Matt Archer: Blade's Edge by Kendra C. Highley

knobs on the car stereo, wishing I didn’t sound so sappy. “You’re pretty awesome.”
    I groaned and covered my mouth. You’re pretty awesome? This was why I should never be allowed to talk to women. Never, ever again. Maybe the knife-spirit was onto something.
    Ella didn’t seem to mind the dumb stuff I said, though. Her wary expression melted into a shy smile. “I love you, too, Matt.”
    Maybe being a complete dork was finally paying off. I tried to keep the proud-as-hell smirk off my face, but it was a losing battle, so I put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. I didn’t dare do more than that—for now. But the knife and I were going to have a really long discussion about this later, especially since I could feel a tiny bit of indignation in the back of my head after I told Ella I loved her. The spirit’s reaction to all this reminded me of Tinkerbell glaring at Peter Pan when he flirted with Wendy. Luckily, though, Tink withdrew and gave me a little bit of space.
    I wondered how long that would last.
    A while after sunset, Ella and I watched the stars shine through the trees, talking about nothing much. I could tell she was trying to keep the conversation to lighter topics, like videos she’d seen of dogs snowboarding, or her older sister’s new boyfriend, or how her chem teacher had messed up the ingredients for an experiment, only to cause a reaction that singed off his eyebrows and cracked his desktop down the middle. I listened without feeling like I had to say anything. I was still tired after India and it was nice to let her words wash over me, until the conversation quieted for a moment.
    Then Ella whispered, “Matt, I have something for you. For your next mission.”
    She pulled a flat metal disk out of her pocket. I flipped on the dome light to get a better look; the silver disk was engraved with the picture of a man carrying a child across a river on his shoulders. “St. Christopher Protect Us” was engraved around the outside edge.
    “It’s a St. Christopher medal,” she said. “My grandpa gave it to me before I went to camp when I was eight. He said St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers.”
    “It’s cool,” I said.
    She pressed it into my hand. “I want you to have it. I think it can keep you safe.”
    “Oh, hey, no. I can’t take this.” I tried to give it back to her. “If your grandpa gave it to you—”
    She closed my fingers around the medal. It rested, cool, against my palm. “You’re a traveler and you need the grace more than I do.” Ella brushed a kiss against my hand. “Besides, he’s also the patron saint of archers.”
    Of archers…. “I didn’t know that.”
    “Well, now you do,” Ella said. “If you’re ever in a tight spot, maybe the medal will help you find a way to safety. Because I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
    I pulled her close. “I’ll keep it with me. I promise.”

Chapter Nine
    O n Sunday morning, the smell of homemade chicken stew, rich with sage, lured me toward the stove before I even bothered to get dressed. Based on the size of the stock pot, Mom must’ve thought she’d have enough for leftovers. Not a chance. I was hungry enough to knock down two-thirds of it right now. I looked over my shoulder. No one was in the kitchen…maybe I could try a little. For quality control.
    I’d gotten out a spoon and was hunched over the stove, sniffing at the stew like a starved wolf-pup when Mom appeared in the doorway to the mudroom. “Oh, no you don’t. It’s for dinner, not brunch.”
    My stomach disagreed, growling loudly enough to shake the windows. “Not sure I can make it that long.”
    “Well, we do have peanut butter,” Mom said, shaking her head.
    Even though Brent had gone off to college, the Archer “snack law” was alive and kicking. Peanut butter sandwiches between meals, nothing else. I wrinkled my nose. “Nah, I’ll make some eggs or something.”
    After brunch, I