“Shut up. Also, why is it that prophecies are always so vague and mystical? I mean, would it kill you to be able to say, “Oh, the bad guys are coming on this day at this place and they’re going to do this thing? ‘Night of the Swans,’ honestly . . .”

A ghost of a smile flittered across David’s face. “I’ll try to make things more specific the next time I have terrifying visions of the future, Pres.”

I caught myself smiling back before returning my attention to the notebook. “But now we know what this test you have to face is. She’s going to try the spell on you. So all I have to do is keep that from happening.”

David nodded, but he didn’t seem any happier. “Unless she kills you first.”

I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat. The cold sweat was back, too. You know, if the universe is going to give you superstrength and superspeed and fighting skills you never had, it should also give you some kind of anti-fear power.

“Saylor has wards up all around town to protect you, right? Well, we’ll see if she can whip up some for me, too.” My voice was light as I said it, but the hand holding the pen shook a little, and David was still frowning.

“You’re serious,” he said after a moment. “You really want to do this. Be my Paladin. Fight the forces of evil during your Cotillion.”

I laid the pen on the notebook and met his eyes. “It’s the only choice. These people want me out of the way—”

“Dead,” David interjected, and I scowled at him.

“Yes, dead.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”

“Because I want you to get it,” he snapped back, his hands squeezing the steering wheel. “Because the idea of someone—anyone—dying for me makes me feel sick, and the thought of you dying for me is . . .”

Breaking off, he squeezed the steering wheel again, fingers flexing almost convulsively. “Pres, this is real. It’s real, and it’s scary, and it’s so messed up, I don’t even know where to start. You could die. I could die. People are actively trying to hurt us. And I feel like we both need to . . . acknowledge that. Use words like ‘dead’ instead of cutesy euphemisms.”

Cold sweat was still prickling all over my body. Outside the car, on one of the benches, a harried young mom in jeans and a black turtleneck called out something to her kid, probably “Be careful!” My own mom had sat on that same bench, saying the same thing to me.