I took a long swallow of punch, and felt the burn. My eyes widened as I saw Kinzie’s fourth cup nearly gone. I grabbed it away from her.
“What?” she asked, already looking a little confused.
“It’s spiked. You can’t feel it?” I asked, thinking her throat should be on fire. “About half Everclear.”
“Huh. It does feel a little funny,” she said. The understatement had to be a lie. The stuff burned like battery acid, but she really seemed oblivious to it. She stared at something across the room. I followed her eyes to find Rex Brolie smirking from his post by the punch table. My biceps tensed, but in a heartbeat, Kinzie was out of her chair, blasting through the crowd toward him. I rose to get there first.
As Kinzie knocked through a cluster of partiers in the middle of the tent, a wiry guy intercepted her, wrapping his tentacles around her and smothering her with his mouth. What the hell? She struggled to free herself for a moment, but seemed to give up as I wrenched the guy off of her. I cocked my fist, blasting it forward to land squarely on his jaw. He fell back, splaying across the ground to the jeers and hooting of the crowd.
Kinzie stood looking stunned, weaving unsteadily on her high heels as the guy rose. I put my arm around her ribs to steady her as the guy stepped forward, mumbling. “Sorry, Kinzie. I … I don’t know why … I’ll … I’ll leave you alone.” He shuffled into the crowd like a whimpering puppy.
“You know him?” I asked.
She nodded, turning her head to look at me like she was having trouble figuring out how to move. “Kip McPherson.”
“That’s the Terrier?” I asked in surprise, taking a better look at his receding figure. Now, I understood what had just happened. Kinzie stopped fighting when she realized who it was. I almost felt bad for punching him. Almost. But you don’t do that to a girl. And my guess was they were both too drunk to think it through or remember it later.
“What just happened?” Kinzie asked. “Why was I … why did Kip …?” Shock spread across her face. “That bastard,” she blasted inexplicably. She pivoted out of my arms, nearly falling on her shoes.
“You think that’s funny, don’t you?” she yelled, storming toward Brolie. “You made Kip do that.” She pushed his shoulder like a street thug, apparently too drunk to have any idea what she was saying. I charged forward to protect her, when someone grabbed my shoulders from behind. I looked back to find a huge guy restraining me and a wide-eyed Sasha Reynolds beside him. Damn it. Why where they interfering?
“Leave them alone,” Sasha whispered to me urgently.
I struggled against the linebacker as Brolie sneered back at Kinzie. “Didn’t you hear everyone laughing at you? It was damn funny. And your dickhead boyfriend made it that much funnier.”
Kinzie opened her mouth but the only sound that came out was a twisted grunt, as her hand swung forward to slap him. But the momentum threw her off balance, and she spun into Brolie’s arms. He squeezed her tightly into his body.
“You like it rough?” he snickered at her, and rage poured through me. I forced my way out of the gorilla’s grip, ripping Kinzie from Brolie’s arms. I reared back to slug him, but when Kinzie’s knees buckled, my target redirected and I scooped her up before she hit the floor. But Brolie wouldn’t quit. “She’s all over that freshman! Then me. Looks like you can’t satisfy a girl, Langston. She wants a real man,” he called behind me.
Every muscle in my body tensed. I needed to rip this guy apart, but a voice behind me quietly urged, “Keep walking, Greg.” It was Sasha. I felt her behind me along with her hulking date, staying between me and Brolie until we were out of the tent. My breath came in billowy clouds in the courtyard, as I set Kinzie down on her feet, keeping one arm around her. She leaned against it to support herself.
“It’s these stupid shoes,” she complained, as if that was the reason for her unsteadiness. She bent over and tried to pick up her foot, but nearly fell on her head in the process. I grabbed around her waist, holding her up as she stripped the shoes off her feet. Sasha collected the heels as they dropped to the ground.
“Take her, Sash,” I growled, offering my place as Kinzie’s support. “I’ve got some unfinished business.”
“No, Greg. You don’t want to take on Rex,” she responded stubbornly.
“Like hell, I don’t,” I said, setting Kinzie gently down on the ground. But when I stood up, I found the human wall blocking my way. “Get out of my way,” I demanded, but he moved with me as I tried to go around.
“Give it a rest, Greg,” Sasha said in a commanding tone I’d never heard from her.
“You saw what he did to Kinzie. That guy’s your friend?” I asked incredulously.
“Rex is okay,” Sasha said slowly. “He … he must be drunk.”
“Drunk doesn’t excuse it,” I said.
“No, but he’s drunk. Kinzie’s drunk. You’re probably drunk too. A fight won’t help.”
She gave me that same vacant look she’d use on me when we were dating – like she thought it was cute and would convince me of anything. “But I’m not drunk,” I corrected her.
“Maybe not, but your date definitely is,” she said, glancing at Kinzie behind me. The tiny, dark-haired girl had sprawled across the winter-dead grass on her stomach, bare feet swinging in the air and her head lolling to the side as she picked through a wilted patch of clover, like an innocent child who’d forgotten about everything that had just happened. But she couldn’t stay here, lying on the cold December ground. Sasha was right.
“Come on, Czarina,” I muttered, lifting her by the waist to set her on her feet. She staggered and threw her arms around my neck to stop from falling.
“When did you get so tall?” she asked curiously.
I looked down at her wondering face. “You don’t have your shoes on,” I reminded her.
“You’re an asshole, Greg,” a new voice slapped me from behind. All four of us turned, Kinzie still connected to my neck, and I found myself face to face with Jenna White. It was like the whole night had become some badly written sitcom with this scene as the climax. The only girl around who didn’t want me was hanging on my neck after I failed to defend her honor, while my girlfriend and ex-girlfriend looked on. I burst out laughing, and when the shock wore off, amazingly, Sasha joined me. The gorilla smiled and Kinzie giggled in my arms, although she probably had no idea why. The only person not amused was Jenna.
“So that’s your choice. Her instead of me,” she spat, nodding toward an inebriated Kinzie whose head was falling to the side.
I tried to look serious, but couldn’t hold it. Another laugh burbled out, and I nodded. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
The bobbed blonde was stunned as the words registered. “Fine,” she said, searching around for something more articulate to say. She didn’t find it. “Fine,” she spat louder, then spun on her heels and marched out.
Chapter 12
Kinzie
The dark night crowded in as I faced the lit stone front of the Rothston Institute – my home for the next four weeks. But I wasn’t as comfortable as I’d imagined I’d be. I wouldn’t see my dad for Christmas. With the daunting list of coursework Mel had emailed me, I couldn’t take enough time off to make a trip home to Indiana. I thought that would be okay. But now – facing the cold stone castle – it was going to be strange being here alone.
Alone. That was the strange part. Sure, Sasha would be here part of the time, but I wouldn’t see Greg. I hadn’t realized how much time we spent together until he dropped me at the airport, almost fretting about me heading off on what he thought was a winter internship. I knew I’d be fine, but I was going to miss him.
I told him Sasha would be here in a few days, but skipped over Rex. Anger still smoldered in Greg’s eyes when he talked about the Gala. He thought the entire night was a haze to me, but it wasn’t. I remembered the stand-off with Rex. I remembered the smirk on Rex’s face when he made me guzzle down the spiked punch. I remembered trying to slap Rex for toying
with Kip, and Rex grabbing me. Greg’s anger was justified, even if he didn’t know why. But I wondered how much of it was my fault. Had I influenced Greg to take me to the Gala? Or to show up and challenge Rex at precisely the right moment? Was it my juvenile fantasies that made him out to be a knight in shining armor, then influence his actions to comply? I didn’t know the answer, and that left me wondering whether our relationship was a healthy friendship or some kind of twisted, mind-controlling fantasy.
Brenda Thompson met me in the cavernous slate vestibule again, handing me papers as she led me down the hall. Cafeteria menus. The hours for the pool. Another map. The night-time movie schedule. Anything I might want to know about the Rothston complex. She finished her recitation of the packet’s information as we arrived at the same room I’d stayed in before, handed me a key and excused herself.
I fitted the key into the worn lock on the door and stepped inside. Nothing had changed. For four weeks, I would have a room grander than any hotel I’d seen on the Travel Channel. Four poster bed. Stone fireplace. And a tapestry on the wall – a drably-dressed woman leading a nobleman through the woods. It reminded me of the kind of tale my dad would tell me when I was little, and I found that comforting.
After changing into a t-shirt and shorts, I grabbed the remote control off the mantel, clicking it to ignite the fireplace. A blaze jumped to life, and I climbed onto the puffy down comforter on the bed, nestling in to watch the tongues of flame. My cell phone buzzed on the desk. I grabbed it to read the familiar nightly text: Goodnight Czarina. I tapped the keys: Goodnight.
A month here. Without my best friend. But at least I wasn’t forgotten.
ψ
I searched the names on the plaque next to each of the doors in the second floor hallway, wondering why the rooms weren’t given sequential numerals, like room 218, rather than somebody’s last name. Scheduling a meeting in the “Charrington Room” told me nothing. In fact, it had taken me five minutes just to find it on the map. It had to be this next one. I checked the raised brass letters on the sign beside the door, and peeked inside to see a middle-aged man with thinning hair tapping at a tablet.
“Mr. Jamison?” I asked, leaning through the doorway.
The man who looked up at me was in his mid-forties from the crinkles around his eyes. Older than I thought he was when I saw him across the bonfire in the fall, but in better shape as well. Worked out regularly, if I had to guess. His pale blue eyes twinkled up at me. “Hey, Kinzie! Please, come in. Have a seat.” His arm made a sweeping gesture, offering me any of the five leather chairs surrounding the burled wood table. “So happy to finally meet you!”
I stepped inside, feeling welcomed by the two figures in the portrait that hung in this room. Albert and Mathilda Charrington, it said at the bottom. Their kindly faces smiled down at me like proud grandparents, and Mr. Jamison’s face beamed, as if I was the highlight of his day.
“It’s nice to meet you too. I’m sorry, I’m late. You need an index for the map,” I told him.
He chuckled. “No worries. But you should have asked. Anyone at Rothston would be more than happy to help you find your way.”
I knew that, but the clump of middle school kids I’d passed had been celebrating the end of term, and I hadn’t wanted to inject myself into their revelry – nor admit I was lost.
“We need to make some decisions about your education and training while you are here,” Mr. Jamison informed me. “Students your age are more than a little unusual, so we must have the right people in place to get you up to speed.”
My cheeks flushed involuntarily, and my temples began to ache at the idea that I was behind – a slow learner because I hadn’t shown any adept skills until now. I knew that wasn’t what he meant, but it still felt that way. Why hadn’t anyone discovered I was adept earlier? I’d thought about that over and over, and Mel’s theory of lack of exposure didn’t seem right, although I had no other answer. But that wasn’t what Mr. Jamison wanted to talk about. I forced my brain to focus on the topic.
“Melvina Whitacre has already given me an assignment list,” I told him. “Isn’t she going to teach me?”
Mr. Jamison gave a friendly smile, exposing his straight, white teeth. Between the smile and the crinkle of his eyes, he reminded me of a movie-star. Like one of those former Hollywood heart-throbs now past his prime. After pausing a moment, his eyes swept over the portrait of the Charringtons as he responded. “Ms. Whitacre has requested to be your teacher for the classroom work. And I am considering allowing it. But it may not be the best option, or even appropriate.”
“Allowing it? I don’t understand.” I found myself rubbing my forehead to easy the cramping in my brain.
“Is everything alright?” Mr. Jamison asked, his brow knotted with concern.
I nodded, but even that was painful. I hadn’t had a headache this bad in weeks. “Just … just a headache. That’s all.”
“You’re scheduled for a general physical in the medical clinic after this meeting. Maybe we should postpone our talk until they check you out,” he offered.
“No, it’s okay. They usually don’t last long. In fact, I think it’s already going away.” The last part was a lie, but I dropped my hand to the table, pretending my head didn’t hurt. After all, this was a member of The Seven, I was meeting with. It didn’t seem right to wimp out on him.
Mr. Jamison’s twinkling eyes scanned my forehead for a moment, and I began to wonder if he was going to insist I go see the doctor. I found myself holding my breath before he spoke again. “We take good care of our people, Kinzie. There aren’t a lot of adepts around, so we need to keep them in tip-top shape or the world could suffer. Make sure you tell Dr. Sharma about these headaches, okay?”
I nodded, and his face relaxed as he explained that he was responsible for the training and education of all adepts, which included the summer camp program for the younger kids, and the middle and upper school boarding program, referred to as the Rothston Academy, for the older ones.
“We haven’t always trained adepts in this manner,” he explained. “Historically, adept children were left in their parents’ care, but that resulted in inconsistent abilities and understanding of how to use their attributes in any meaningful way, eventually causing serious issues for Rothston.”
“So, you’re saying Rothston couldn’t accomplish its work?”
“Back then? It was only a slight problem. Decisions were made slowly. Simple communication took time – lots of time. Rothston’s efforts to protect the world from devastating consequences could span a longer timeframe, allowing for more in-depth preparation and multiple deployments if necessary. But the advent of modern technology, starting with reliable telephone communications, changed all that. The pace of all human affairs increased. Rothston could no longer afford to slowly guide mankind to safe and beneficial decisions. We needed to be able to get the job done the first time, correctly and quickly. That’s why the Rothston Academy was opened in 1958 with the goal of better training adepts to produce the type of hands-on experience using their attributes that Rothston requires to keep the world a safe place.”
“But doesn’t that have consequences? I mean, separating them from everyone else?” Once the words were out of my mouth, I realized my headache was just about gone. I guess, I’d gotten caught up in what Mr. Jamison was saying and forgotten all about it.
The blue-eyed man nodded and gave me a pleased look. “It is a risk,” he agreed. “But we constantly reinforce our fundamental principle, and that should …”
“The what?” I asked, interrupting before I’d even realized it.
Mr. Jamison chuckled. “Perhaps that should be the first thing you learn, Kinzie. All adept organizations share a single fundamental principle: that we use our attributes for the betterment of mankind.” He paused, waiting for a reaction from me.
“I like that,” I told him. “It’s a bit vague, but I like it.”
His previous chuckle became a full-fledged l
augh. “I like you, Kinzie. You think clearly. I expect you will do very well here. Yes, it is open to some interpretation. And given that you understand that, I am less hesitant to allow Melvina Whitacre to be your teacher for your academic subjects this winter.”
“Why were you worried about me learning from Mel?”
Mr. Jamison’s smile faded and he paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “Melvina is a great woman,” he began seriously. “Rothston is more indebted to her for the service she has given us than you can imagine. Years of dedication. Decades. But …” He hesitated, glancing toward the portrait again, giving me the impression that he wasn’t comfortable saying anything negative about his colleague.
“She’s old,” I finished for him.
His head turned back to me, and his eyes were saddened. “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but I suppose it’s accurate. The pace of technology, of change, of global-reaching decisions, keeps increasing, Kinzie. Many of her generation find it difficult to understand the impact of technologies that didn’t exist even a few years ago – particularly the changes brought about by instantaneous access to information. But those changes are real, and their pace means Rothston must change as well. As far back as the Nineties, Rothston’s tried and true methods of slowly and painstakingly monitoring situations, without any involvement until the last possible moment, proved to be disastrous. Yet, there remains a reluctance to give up those ways.”
“Sounds more like fear,” I said, wondering if he was referring to the Rwanda massacre Mel had told me about. I’d read the Wikipedia article when I got back to school. Half a million people died. My eyes flicked up to Mr. Jamison’s kindly eyes. “Could you have stopped the genocide in Rwanda?” I asked.
Foreseen (The Rothston Series) Page 13