by W. J. May
“The guy who attacked me had a bull’s-eye tatù on his arm,” Simon interrupted. He had yet to tell anyone that piece of information. He’d assumed everyone handling the investigation had already seen it when they disposed of the body. “He told me his ink was perfect aim. It’s how he shot me. It’s how he was even able to shoot Jacob…” He trailed off and returned his eyes to the road.
Tristan sat watching him carefully. When it was clear Simon wasn’t going to say anything else on the subject, Tristan cleared his throat softly. “Paul and Kate said they never got a good look at him. That he was too far away.”
Simon nodded wordlessly.
So Tristan tried again. “Simon. If it was the same guy, at least you know he’s dead now. He’s not going to be trying anything—”
“He’s dead! But the guy who sent him is still out there!”
A heavy silence blanketed the car.
“What do you mean,” Tristan’s face stiffened with attention, “the guy who sent him? What the hell are you talking about, Simon?”
Simon felt a pair of sharp eyes burning into the side of his face, and he bowed his shoulders with an exhausted sigh. “When I was lying there in the Oratory, the guy told me it wasn’t personal. That he was there at the request of someone else. Someone who wanted him to kill me and take Jacob.”
Tristan’s mouth fell open in shock. It took a lot to shock a guy living at a special school for kids with superpowers, but there it was. He tried to rein it in as best he could. “I’m guessing he didn’t say who?”
“He didn’t say who.”
“And the school doesn’t know who it was either? Jason doesn’t know?”
“Nope. They don’t have a clue.” As hard as Simon knew they were trying to find out, it was difficult to keep the bitterness from his voice. “And while they’re racing around trying to figure it out, he’s still out there. Planning out his next move. Just…waiting for me.”
The car grew quiet once again. Simon fixed his glare on the horizon and silently pummeled the gas pedal, while Tristan looked downright stricken. Then abruptly sad. Simon watched him from the corner of his eye, wishing he couldn’t read his friend’s expressions.
Tristan flashed Simon a sympathetic look. “That’s why you haven’t been able to let this go. Why you’ve been racing around trying to figure things out on your own.”
It wasn’t asked as a question, and Simon didn’t respond. He just tightened his knuckles on the steering wheel as they veered off the freeway onto the exit for school.
Tristan watched him for another second before nodding silently.
It was the last thing either one of them said as they snuck into the back parking lot to avoid being seen from the main campus. It was an hour after curfew, and the last thing Simon wanted was to get back on the headmaster’s or the dean’s bad side.
As they parked the car and climbed out into the darkness, Simon supposed they should come up with some kind of story—just to be sure they were on the same page. After all, Tristan was walking around with two giant handprints burned into his skin. Jason, at least, would be sure to notice those.
Or maybe not? Simon thought hopefully. Maybe if we just keep our heads down, we can keep this little trip to ourselves and avoid anyone at school being the wiser—
“A little late to be joyriding, is it not?”
Or maybe not.
Simon and Tristan whirled around in surprise as two men walked out of the shadows. And of all the men in the world to have caught them breaking curfew, there couldn’t be anyone worse.
Jason folded his arms across his chest and gave each of them a long, undecipherable look. Simon had been on the receiving end of that look many times, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. But it wasn’t Jason who had spoken. It was someone even worse.
“Well,” Royce Masters’ deep voice boomed out in the night, “does someone want to tell me what’s going on? Or would you like me to guess?”
* * *
Simon didn’t know if he had ever been more terrified in his entire life. Not when the bull’s-eye assassin had pointed the gun at his head. Not when Paul stood over him, hurling lightning bolts. Never. Being on the wrong side of an interrogation by Royce Masters topped it all.
And the fact that Jason was standing silently against the wall, glaring down at the floor, wasn’t really helping. He was clearly as irate as the headmaster, and bad things tended to happen when Jason got ticked.
“First of all, I’m assuming you both know why you’re here.”
Tristan and Simon bowed their heads simultaneously as the headmaster’s voice cracked over them like a whip. They were now seated on two chairs opposite Masters’ desk. Two chairs that were at least a foot closer to the floor. Not that they needed the reminder. Everyone in the room knew without a doubt who was in control.
“Yes, sir.” Both said it at the same time.
“I couldn’t hear you.”
A little louder, “Yes, sir.”
Masters’ eyes flashed dangerously as they swept over each boy in turn. He took his time, letting the silent panic settle over them like a fog, watching their breathing quicken and break. By Simon’s estimation, it was easy to see why the Council had turned to a man like him in their hour of desperation all those years ago. There was something unyielding about him. Something that radiated the sort of command that one couldn’t fail to both fear and obey. Simon would have done the same thing himself.
Despite their submissive reply, Masters chose to recap the situation anyway.
“Not only did you miss the day’s classes, but you left school grounds entirely and without permission. Returning over an hour after curfew.” His voice rose at the end.
Neither boy could speak. Once or twice, their eyes flickered up to Jason for help. But Jason remained indifferently quiet, returning the boys’ wordless pleas with a cold stare.
This is going to be bad.
There was a wooden creak as Masters got up from his chair and circled around to the boys, standing tall between them with his arms folded over his chest.
Oh shit—this is really going to be bad.
“Well…”
The word caught in the tension blanketing the stale air.
“Explain yourselves.”
Royce Masters. A man who could literally do just about anything. Topple armies. Break through walls. A statistical rarity where the myth and the man lined up side by side.
It was a fact Simon couldn’t push from his head as he sat there, sweating bullets.
“Mr. Kerrigan.”
Of course he targets me first. Feeling as though he was on the verge of a mild heart attack, Simon slowly lifted his eyes. “Y-Yes, sir?”
Masters stared down without blinking. “Are you somehow under the impression that the rules of my school are more like guidelines? To be followed according to your whim? Or that they don’t apply to you?”
Simon’s throat tightened dangerously, and he had trouble getting the words out. “…N-No, sir.”
“Are you under the impression that you will get some kind of leniency for breaking these rules, given your present situation? A situation, I might add, that you made outrageously more dangerous for yourself by leaving school grounds.” His eyes burned into Simon’s. “Did you somehow forget the conversation we had last about following said rules to the letter?”
The edges of the room began to darken as Simon found himself unable to look away. “N-no, sir.”
Masters folded his arms slowly across his chest. “Then explain yourself.”
Simon wanted to. He suddenly to spill his guts, come clean, and walk right out of this office never to think about this day again. He wanted to leave all the information he had gathered safely in the hands of this man—this man who had been sworn, as headmaster of the school, to protect him.
Except…Simon couldn’t do that.
Because no one had protected him.
And the more he learned, the more answers he got to
his questions, the more he thought that protection came at a terrible price.
His mouth opened as his mind spun with a dozen wild excuses. A dozen hastily-formed stories as to where he and Tristan were, and what they were doing.
Why the hell hadn’t they worked out something in the car? Had they really been so confident that they could slip back onto campus undetected?
Before he could settle on any one story, Masters shifted and turned to Tristan instead.
Between his afternoon drowning-resuscitation and now his evening interrogation with Masters, this had to top the list of Tristan’s all-time worst days. His face was white as a sheet, and although he was making a commendable effort to present a calm façade, he seemed completely unaware of the fact that his fingers were trembling.
Simon didn’t blame him. In fact, he half-expected Masters to rip off Tristan’s shirt and run the fingerprints burned into his skin through some kind of database. Expose them all.
“Mr. Wardell?”
A muscle clamped down in the back of Tristan’s jaw, and Simon thought he must have been clenching his teeth very hard together.
“You, of all people, ought to be aware of the rules of this school. I seem to remember you and I having a riveting conversation about them at the end of last year.”
A shudder ran through Tristan’s body, and he nodded his head slowly. Simon’s eyes darted between them as he wondered what the conversation had been about.
“I see from your file that, despite your occasional antics, you’ve had near perfect attendance since then. Is that right?”
Ten fingers clenched white over the armrests. “Yes, sir.”
“Then perhaps you’d like to explain this to me.” Masters leaned closer and Tristan stiffened reflexively in his chair. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me where you and Mr. Kerrigan went today.”
Well, that’s it then. Game over. There wasn’t a doubt in Simon’s mind that Tristan would be the one to break. He didn’t really have any reason not to. This wasn’t his investigation, his fight. And he had absolutely every reason in the world staring him in the face right now, telling him to give it up.
Except, as usual, his new friend proved to be full of surprises.
“It’s my dad.”
The room went still.
Tristan kept his face blank, and his eyes trained forward. “My mom called. I guess he’s been sick for a while. I was going to see him.”
Simon didn’t dare take a breath. Could this work? Could they possibly believe him?
“Your father?” It was clearly not the answer Masters had been expecting. “You’re telling me you went to visit your sick father?”
Tristan didn’t blink. “Yes, sir.”
Masters glanced quickly at Jason, who kept his eyes fixed on the floor with a slight frown.
“Your family has property in Esher, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir. East of the river.”
Simon couldn’t believe it. If the two of them hadn’t spent the day together, he might have believed the story himself. To be fair, he supposed Tristan had a lot of practice getting yelled at and threatened by his dad, but this was a whole other level of control. And the lies just kept coming.
“It was a long drive, and to be honest, I didn’t trust myself to make it. My head wasn’t in the best space after getting the call.” Tristan pulled in a steadying breath that may have been real, or may have just been to add to his story. “I told Simon and he volunteered—no, insisted—he come with me.”
Masters’ eyes flashed to Simon, who quickly bowed his head, nodding as if it was all true.
“Please, sir,” Tristan’s voice softened entreatingly, “don’t punish him on my account. I was determined to go either way. He was just looking out for me.”
Masters leaned back and looked noncommittal. After staring a virtual hole in Tristan, his eyes came to rest on Simon. “Is this true, Mr. Kerrigan? You spend the day in Esher?”
Simon kept his eyes on the ground, nodding respectfully. “Yes, sir.” He wondered where exactly Esher was.
Seemingly disappointingly satisfied, Masters turned back to Tristan. “Mr. Wardell, do you swear to me this is the truth?” His voice took on a slightly menacing tone. “Do I need to call for your friend, Andrew Carter?”
Simon frowned in confusion, but Tristan paled dramatically and shook his head. “It’s the truth. You have my word.”
The room was quiet for a second more, then Masters straightened up abruptly and circled back around to his desk. “In that case, you’re both excused. Mr. Wardell, come see me tomorrow after class so we can discuss the specifics of your punishment. Mr. Kerrigan,” his eyes landed sharply on Simon, who froze in place, “stay well. And out of trouble.”
There was a command in the words that struck him to the core. A warning, too. He nodded quickly as he and Tristan made their way out the door. Jason followed close on their heels. They were almost out, when Masters called again.
“And Mr. Wardell?”
Tristan’s shoulders stiffened as he glanced back around. Simon cast a nervous look at his shirt, half-expecting to see blood leaking through. But at this point, what could they do?
“Yes, sir?”
Masters was quiet for a moment, staring at both of them, before he settled into his chair. “I’m sorry about your father.”
The three of them were out the door the next second, hurrying out into the cold night air before anything else could go wrong.
Simon had no idea how they had just walked out of that office unscathed. No idea at all. He shot a sideways glance at Tristan, completely baffled as to why he would help, but before he could get any answers a cool chill ran up his spine as he registered the third member of their party.
He and Tristan had only received one reprimand for their wayward little trip. The other one was still coming.
When they were halfway across the grass, they stopped as one and turned to Jason. The man still hadn’t said a word since they walked into the office, and he was in no rush to speak now. He simply stared them down with a terrifying, all-knowing expression.
“So your dad, huh?” His eyes were hard as flint. “That must have been an interesting trip, given that the two of you aren’t speaking.”
Tristan blushed and looked at the ground, while Simon tensed up beside him. Of course Jason would know about Tristan’s home life. The two of them had been training for almost a year.
“Jason,” Tristan began softly, “it wasn’t like—”
“Get out of my sight,” Jason snapped. “Both of you.”
After a moment’s pause, Tristan turned on his heel and paced off into the night. He kept his head down and didn’t look to see who might be following.
Simon stared after him for a moment before turning to Jason. He couldn’t leave so easily, even if it was a command. Jason was one of the only people here on his side. He was owed some kind of explanation, and Simon wanted to give him that. Surely they could smooth things over.
But before he could say a word, Jason held up a hand.
“My job? My life, Kerrigan?” His eyes locked onto Simon’s with burning intensity. “You’re making it infinitely harder than it has to be.”
Then he left.
Left Simon standing in the middle of the grass. Left him feeling like someone had punched a hole straight through his gut.
It was a full minute before he could gather his wits up enough to leave. One foot trudged wearily after the other as he made his way slowly back to Joist Hall. The last thing he wanted was to get caught out of bed by some other member of the staff and have to explain himself all over again.
No, this day has to end. And as quickly as possible.
He leapt up the stairs three at a time, making his way back to his dorm.
Before anything else can go wrong—
“Hello, Simon.”
Simon fell back against his door with a gasp of shock. His eyes widened impossibly as he gazed at the girl sitting in fron
t of him. Curled up on his bed as if she’d been there all along. As she pushed slowly to her feet, he discreetly pinched himself just to make sure it was real.
Sure enough, there she was. Looking exactly as beautiful as he remembered.
“Beth?”
Chapter 8
A blur of raven hair swirled in the air, then she was in his arms.
Beth may not have had a tatù like the rest of them, but she was one of the few people who, in Simon’s opinion, would never need one. She never had any trouble getting exactly what she wanted, going exactly where she wanted to go. Perfect example: she had somehow managed to break into a secret school of superheroes.
What was more…she was smiling. For him!
“Not exactly the reaction I was looking for, Simon Kerrigan,” she grinned up at him, “but I’ll take what I can get.”
It was true. Simon had yet to even embrace her in return. He had frozen in a state of complete surprise, arms raised slightly away from his body as he stared down at the top of her head. “I’m…I’m sorry.”
The arms lowered slowly down around her, moving tentatively, as if making sure she was actually real. When his body was convinced, his mind followed. He squeezed her as tightly as he could, as tightly as he ever had, not daring to let her go lest she disappear once again. It wasn’t until she squirmed slightly against his chest that he realized he’d accidently slipped into Jason’s tatù. “Shit—sorry!” He dropped his arms quickly, running his hands back through his hair. Great, less than a minute inside, and he’d already almost squeezed to death the girl of his dreams.
But Beth was only grinning.
In fact, she couldn’t seem to stop. Before Simon knew what was happening, she stretched up onto her toes and planted a swift kiss right on his lips. As quick as his reflexes were supposed to be, he was still blinking in shock when she pulled back.
“Don’t apologize; that was exactly the welcome I was hoping for. But geez, Simon,” her fingers lingered on the tops of his arms, “have you been working out or something?”
Simon’s mind flashed to him racing around the Oratory at lightning speeds while Jason threw ancient Persian spears at him. Working out. Yeah, that was one way of putting it. “What about you?” he deflected. “What are you doing here, Beth?”