The Master of Misrule by Laura Powell

been deliberately quiet, for Blaine had not heard the front door close and Arthur hadn’t switched on the light in the hallway.
    “What’s this?” Blaine demanded, holding out the book and the card.
    “Nothing that concerns you.”
    “It does if it’s some kind of Satanist crap. Are you dragging my mum into a cult, along with everything else?”
    “You have no right to be in here. Give me that card.”
    “Not till you tell me what it’s about.” Blaine was almost sixteen now; for the first time, he realized he was bigger and stronger than his stepfather.
    Arthur smiled contemptuously. “You couldn’t possibly begin to understand. This is your last warning.
Give it up
.”
    And he took out a knife.
    Instantly, everything was catapulted out of place. Arthur’s blade was long and serrated, and Blaine recognized it from the kitchen drawer, but it was nonetheless absurd, a theatrical prop.
    “What the hell are you doing?” he managed to ask.
    “Protecting my home.” Arthur’s tone was as quiet and reasonable as ever, though there was sweat on his brow.
    “It’s my home, too. Jesus—you’re deranged. You—”
    But Arthur was advancing across the room, with the knife held before him. “Give me the card.”
    Blaine swore, and grasped it tighter.
    Then Arthur slashed at his bare arm, the one that was holding the book and card against his chest. Blood ran, shockingly warm and bright, all along Blaine’s arm and into his hand, so that his fingers were slippery with it. He heard the thump as the book hit the floor.
    The next moment Arthur was on him, clutching for the card, clammy and panting. Blaine threw his weight against Arthur, slamming him into the wall, and made for the door.
    Before he could reach it, Arthur lunged at him again, slashing with the knife. Blaine tripped over himself and stumbled to the floor, but he grabbed at Arthur’s legs and brought him crashing down with him. The knife fell, too, was scrabbled for by Arthur, snatched away by Blaine and, between the two of them, kicked across the room. Blaine hardly knew why he was so desperate not to give the card up, but as Arthur clawed savagely at his hand, he forgot about trying to regain the knife or making his escape. Keeping the card from Arthur became all that mattered.
    There was a slow ripping sound. Arthur gave a strangled cry. He had the card, but Blaine had torn off the top left corner. This time, it was Arthur’s body that slackened in shock.
    Blaine saw that he had the advantage now. Hot with hate, he drove his fist into Arthur’s face, and when the prissy mouth gave a grunt of pain, a flash of joy sparked through him. As Arthur flailed and writhed beneath him, Blaine gripped him by his hair and smashed his head against the side of the filing cabinet.
    Something plucked at his shirt. He twitched his shoulders impatiently. Then he heard his name.
    Helen was standing over them, white-faced and making hiccupping little screams. Blaine found he couldn’t speak. He and Arthur were both spattered in blood—Blaine’s blood, mostly—and he knew his face was still suffused with the violence he’d inflicted.
    He got up and released Arthur; there was nothing else he could do. For a few moments Arthur lay where he was,groaning, before he dragged himself up by the corner of the desk, and stayed huddled there in a defensive crouch.
    “You see now, don’t you, Helen?” he choked out. “You see what your son has done to me.”
    Helen had her hands crammed against her mouth. A low moan forced its way through them.
    “Yes,” said Arthur. He dabbed at the blood on his face, and when he spoke again, his voice was cracked but calm. “He broke into my room. He lay in wait for me with that knife. You saw him attack me with your own eyes. He is a monster, Helen.”
    Blaine swayed on his feet. He looked at Helen to try and get past the glaze of sleep and pills and horror in her eyes. “Mum,” he said. “Please …”
    But Helen shrank from