by Sophie Lark
I’m quiet, thinking to myself how strange it is that whether Lola tells me I don’t belong at Kingmakers, or Dean tells me that I do, I feel offended either way.
Maybe it’s because I don’t know who I am, so how can they?
I thought I knew.
Until I killed Rocco, shattering my own image of myself.
Now I’m trying to pick up the pieces and glue them back together, wondering what form they’ll take.
Thinking of Dean makes me search for him over in the horde of Juniors. I easily spot his white-blond head and the rigid muscles of his back straining against the fabric of his gray t-shirt. He’s working next to Leo and Ares, already building the base of their tower. The three boys move in unison like a clockwork machine, swiftly and expertly stacking the logs in a tower formation that reminds me of da Vinci’s self-supporting bridge.
The tower Lyman and Sadie are building looks a lot less stable. Driven on by Lola’s relentless demands for speed, they’re not matching the size of the logs with much care, and the tower is already starting to lean to the left.
Claire Turgenev’s tower is the tallest of the three and looks reasonably stable, until a half-rotted log snaps, sending her structure crashing down.
I can see the fury on her face, but she doesn’t give in to panic, swiftly re-organizing her workers to repair what fell.
Kade looks decidedly more stressed, but he’s holding up under the burden of leadership, building a tower that is wide and sturdy, though the smallest of the four.
Despite my annoyance with Lola, I really am working as fast as possible, following her orders as best I can. I’m not as invested in winning this competition as the rest of my teammates, but I don’t want to let anyone down.
I’m willing to do whatever I can to help.
Until Lola seizes me by the back of the shirt and yanks me over.
“Up you go, Cat,” she orders.
“Up where?” I say blankly.
“Get that fucking flag,” she says, jerking her head toward our spindly tower.
I stare up at the fluttering green flag, which looks impossibly distant, bobbing on the flimsy wire.
“But . . . I don’t think the tower is ready,” I say.
Our tower is little wider than a ladder at the top. Its angle resembles the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and it seems to be swaying with the breeze almost as much as the flag itself.
“It’s a fucking race!” Lola barks. “You’re the smallest and the lightest. Get your ass up there and climb!”
Lola is correct that I’m the smallest student in the competition—including the Freshmen. But I still don’t think this rickety pile of kindling is going to support me.
On the other hand, I’m supposed to obey the Captain.
The rest of the team is staring at me expectantly, except for Rakel, who fixes me with narrowed eyes and gives a small shake of her head.
The other teams haven’t finished their towers—if I can make it up there and snatch the flag, we’ll win the first round.
“Can you at least have somebody hold the base steady?” I ask.
“Cameron, Belkie—stabilize the base,” Lola orders.
The two burly Enforcers rush to obey.
Their efforts help a little. I can still feel the entire structure swaying with my every movement as I begin to scale the side.
I’ve never been rock-climbing in my life. Haven’t even climbed a tree. I try to keep my gaze pointed upward at the enticing green banner overhead.
My fellow Sophomores shout up instructions and words of encouragement. I can barely hear them over the blood thundering in my ears. This tower feels more and more like a floppy, makeshift Mount Everest, and I can’t help wondering if Lola would prefer me to grab the flag and win, or break my neck falling down.
I don’t think karma’s on my side.
I sent Rocco off a ledge ten times this height.
Stuffing that thought down, I keep climbing steadily upward.
The tower sways like a tree in the wind. I pause, afraid to go any higher. I reach up as far as I can, trying to grasp the fluttering tip of the flag. It dances just out of reach. I feel the material tickling my thumb and index finger, but I can’t quite grip it. My arm isn’t long enough.
I’ll have to climb up just a little further.
I set my foot on the next log up.
Then I hear shouting below, and the tower beings to tip.
I lose my grip and plunge down into its center with all the logs collapsing on top of me.
11
Dean
I hadn’t noticed that they were making Cat scale the tower because I was too fixated on my own work.
Under Leo’s clear direction, and with Ares and Anna’s design, our tower rose straight and sturdy, a marvel of engineering.
It pleased me to see how clean it looked, compared to the pile of matchsticks the Sophomores were throwing up, or the squat square Kade Petrov had commissioned.
Claire’s tower almost matched ours in elegance, until an unlucky log snuck in the mix and set her back by several minutes.
I felt sure we would win.
Winning feels good. Quality work feels good.
For all the conflict I’ve had with students in my own year, I have to admit that the Juniors are unstoppable. We work well together: Leo, Ares, Anna, Chay, Hedeon, Jules, Bram, Kenzo, and me. We’ve got the cream of the crop from the other divisions too: Bodashka and Silas, Ilsa Markov, Pasha, Motya, Shannon Kelly, Gemma Rossi, and Isabel Dixon.
For the first time, I catch the vision of how glorious it would be to be the first team of students to win the Quartum Bellum all four years.
It might even be worth the fact that Leo’s ego will need its own zip code.
I work feverishly to make that happen, until I hear the Sophomores shouting, and the snap and crash of a forty-foot pile of logs tumbling down.
I catch one glimpse of a small, dark-haired figure poised at the top of the pile, before Cat plunges down in the center of the collapse.
“MOVE!” I roar, shoving my way through the mass of students around me.
Despite how close we were to finishing our own tower, I can hear Leo and Ares likewise dropping their work, dashing along after me.
I don’t care if they’re following. I’m shoving everyone out of my way, sprinting to the place where I saw Cat fall.
She’ll be crushed under the mass of wood. I can’t believe she’ll be alive, but I know I have to find her, right this fucking second.
I’m ripping up logs bigger than my body, flinging them out of my way, not giving a damn who they might hit.
I’m digging her out, the flesh tearing off my palms, my every muscle straining as I hurl those logs like fucking kindling.
Leo and Ares are digging too. The only reason I don’t shove them away is because they’re helping.
It’s me who finds her, though—me who sees the small, pale figure huddled beneath two crossed beams, blood covering her face.
Had the logs not fallen in a crossed formation, they would have crushed her. As it is, I have no idea how bad the damage might be. I scoop Cat up in my arms. Her featherlight weight terrifies me, as if there’s no soul inside that body.
“I don’t think you should move her—” Leo starts, but I shoulder him out of the way and start running for the infirmary. Cat’s weight is nothing at all to me—I’m running faster than Leo and Ares can keep up.
Professor Howell intersects us, his silver whistle bouncing on his chest as he runs.
“Keep her steady,” he instructs me.
I’m already doing that, carefully cradling Cat’s neck with my right arm, supporting her legs with my left, using my hand to press her face gently against my chest.
I’ve never seen her so pale and ashen, all the beautiful color bleached from her skin. The blood and dust make it difficult to tell if there’s any movement of her lashes against her cheeks.
I press my fingertips against the side of her th
roat, careful not to jostle her.
I think I feel a pulse fluttering against my ring finger.
Leo dashes ahead, hammering on the infirmary door.
I expect Dr. Cross to open it with his usual ill-humor. Instead, an elegant blonde woman stands in the doorway. In my panic, I’d forgotten that Snow’s wife is the medic now.
“Get her inside,” Sasha Rybakov says at once. “Lay her on the bed.”
I carry Cat into the long, low building, which now smells of soap and fresh flowers, instead of like antiseptic and Dr. Cross’s chai tea. I only notice the change subconsciously, occupied by the far more pressing task of laying Cat carefully on the clean infirmary sheets.
“Thank you,” Sasha says. “Now I’ll need you to leave—”
“No!” I bark. “I’m not going anywhere!”
“Fine,” Sasha says, unwilling to waste time arguing. “The rest of you, out. There isn’t room for six in here.”
“I’m going back to the challenge,” Professor Howell tells me, with a concerned glance at Cat. “Report to me as soon as you can.”
Leo and Ares seem even more hesitant to leave, but Sasha shoos them out unceremoniously, closing the door in their faces.
Then she turns all her attention on Cat, swiftly checking her pulse and her pupil dilation, lifting Cat’s shirt to examine her abdomen and listen to her breathing, then gently running her hands down Cat’s limbs, checking for breaks or sprains.
By this point Cat is coming to, letting out a groan of such pathetic softness that my heart clenches up in my chest. I’m sick and furious—what the fuck was Lola thinking, making Cat climb up on that rickety pile of sticks?
“Is she alright?” I bark at the doctor. “How bad is it?”
“I think . . .” Sasha says, gently feeling Cat’s head and neck, “that we have a very lucky girl here . . .”
“That didn’t feel so lucky . . .” Cat moans, those thick black lashes fluttering against her cheeks.
“Get me a basin of warm water,” Sasha orders, pointing to the cabinets.
I hurry to obey, testing the temperature of the water, then filling the basin. I bring a clean cloth as well. Sasha adds a little disinfectant that makes the water foam, then begins to gently clean Cat’s face. The dirt comes off, but not the freckles, which stand out more than ever against her pallor.
I was worried that she’d broken her nose or knocked all her teeth out. But it seems like the blood is all coming from a gash along her hairline.
“Why is it bleeding so much?”
“Head wounds always do,” Sasha says calmly. “You know that, Dean.”
I look up at her sharply.
She gives me a small smile. “Oh, yes. Snow has told me all about you.”
“You call him Snow?” I ask, curious.
“Sometimes,” Sasha says.
I search Cat’s face, wanting her to open her eyes all the way so I’ll know she’s alright.
“Don’t squeeze her too hard,” Sasha says.
I look down at my hands, which are tightly clasped around one of Cat’s. I hadn’t realized I was gripping her hand.
“Is this your sister? Cousin? Lover?” Sasha says, noting my intense concern.
“She’s my . . .” I look at Cat, and now those dark eyes do open, and fix on mine. “She’s my friend,” I say, squeezing her hand once more.
The corner of Cat’s mouth twitches in quiet amusement.
“Her name is Cat Romero,” I tell the doctor.
“Cat,” Sasha says gently, “do you feel any sharp pain or pressure anywhere on your body?”
Cat takes a deep breath, eyes half closed, focusing on what must be a thousand aches and pains.
“No . . .” she says after a moment. “Just a lot of dull throbbing.”
“You’re going to have quite a few bruises,” Sasha says. “And I’ll probably have to stitch this.” She nods toward the cut on Cat’s forehead.
“That’s fine,” Cat sighs. “I had a couple of those last year.”
I bite back the urge to demand why she needed stitches last year, and who fucking caused it.
“Are you really alright?” I ask her, trying not to let her hear how anxious I am inside.
“Yes,” she says, a little color coming back into her cheeks. “Just sore.”
“I’ll give you something for that,” Sasha says. “Then the stitches won’t hurt, either.”
She fills a syringe with clear fluid and inserts the needle into the crook of Cat’s arm. She pushes down the plunger, and almost immediately Cat lets out a long sigh.
“Ohhhh that’s really good . . .”
Sasha chuckles. “That’s Professor Lyon’s own blend. We have to keep it under lock and key, or all the teachers would be knocking on my door.”
The doctor begins to organize the instruments needed for the stitches.
Cat rolls her head to the side to look at me, her eyes large and liquid, the pupils dilated.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not that injured. You’ll still get your month’s worth.”
“I don’t care about that!” I retort angrily.
Then I see Cat’s teasing smile.
I hadn’t realized that she could be funny. There’s a lot about Cat I still have to learn.
“Dean . . .” she says softly.
My heart hits against my ribs, not yet calmed from the mad race over here.
“Yes?” I reply.
“Did you catch me?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But I did dig you out.”
“Maybe next time . . . try to catch me,” Cat says.
I know she’s joking, but I feel an uneasy guilt that makes my laugh sound strange.
“Next time give me a little warning,” I say.
“You’re so fast . . .” Cat whispers, her voice drifting across the space between us.
“Not that fast,” I say.
“You could catch me . . .” Cat says, her eyes half closed.
I know she’s high as balls on whatever Professor Lyons cooked up, but her confidence in me fills me with warmth all the same.
Her hand is no longer cold and limp inside of mine. Instead, she intertwines our fingers.
Sasha brings over her tray of sterilized instruments.
“You want to stay for this, too?” she says.
“Yes.” I nod. “Blood doesn’t bother me.”
Cat’s breathing is slow and steady as she drifts off, heedless of the doctor’s needle and thread stitching her skin.
Sasha’s hands are wonderfully capable. Everything about her is calming, from her gentle voice to her clear blue eyes. She wears her blonde hair in a long plait down the back of her white lab coat.
“What did Snow say about me?” I ask her, unable to stifle my curiosity.
“He said he was very proud of your progress,” Sasha tells me.
For some reason, this makes my throat feel thick.
“That’s good,” I say after a moment. “He’s an excellent coach.”
“The best,” Sasha says proudly. “He trained our son Zane, and he’s sure to become a champion as well.”
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“In New York with our daughter Faye. They share an apartment together. She’s in med school.”
“Both of them follow in your footsteps,” I say.
Sasha nods. “We didn’t expect it—they could have done anything; it didn’t matter to us.”
I think about that.
My father has very clear instructions for what he expects from me. He won’t accept anything else.
Yet Snow and Sasha’s children choose to emulate them willingly. Because they look at their parents and they see a life worth imitating.
So do I.
Only when I look at Snow—not at my own father.
“She’s probably going to sleep for a couple of hours,” Sasha tells me, nodding toward Cat’s peaceful figure beneath the thick infirmary blankets.
“I don�
�t care,” I say. “I want to stay.”
12
The Spy
I walk across campus to the library. It’s late enough that I know nobody else will be there. Not on a Friday, and especially not on a night when there’s at least two parties planned to celebrate the Seniors winning the first round of the Quartum Bellum.
I want to speak to Miss Robin.
It’s so ridiculous calling her that. But she insists. In fact, she gets furious if I ever slip and call her what she really is to me. She says we have to convince even our own selves of these identities. That’s the only way to be sure that we won’t slip up. One mistake could be fatal. It could undo two long years of work.
Sometimes I start to believe my own lies.
My old life seems like a dream, like it happened to someone else.
And this new life . . .
Sometimes I enjoy it. I want to believe it’s real. The part I play is so much easier than the truth.
It’s so lonely wearing this mask.
That’s why I have to go see her. Because she’s the only one who knows. The only time I can be myself is with her, even if she uses this name, and I have to use hers.
The Library Tower is a dark silhouette against the purple sky, shaped like a chess rook. Miss Robin’s apartments are at the top. I’ve seen them, of course. It’s a scrupulously neat space, plain and unadorned. She’s never cared for knick-knacks or sentimental things.
She does love art, however, and history, which has helped her play her role so well.
She’s thrown herself into her work here with a passion that only a true connoisseur could muster.
I expect to find her poring over papers and documents as usual. No one is as tenacious or as tireless as her. I’ve never seen her falter. Never seen her give up.
I pull open the metal-strapped door and enter the dim spiraling space, treading the slanted floor that always makes me feel slightly off balance, as if the library is a parallel dimension, part of another world.
I hear a soft, gasping sound, distant and muffled.
For a moment I’m confused, because while I know what it sounds like, I don’t think it can actually be true.