouted, but the boy and I were already flying through the air, sliding through the mud like it was just some football game and I was stopping the touchdown. The force of my tackle sent us skidding across the yard at extreme speed and I gripped onto the boy's shirt for security. Funnily, I felt his arms on my shoulders too, holding me close.
We finally slowed to a stop. I opened my eyes to see the boy staring down at me. His face was like an angel, perfect pale skin and golden eyes.
My golden eyes.
I was taken aback. I'd never met anyone with golden eyes before. How could this boy have the same unique eye colour as me?
"Are you alright?" he asked.
I couldn't speak, couldn't move. Was I alright? Why would he care? Why do you have my eyes?
I glanced away from his face and then I saw what I'd done. My knife was lodged in the boy's torso, my hand still on the blade.
Was I alright? You've got a knife in your stomach!
I glanced back to his angelic face. He didn't even seem to feel it; there was no reaction. He only stared at me with concern. I pulled the blade out again, but even though it was nearly as long as my forearm, his wound was barely more than a tiny cut.
"What …" I breathed, dropping the blade.
The boy's eyes never wavered from my face. He reached up and pulled a lump of mud and leaves from my hair.
I stabbed you. I stabbed you and you're acting like nothing happened.
My mind was reeling, and yet I couldn't tear my eyes away from his face. He was barely distinguishable, mud and water streaked across his face like war paint. His body was warm, despite being soaked with rain, and his arms felt safe around me.
Dad's screams filled the air.
"Dad!" My head whipped up.
He was on his knees, Pyke standing over him with an ice spike in his hand. Dad was bleeding, small stab wounds in his chest, and his face was a bloody mess. While I was here staring at that boy, Dad was being beaten up by Pyke.
I pushed the boy away, avoiding looking at him, and squirmed through the mud in an attempt to stand.
"Dad!" I screamed again, as if hearing my voice would be enough for him to take action once more, but I could see it in the way he looked at Pyke. He was defeated.
"You deserve to die after what you've done," Pyke said.
"I'm sorry." I saw Dad mouth like he couldn't speak, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth.
I raked my fingers through the mud. I had to get to him. I had to save Dad.
Pyke held Dad by the throat, an ice spike in his other hand. The point of the icicle just skimmed Dad's neck.
"No!" I screamed, finding my footing and running toward Pyke.
Pyke's
"Just give it up," the boy said, sidestepping to dodge another gust of wind. "You couldn't keep her forever. You must have known that."
Dad paused, off guard, and the boy took the opportunity to strike back. He moved swiftly and struck at Dad in the stomach and sides, dozens of punches performed in a blur of precision. Dad fell to one knee, but continued to punch wind in desperation.
I wanted to help, but I wasn't sure how. All I knew was that I had to save Dad.
Then I remembered my blade. It lay in a puddle of water next to Pyke's ice slick. I kicked open the car door with a rusty creak and dashed toward it. I stumbled a bit, not completely on balance yet, but managed to reach the other side of the yard and grip the handle and pull it from the water.
Dad was beaten and bloody in the face as the boy circled him, like a predator stalking prey. I trod carefully, keeping low, until I was just behind him. Perhaps if I'd had time to think about the situation I would have contemplated the act of stabbing someone, killing them, but sometimes you just have to let instinct kick in and deal with your emotions later.
The boy knocked Dad in the jaw and he fell backwards in the mud. I knew then it was time to strike. I lunged at the boy, taking him by surprise with a tackle.
"Kyra!" Dad shouted, but the boy and I were already flying through the air, sliding through the mud like it was just some football game and I was stopping the touchdown. The force of my tackle sent us skidding across the yard at extreme speed and I gripped onto the boy's shirt for security. Funnily, I felt his arms on my shoulders too, holding me close.
We finally slowed to a stop. I opened my eyes to see the boy staring down at me. His face was like an angel, perfect pale skin and golden eyes.
My golden eyes.
I was taken aback. I'd never met anyone with golden eyes before. How could this boy have the same unique eye colour as me?
"Are you alright?" he asked.
I couldn't speak, couldn't move. Was I alright? Why would he care? Why do you have my eyes?
I glanced away from his face and then I saw what I'd done. My knife was lodged in the boy's torso, my hand still on the blade.
Was I alright? You've got a knife in your stomach!
I glanced back to his angelic face. He didn't even seem to feel it; there was no reaction. He only stared at me with concern. I pulled the blade out again, but even though it was nearly as long as my forearm, his wound was barely more than a tiny cut.
"What …" I breathed, dropping the blade.
The boy's eyes never wavered from my face. He reached up and pulled a lump of mud and leaves from my hair.
I stabbed you. I stabbed you and you're acting like nothing happened.
My mind was reeling, and yet I couldn't tear my eyes away from his face. He was barely distinguishable, mud and water streaked across his face like war paint. His body was warm, despite being soaked with rain, and his arms felt safe around me.
Dad's screams filled the air.
"Dad!" My head whipped up.
He was on his knees, Pyke standing over him with an ice spike in his hand. Dad was bleeding, small stab wounds in his chest, and his face was a bloody mess. While I was here staring at that boy, Dad was being beaten up by Pyke.
I pushed the boy away, avoiding looking at him, and squirmed through the mud in an attempt to stand.
"Dad!" I screamed again, as if hearing my voice would be enough for him to take action once more, but I could see it in the way he looked at Pyke. He was defeated.
"You deserve to die after what you've done," Pyke said.
"I'm sorry." I saw Dad mouth like he couldn't speak, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth.
I raked my fingers through the mud. I had to get to him. I had to save Dad.
Pyke held Dad by the throat, an ice spike in his other hand. The point of the icicle just skimmed Dad's neck.
"No!" I screamed, finding my footing and running toward Pyke.
Pyke's
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