The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves) by Claudie Arseneault Page B

still had to protect his eyes, however. That never changed.
    Leanna had been slinging her shots farther and farther away, forcing her brother to run to catch. He gave it back tenfold, and their little game escalated with every exchange, until she grinned at him. Even from a distance, he could see the challenge in her green eyes.
    “Let’s see if you get this one, Seraph!”
    With a little grunt, she flung the courtball stick in a wide arc. The ball flew out in a perfect curve, way above Seraphin’s head. He let out a curse and sprinted after it, squinting to keep track of its path, only to realize it would land on the other end of their neighbor’s roof. Seraphin smirked. It would roll down the sloped tiles, giving him a bit of extra time to position himself under it. If he could go a bit faster …
    Just as he tried to push himself, he noticed a form straightening up on the roof. Directly under the ball. He stared at a short and stocky teenager, with tawny skin and a slew of brown freckles. Her bright red jacket and baggy shirt half-concealed large breasts, and she wore neon blue bangles and jeans that could almost match the flashy color. The blue was also in the thick hairband holding a ponytail of frizzy hair. Amazed that anyone would dare wear such an outfit, Seraphin didn’t even think to call a warning. The ball smacked the back of her head, sending her tumbling. She landed on her hands and knees, but thankfully didn’t fall off the roof. The first words Seraphin ever heard from Alex were a string of curses, in a deep and angry voice.
    He couldn’t have known, skidding to a stop with a cringe, how much this meeting would change his life.
    Seraphin remained rooted to the spot. He tried to blame the warmth coursing up his body and prickling his fingers on the sun and exercise. It also accounted for his dry throat and sweaty palms, after all, but he knew better. Alex climbed to the top of the roof and stared down at him.
    “Hey, white boy, what was that for?”
    Seraphin’s cheeks flushed even deeper. How ugly would the red be? He touched them, hoping it wasn’t too bad, then realized he actually needed to answer Alex’s question.
    “I didn’t do it!” It wasn’t fair to blame Leanna, but she had slung that ball, and Seraphin pointed her way without hesitation. “She did.”
    Leanna had come running after him. She stopped with an offended pout. “Wow. Way to stick with your family. Has no one taught you about sibling solidarity? Our ancestors would be ashamed.”
    Seraphin’s fingers went to the red string wrapped a few times around his wrist. A gift from his father, per Regarian tradition. His ancestors’ spirits were housed in a braid made from the hair of an old and ugly-ass horse. They had worse things to be ashamed of than Seraphin’s little blame—or so he liked to think. The truth was, despite his father’s constant jokes about the horse’s appearance, the beast had been at his side for thirty years. It had broken a leg near the end of Seraphin’s mother’s pregnancy, and by using its hair to create the skeptar , Damian Holt had meant to honor the old friend he’d just put down. The red was the horse’s blood, and Damian had recited the short prayer to allow the ancestors to imbue the string with their spirits. Seraphin might jest about the old horse, but he knew the importance his skeptar held.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m sure they’d be even prouder if you accepted your actions, and owned up to your mistake.”
    She let out a small huff. “You just don’t want to be blamed.”
    “I don’t care who did it,” Alex interrupted. “It hurt like hell.”
    “What are you doing up there anyway?” Seraphin asked. “You’re not even from Iswood, and you’re already climbing on our roofs?”
    He’d had no idea who this other teenager was at the time, except that she couldn’t be from his hometown. Iswood didn’t even have a hundred citizens. Everyone knew everyone, and