by Sophie Lark
As I descend the stairs of the Octagon Tower, I find a fine layer of snow blanketing the grounds. The campus looks pristine and otherworldly, as if every inch of the grounds is clad in white marble. I almost hate to leave a trail of prints across the lawn.
I find Cat sitting at her usual table with Leo, Anna, Hedeon, Ares, Chay, and Rakel. The dining hall is packed with students. Everyone enjoys the Christmas brunch, which includes all the usual staples of pancakes, French toast, bacon, and eggs, as well as several regional favorites like German brown-butter skillet cake, Japanese egg custard, and Turkish poached eggs in yogurt.
I fill my plate, then carry it over to Cat’s table.
She looks startled but not displeased as I set down my tray across from her, squeezing in between Hedeon and Chay.
“Hey,” Leo says. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” I reply politely.
Anna is watching me, wary but not hostile. I give her what I hope is a friendly nod.
“Did you enjoy the dance last night?” I say.
“I did,” she says. “And you?”
I glance at Cat as I reply. “It was perfect.”
A somewhat awkward silence follows, until Chay breaks it by saying, “Did any of you see Professor Penmark harassing Professor Thorn? He kept following her around and around the hall until she spilled her punch on his shoes. One hundred percent intentionally.”
“Good, fuck Professor Penmark!” Cat says, spearing a bite of French toast with unnecessary vigor. “I hope they were expensive shoes.”
I love Cat when she’s spiteful.
Grinning to myself, I likewise attack my French toast.
The strangeness of my presence at their table abates, and soon a pleasant hubbub of several simultaneous conversations arises, as Chay shows Anna and Rakel the boots Ozzy sent her for Christmas, Ares asks Cat if Zoe and Miles went back to Chicago for the holiday, and Leo shouts something over to Matteo Ragusa at the neighboring table.
“I heard you’ve been training with Snow,” Hedeon says to me. “Outside of our normal classes, I mean.”
“That’s right,” I say.
“Lucky,” Hedeon says enviously. “I’ve never had a better teacher.”
“I agree.” I nod.
Hedeon pokes at his food moodily. He’s the only person at the table without a hint of a smile. I’ve always assumed he hangs around with Leo and Ares because nobody else wants to put up with his sulky silence. Even his roommate Kenzo Tanaka barely seems to tolerate him. And you’d hardly know that he and Silas were brothers, for how rarely they’re seen together.
“How come you never sit with Silas?” I say, nodding toward the table where Silas, Bodashka, and Vanya sit.
“Because I fucking loathe him,” Hedeon mutters.
“He’s not exactly a barrel of laughs, is he?” I say.
Silas is the most humorless person I’ve ever encountered, and that’s saying something after living with my father the last several years.
“You can’t imagine what it was like growing up in the same house as him,” Hedeon says quietly.
I look at Hedeon, really look at him for the first time.
I see his blue eyes, strangely lifeless, and his face that ought to be handsome, but never seems to draw any girls toward him, because of the anger and despair etched into every expression. He’s like a reverse magnet, repelling anyone who would get near him.
It’s far too familiar to me.
“What about the Grays?” I ask him. “Were they good to you?”
Hedeon laughs bitterly.
“Is a butcher good to his knife?” he says.
“I suppose he’s careful with it.”
“No,” Hedeon says. “He sharpens it against stone, and then uses it any way he pleases.”
I think I finally understand.
“Silas is the stone,” I say.
Hedeon meets my eye for the first time. The understanding that passes between us is unhappy on both sides.
Cat watches me from across the table. I’m not sure if she likes me sitting here with her friends. It’s a collision of worlds.
Especially when Bram passes our table, hair tangled and face still puffy from sleep, searching for somewhere to sit in the crowded hall.
“Here,” Hedeon says, pushing down the bench to make room. “There’s space for one more.”
Bram grunts his thanks, dropping down beside me.
“Never seen the dining hall from this side,” he says, glancing around.
“This is prime real estate,” Leo says. “It’s a straight shot back to the galley to refill your plate.”
“Might do that a couple of times,” Bram says, stuffing half a croissant in his mouth.
“You look like you already did,” Chay says with a wicked smirk.
“What are you saying?”
“Oh, nothing. Just that you’re a couple more croissants away from Father Christmas.”
“Get the fuck outta town,” Bram says, outraged. “Father Christmas couldn’t gift himself abs like this.”
He yanks up his shirt to display his stomach, which only makes Chay and Rakel laugh.
“She’s just winding you up,” I say to Bram.
“Don’t you fuckin’ test me,” Bram says to Chay. “I’ll strip all the way down, just like Leo.”
“You’ll regret it,” Leo says. “It’s breezy in here.”
As the banter bounces back and forth across the table, Cat and I lock eyes. She smiles at me in a way that lets me know I’m more than welcome here.
After breakfast, I ask Cat if she wants to come for a walk with me.
“Sure,” she says. “It’s cold, though . . .”
“I know a place we can go.”
I take Cat to the south side of campus where the twin greenhouses stand.
To call them greenhouses hardly does justice to the vast iron and glass structures—each one rivals the Crystal Palace built in Hyde Park for the London Exhibition. Much of the produce consumed at Kingmakers is grown here, as well as herbs and Professor Thorn’s collection of rare orchids.
“Oh!” Cat says, thrilled by our passage from the chilly day into the warmth and humidity of the greenhouse. “I didn’t know we could come in here!”
“Nobody’s stopped me yet.”
The scent of leaves and blossoms is heady and overwhelmingly alive. It feels as if we’ve stepped into another world.
Cat removes her jacket and then pulls off her sweater as well, draping both over her arm. Her curls spring up tighter than ever in the humidity.
Condensed droplets run down the interior of the glass walls, and snow sits along the iron spines of the exterior. The plants look vividly green against the white snow.
“That was nice at breakfast,” Cat says. “All of us sitting together like that.”
“It wasn’t bad,” I say, by way of agreement.
Cat looks at me with those dark eyes, always alive and curious, never restful.
“You don’t seem to hate Leo as much as you once did.”
“We’re not friends,” I say roughly.
“But you don’t want to kill him anymore.”
Ah. So he told her about that.
That’s fine—I own my actions. Even those that might have been driven by a sort of madness at the time.
“Yes, I tried to drown him,” I say, refusing to deny it.
“You must have been . . . very disappointed,” Cat says, looking at her feet. “About Anna.”
All the stiffness sweeps out of me in one breath, as I understand what Cat is actually asking me.
“I respect Anna Wilk,” I say very clearly. “But I don’t love her, Cat. I’m not sure I ever did. What I felt—I think it was just the feeling of admiring someone for the first time. It was new to me.”
“Isn’t that what loving someone is?” Cat says quietly.
“It might be part of it. But it’s not all of it.”
“Do I sound jealous?” she says,
looking up at me at last, her face open and vulnerable.
“I’m jealous,” I say, seizing her arm and pulling her close. “Any time anyone looks at you, or speaks to you, I’m jealous. I want all your minutes, and all your words. I want all of you, all the time.”
I see that mischievous delight spread across her face. Cat likes me best when I’m wild for her, when I’ll tear anyone apart to get to her. She doesn’t want me restrained and behaved. And I could never be that way when I’m around her.
She brings out the beast in me. And she likes it.
I kiss her roughly, bruising those soft lips.
“I want to keep seeing you,” I tell her.
“What would you do if I told you no?”
“Tie you up in that tower and punish you,” I growl. “Don’t you ever tell me no.”
“I never have yet,” Cat whispers.
I throw her down beneath a bench loaded with tomato plants, and I rip her blouse open. We’re only half shielded by the trailing vines, but I don’t give a fuck who might come along. I have to have her, and I have to have her now.
I pull her skirt up, unzip my trousers, and yank her underwear to the side. I thrust into her without warning, without foreplay.
I fuck her there on the dirt, with the scent of everything living and growing all around us.
I fuck her hard and wild, as Cat sucks and bites on the side of my neck.
I’ve never felt more alive.
School starts up again on Wednesday, which suits me fine. I don’t like too much time off, and I’m especially itching to be back in the gym honing my skills with Snow.
So I feel as much irritation as confusion when one of the grounds crew interrupts my Extortion class.
“Dean Yenin is needed in the Chancellor’s office,” he tells Professor Owsinki.
“What for?” I demand.
The man looks at me impassively, refusing to answer whether he knows the reason or not.
“Bring your things,” he says.
I stuff my textbooks in my bag while Bram and Valon give me a questioning look.
I shrug impatiently, following the groundskeeper out of the classroom.
“Do you know where the Chancellor’s office is?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave you here.”
He abandons me at the staircase, heading back outdoors.
I watch his retreating back, wondering if it’s just my imagination that he doesn’t want to accompany me to the top floor.
Foreboding creeps over me. I wonder if this might possibly have something to do with Cat.
It can’t be—I’m the only person who knows her secret, and I haven’t told a soul. Haven’t written it anywhere. Haven’t even whispered it to myself alone in the dead of night.
I scale five flights of stairs to the topmost floor, my stomach tightening with each step.
I’ve never been inside the Chancellor’s office before. I knock on the doors, hearing the terse response, “Come in,” carry easily across the open space beyond.
I push open the doors, entering an expansive office that, along with the Chancellor’s private quarters, takes up the entire penthouse of the Keep.
Banks of windows on two sides offer views over the cliffs and also across the campus grounds. I’m sure the Chancellor’s intimate knowledge of the goings-on amongst the students comes from his army of staff, but I can’t shake the impression that he’s constantly standing at those windows, watching us from above.
This office is more like an apartment, with a sitting area, a separate writing desk, shelves of books, and a globe big enough to break Atlas’ back. The walls are covered in photographs of the Chancellor with friends and allies from across the globe—some mafia, and others recognizable to any civilian. I’m instantly envious of the shot of Hugo and Mike Tyson on some sunny golf course.
My shoes sink into the thick rug as I make the endless journey toward the Chancellor’s desk.
No room I’ve seen inside the castle matches this one for wealth and luxury. The Hugos are immensely rich, one of the oldest and most successful of the ten founding families who first formed this school. From what I’ve heard, Luther Hugo has only increased his holdings. He’s a brilliant investor. He could teach the finance classes better than Professor Graves, if he cared to do it.
The Chancellor waits for me behind his desk, dressed as usual in a double-breasted suit with a black silk cravat. I always find it difficult to guess his age. His thick mane of hair is still inky black, though threaded with silver. But his face is etched with lines as deep as hatchet marks. His spider-black eyes follow my every movement from the moment I stepped foot through his door.
“Dean Yenin,” he says, in his sonorous voice. “Sit.” He gestures to the ornate chair set opposite his desk.
I take my seat, unnerved and trying not to show it.
I share Cat’s antipathy for Luther Hugo, after what he did to Ozzy’s mother. I know it’s the law at this school. But I don’t care. There’s no justice when the innocent pay for the crimes of the guilty.
“How did you enjoy the Christmas dance?” Hugo asks politely.
“I enjoyed it very much,” I say.
I don’t know why I’m here and I can’t imagine it’s for any positive reason. I don’t want to give anything away.
“I saw you dancing with Catalina Romero,” Hugo says.
My stomach clenches. This is what I was afraid of—that Cat had drawn his attention in some way.
“Yes,” I say stiffly.
“Unfortunate that Zoe Romero and Miles Griffin chose not to complete their education at this school.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I lie, keeping my expression as bland as possible.
“We hate to lose our students. In any manner or for any reason,” the Chancellor says.
I can’t tell if this is some sort of threat. His expression is impossible to read.
“Which brings me to the unfortunate business at hand,” Hugo says.
I keep my hands flat on my thighs, determined not to move or even flinch, no matter what he might ask me.
“Abram Balakin called me from Moscow this morning, Dean. Your father is dead.”
This is so far removed from what I expected to hear that the words don’t make any sense to me. A long silence follows while I try to rearrange the Chancellor’s sentence into actual English.
“My condolences,” Luther Hugo says. “I know this is hard to hear.”
I can’t hear anything right now, because there’s a loud rushing sound in my ears, like the ocean waves far below us are beating directly against my head.
“He can’t be,” I say slowly. “I just spoke to him.”
“I’m afraid it’s quite certain,” Hugo tells me. “There was a fire. Your father’s house was destroyed. His body was found in his study. It appears he set the blaze intentionally. There was accelerant spread all through the house. The footage from the security cameras shows no other entry.”
A vivid image arises in my mind of my father pouring gasoline all throughout our house—over the stacks of books and magazines, the boxes of unopened goods, the papers, the photographs—they must have gone up like kindling, blazing towers of fire. He burned the paintings, the vases and rugs and chandeliers purchased by my mother, their wedding photographs, and my old rocking horse up in the attic. My clothes and books and blankets in my room.
Then he sat in his office, his one safe place, and waited for the fire to finish the job begun twenty years earlier. The job of killing him.
“When did this happen?” I ask.
“The evening of the twenty-fifth,” Hugo says. “I was not informed until this morning.”
He killed himself on Christmas. The day before his anniversary.
“Did he leave a message for me?” I ask, dully. “A note?”
“If he did . . .” Hugo says, “it would have been burned. The fire spread to the neighboring houses as well. There’s no
thing left of yours.”
I’ve never felt so much and so little at the same time.
A raging storm of emotion swirls around inside of me.
And yet I’m as numb and dull as a corpse.
My body stands up without my order. I hear myself say to the Chancellor, “Thank you for informing me.”
“Usually we do not allow departure and return to the school,” the Chancellor says. “But in this instance, with no other family to make the funeral arrangements—”
“There won’t be any funeral,” I say.
For the first time, Hugo’s face shows a flicker of confusion.
“But surely you—”
“He made his own funeral pyre. Why should I go against his wishes?”
Hugo hesitates, watching me closely.
“If you would like a few days to consider—”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll return to class now.”
Another silence, and then he gives a curt nod.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you for informing me,” I say, turning back toward the door.
I cross that expanse of carpet again, and this time it seems only an instant until I’m out of his office, descending the stairs.
My pulse throbs in my ears, faster and faster, and yet I feel oddly calm.
He left me. My father left me.
Just like my mother.
Everyone runs away eventually.
They get away from me, any way they can.
I check my watch—one of the only gifts my father ever bought for me. Plain and impersonal. Not any brand I particularly liked.
Snow’s class is about to begin. If I hurry, I can make it still.
I take off the watch and drop it on the steps of the Keep, stomping it with my heel until the face shatters. Then I keep walking, all the way to the Armory.
I change clothes quickly, wanting to catch up with the class. My heart is beating faster and faster as I pull on the gray gym shorts and white t-shirt. My body knows I’m ready to fight. My hands start to shake as I wrap them in turn and don my gloves.
I’m almost running by the time I enter the gym.
Snow has already paired off the students for sparring.