Chapter 7: Saints and Snakes

Kyle Yates reels in his whip, electricity crackling before it fades. He glances at me, then at Hunter. "This is what you said—he jumped off the cliff?"

Quinn Winters leans on a tree, flicking dirt from under his nails with a knife. "Wow, our little vase wants to off himself. What’s next, a monologue? Should’ve brought popcorn."

Hunter, out of breath, glares at me—disbelief twisting into anger. "You playing me? You knew you’d be fine jumping, huh? Just wanted everyone’s attention?"

He grabs my collar, lifting me off the ground. I gasp, feet dangling, "I... didn’t... lie..."

Hunter’s grip tightens. "Still pretending?"

Quinn frowns. "Put him down, let Sam check him—so we’re not blaming the wrong guy."

Sam Logan bounces forward, blond hair catching the sickly light.

"Jason Reed is perfectly fine," he chirps, doll-faced and sweet. "I just used my skill—he’s healthy. Not poisoned."

He turns to Hunter, voice sticky-sweet: "Oh, Hunter, don’t be mad at him. He just gets scared sometimes. We all make mistakes, right?"

He closes his eyes, hands folded in a saintly pose. A white halo appears with a "ding"—like a kid’s Bible cartoon.

Hunter can’t stay mad. He dumps me on the ground and walks away.

I curl up, poison gnawing my chest—the real poison Sam’s fake healing can’t touch. But I smile, just a little. I look up at Sam Logan, voice low: "Funny, isn’t it? The one who lies best always gets to play the saint."