Page 89 of Sweet Nightmare

But Jude barely seems to notice—his struggle or his words. He just keeps squeezing, even as Jean-Luc’s knees buckle and he hits the ground, hard.

“Come on, man. That’s enough. Fucking let him go.” Jean-Jacques steps forward.

When Jude doesn’t even bother to look at him, Jean-Jacques throws himself at him, fists raised. At the same time, Jean-Claude and Jean-Paul move in from the sides and try to grab him.

But none of them lands so much as a finger on Jude.

Simon grabs Jean-Jacques and sends him spinning across the room.

Mozart lands a very solid kick to Jean-Claude’s balls.

And I stick a foot out just far enough to trip Jean-Paul and send him flying. I don’t mean for him to end up careening into Remy, but when the time wizard lays him out with a well-placed elbow to the throat, I can’t say that I’m particularly sorry, either.

The Jean-Jerks spring up—way angrier than they were to begin with. Not that that’s exactly a surprise.

They’ve spent their whole lives getting everything they want. They capitalize on their reputations, their money, their power, and the fear that comes with it. They do whatever they want. And when someone tells them “no,” which doesn’t happen very often, they use whatever means necessary to turn that “no” into a “yes.”

Which is why I’ve had more than a few fists to my face and other body parts over the last three years…but it’s better than just lying down and letting them walk all over me.

“We’re not leaving here without that tapestry,” Jean-Luc snarls. And this time, when he takes a swing, he’s now wearing brass knuckles on both his hands.

Jude dodges the first punch, but it turns out he wasn’t Jean-Luc’s real target. Instead, he whirls around at the last second and throws a second punch straight at me.

I stumble back in an effort to dodge, but I know I’m not fast enough. There’s no way I’ll actually avoid the hit.

But then Jude moves faster than I ever imagined he could, sliding in front of me at the last second and blocking me with his body. Jean-Luc’s fist connects solidly with Jude’s ribs.

And I swear I hear a bone crack.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

PARTY-ING IS SUCH

SWEET SORROW

Jude doesn’t move. In fact, I’m not sure he even breathes. Though, to be fair, I don’t think anyone else does, either. Even Jean-Luc, who seems as shocked as the rest of us that he actually managed to connect with Jude.

“What the—” Mozart starts, then freezes as Ms. Aguilar’s familiar trill suddenly fills the air around us.

“Yoo-hoo, Ember and Mozart! You really shouldn’t have your front door open in the middle of this storm.” A chartreuse umbrella pops through the open front door, followed closely by my English teacher in a matching coat.

“The rain will dama—” She breaks off mid-word, her bright-blue eyes going wide as she looks from Jude to Jean-Luc to me to Jean-Claude to Ember. “Oh my! What exactly is going on in here?”

“They were just leaving, Ms. Aguilar,” Mozart starts.

“Who particularly are you referring to?” she asks.

Jean-Claude gives his friends a cocky I’ve-got-this smile as he shakes out his hair and turns around to—I have no doubt—harass Ms. Aguilar yet again. Only this time she’s not all alone in front of her classroom. Because Mr. Danson, anger management instructor and hard-ass extraordinaire, walks in the door right behind her. And he looks as annoyed as she does bewildered.

“You want to tell me what the hell’s going on in here?” he barks as he, too, looks us over one by one.

“We were just—” Mozart starts, but he cuts her off.

“Having a storm party,” he fills in, his gruff, deep minotaur voice filling the room even though he hasn’t raised it at all. “Despite the fact that all of you are supposed to be in your rooms right now.”

“Technically, I’m—” Ember starts.

“Don’t push it, Collins. This may be your room, but that’s not exactly to your benefit right now.” He turns his eyes to the Jean-Jerks, two of whom are slowly sidling toward the corner where I dumped the tapestry earlier.

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