The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1)

by Leanne Pearson

  'I knew you'd come around.' She nods. I draw myself slowly out of the conversation as Tia and Meredith talk ball gowns and decorations, and I take the opportunity to study the other students. They hover self-consciously in their various groups; most are made up by years, the only exceptions being the first and third years on account of the Mentors.

  I don't recognise many faces; Tomos O'Brien and Coleen Musgrave stand intimately by the door, the dark-haired boy with the green flash in his eyes drags on a cigarette by the window and – to my surprise – Islwyn Griffith stands in the corner, clutching a mug of something and laughing with a pretty third year.

  The common room door swings open, narrowly missing O'Brien's shoulder, and another familiar – albeit unwelcome – figure steps into the room.

  Malachy Beighley surveys the crowd with his cold blue eyes; studying each student thoughtfully, like a serpent hunting its prey. His body is poised with an aura of confidence, his ego projected into every corner of the room. I feel a ripple of annoyance, a prickling of irritation beneath my skin.

  I watch in disbelief as a first year boy – his innocent face twitching with anxiety – approaches Malachy hesitantly and greets him, inviting him to join he and his first year friends. The boy is nervous and insecure as his friends look on, muttering amongst themselves, watching with baited breath as their brave friend attempts to secure a connection with Malachy Beighley.

  Malachy barely glances at the first year and swats the boy aside like a bad smell, stepping around him and continuing on his path. It's heartbreaking to watch the boy's hurt, embarrassed face as he skulks back to his friends – all of whom laugh and make fun of him. I feel a surge of anger in my stomach and project it towards Malachy, shooting daggers with my eyes at his lean frame.

  'Unbelievable!' I mutter, a little too loudly. The flow of conversation between Tia and Meredith stems as both turn to stare at me with perplexed expressions. They follow my line of sight, trying to single out the perpetrator of my anger.

  'What?' Tia frowns.

  'Him!' I nod in Malachy's direction. The moment Meredith's eyes land on Malachy, she jerks her head violently away, glaring strangely at me, her body stiff. Tia's response is less dramatic, but similarly odd as she smiles knowingly at Meredith.

  'Who is he?' I frown, exasperated. I would like, more than anything, a simple explanation as to why everybody – including tutors – act so bizarrely when faced with Malachy Beighley. For the most part, they act fearful; bowing their heads, avoiding eye contact and crossing the hall when they see him coming. Others stare in wonder as he pretends not to notice them, remaining safely in his bubble of self-adoration. Or – like Meredith – they become flustered, both attempting to blend in with the wallpaper and grab his attention.

  'Malachy Beighley.' Tia replies non-committally, her attention focussed once again on the First Year Ball poster.

  'I know his name,' I reply impatiently, eyeing Malachy as he makes quiet small talk with a third year boy. 'I mean who is he within the Institute? What's his position?'

  'Oh,' Tia nods, returning her interest to my topic of conversation. She leans towards me conspiratorially. 'He doesn't have one, not officially. Technically he's just a third year, like me. He should be a Mentor but Sir Alec and...' Tia hesitates, glancing towards Islwyn Griffith.

  'Sir Alec decided it would be unnecessary added pressure.' She finishes lamely, withdrawing into herself and avoiding my stare.

  She's hiding something, too scared to speak in front of prying ears. Meredith shrinks until her back hits the wooden panels of the chair.

  'Added pressure to what?' I press, tugging on Tia's tight fitted jeans. What added responsibilities did Malachy have that would make Mentoring an unnecessary pressure? Why did someone who seemingly provided the Institute with no knowledge or skill have such power over its residents?

  'Well – ' Tia squirms, glancing to Meredith for support who outright ignores her. 'He comes from a very important family – '

  'Tia!' Meredith hisses, looking outraged. She widens her eyes, glancing at Islwyn and a group of third years congregated close to us.

  'Eve, I'm really not supposed to tell you any of this,' Tia shakes her head, her tone final, closing the conversation. 'It interferes with your education and as your Mentor, it's my responsibility to ensure that is top priority.'

  'Tia, are you serious?' I frown, trying not to laugh. Tia blinks at me innocently.

  'Yes, Eve. You're supposed to be taught this by a qualified and knowledgeable Professor. Since I am neither it would be inappropriate for me to discuss it with you – '

  'Tia, stop using that stupid voice – '

  ' – You'll be taught about it in your next Theory lesson anyway.' She snaps, cutting off any attempts I make to question her.

  'Theory?' I frown, glancing once more at Malachy Beighley, who nods reservedly at Islwyn across the room. How can Malachy – a third year student – be important enough to warrant being taught about him in Theory? It doesn't make any sense and I churn Tia's sentences over in my mind, trying to make sense of them.

  Malachy comes from an important family. Perhaps he's related to Sir Alec? It would explain his privileges, skipping mentoring and the students' and Professors' fearful attitude towards him. It would also explain his status as higher than even Ms Fall.

  Perhaps Malachy is Sir Alec's son?

  The bizarre thought crosses my mind and I shake my head to clear it

  'Malachy wouldn't care.' Tia hisses at Meredith, trying to look nonchalant but instead looking scared.

  'Lucrezia would report you.' Meredith mutters darkly, moving subtly away from Tia.

  'Lucrezia?' I frown, jumping back a little as they hush me loudly.

  'Malachy's twin sister!' Tia hisses through clenched teeth. I suddenly remember the Female-Malachy who sat on Ms Fall's other side during the meeting.

  Tia's face is panic stricken and – as she casts nervous glances about the common room – I feel sorry for her and pat her knee reassuringly.

  'You didn't say anything,' I whisper gently. 'You haven't told me anything. You won't get into trouble.' I assure her, hoping my words are true.

  I study both Tia and Meredith as sheer panic and regret floods their faces and I can't help but wonder why fear seems to be such a common trait amongst Institute students. What are they so afraid of? What punishments await rule breakers? What sort of world had I entered where students are controlled by bizarre and obscure rules?

  Or perhaps Tia and Meredith are simply being over-dramatic, lacking in gossip and desperate for some drama. Neither would surprise me.

  *

  I'm discouraged to find that my third class of the day is One-To-One, to be held in the lower chambers of the Institute. Unlike Theory class, I won't be able to sit amongst the relative safety of my peers and hide behind their bold but stupid questions.

  One-To-One would be all about me; a notion – since leaving my parents' house – I'm unfamiliar with.

  The chambers are the easiest part of the Institute – so far – to find. The key – I discover – is to keep heading down, continuing on even as the population of students begins to wan and I find myself entirely alone in the eerie, candlelit corridors.

  The luxurious and expensive decorum found on every floor above ground is non-existent below the earth. Firelight dances across bare stone walls as my footsteps echo through empty rooms. Old wooden torches blaze in wrought iron brackets above my head, doing nothing to fight off the sudden temperature drop.

  A stone maze in no particular pattern leads me to a chipped wooden door. I sense no presence beyond it and I hesitate, wondering whether to let myself in.

  After waiting what feels like long enough; I relent, twisting the iron doorknob, reeling back as the old hinges creak and screech. Firelight flickers beyond the threshold – a reassuring sign that I'm in the right place – and I step into a small box room.

  A single wooden table, cracked with age, and two rickety chairs
stand in the centre of the room, and just beyond them is another closed door.

  My timetable reads:

  11:00am One-To-One

  Chamber 1

  Miss A Morelli

  Warily, I settle in the chair nearest the exit and place my bag on the stone floor. I sit patiently, fiddling with the strap of my boot, trying to fight off my anxiety as I await my tutor.

  After what feels like an age, the panelled door swings open and a petite, red-haired woman steps inside. With piercing green eyes she throws me a brief glance – making no introduction – before sliding onto the chair opposite mine, laying out a clipboard on the table.

  Her attire is bizarre; a long crimson cloak made of sheer material with a deep, lowered hood.

  'Eve Ryder?' She barks, keeping her eyes on the clipboard as she removes sheets of paper.

  'Yes.' I reply hoarsely, trying not to let my intimidation show. Her body age is young – in her mid to late twenties – and she's pretty in her own way with curly, postbox red hair reaching down to her waist.

  'My name is Miss Morelli and I will be your One-To-One tutor,' She informs me in a thick, Eastern European accent. She studies a sheet of paper, spattered with italic handwriting, and rubs her chin thoughtfully.

  'I understand that your gift is the ability to assess innocence – or lack of it – within humans and Immortals?' She raises an interested eyebrow, flickering her bright eyes to rest on mine.

  'Yes.' I nod, wondering whether to tell her that I have no idea how my gift actually works, in case she's expecting too much.

  'It is a difficult power both to explain and to harness,' She acknowledges. 'Presuda.'

  'I beg your pardon?' I frown after a long pause, not sure if the foreign comment was made to me or about me.

  'My father was Croatian,' She states idly, flicking through her A4 pages. ''Presuda' means 'judgement';

  'The ability to judge, make a decision, or form an opinion objectively, authoritatively and wisely.' She quotes, nodding her head briskly with each word. 'Presuda is your gift, and a very useful one too.'

  'I don't know how to use it.' I admit shamefully.

  'That's why I'm here,' She shrugs, shuffling her papers before laying them flat on the table.

  'Have you noticed your gift at all since the transformation?' She asks, studying me carefully. 'Is it something you can see? Or simply a feeling? Intuition?'

  Sir Alec's eyes spring to mind, their grey irises piercing, the ball of green light dancing within his black pupils. I suddenly remember the flash of green in the dark haired boy's eyes as he glanced from me to Will Kearns.

  'It's both,' I reply confidently. 'I can both see it and feel it, like intuition.' I explain.

  'Go on..?' Miss Morelli leans forward, offering me her full attention. She seems intrigued and almost excited; the first ounce of feeling she's shown since entering the room.

  'It's their eyes,' I explain, feeling embarrassed to be talking about little balls of green light. 'An emerald light – like a little fire ball – deep within their pupils. Some have it strongly, others not at all.' I study her eyes for a moment, noting for the first time that they bear no trace of the green light.

  'It sounds to me as though this green light – the little fireball – represents guilt. The extent of the guilt is, of course, judged by you. You are essentially judge, jury and executioner. Presuda.' She repeats, smiling.

  'Whatever atrocities this individual has committed, you judge without knowing them. For example; if I had committed murder, you would not necessarily know instantly, with one glance, whom I had killed or where and why. You would simply know the level of malice within the act; whether I enjoyed it, whether it was vicious and pre-meditated, or an accident.

  You will know, with one glance, whether you deem that individual to be guilty or innocent.'

  'Their innocence or guilt depends entirely on what I deem to be a good or bad person?' I ask. Miss Morelli nods, pleased.

  'Exactly. Though, based on my experience, no-one is entirely pure and innocent whilst no-one is entirely bad and guilty. I imagine the green light comes in all shades and contrasts, you are simply too untrained to see them.

  Once you are trained; you will see green light in your friends' eyes where there was none before. You will be able to make Presuda quickly and efficiently. You will master your gift.' She smiles, a passion igniting her eyes.

  'I think the best place to start is to concentrate on your new eyesight as a whole. You're still not properly accustomed to it and aren't able to use it to its full potential. There would be little sense in focusing on your gift before you have mastered your basic abilities, it would be like... what's the expression? Running before you can walk?' She queries, and I nod.

  'Your brain has sub-consciously rejected most of your new powers in a state of disbelief,' She continues, holding my gaze. 'In order to be better acquainted with them, you need to give in to your transformation. Allow yourself to completely accept your transition, stop clinging to your old beliefs and mind-set and open up to the new powers and skills your body now possesses.

  I will train you to use your eyesight to its fullest potential, though over time it will develop naturally – as will your other senses. Then we will work up to the green ball of light and eventually develop a strategy to determine the different shades and depths.'

  Miss Morelli leans back in her chair, regaining some distance, and her expression closes off, becoming business-like and solemn again.

  'It has been debated – by human and Immortal scientists alike – as to the exact percentage of the brain an individual actually uses,' She begins, her tone confident and brisk.

  'The most commonly quoted figure is around forty percent, although, estimates as high as one hundred and as low as ten percent have also been suggested.

  When we are transformed, the process essentially 'unlocks' the remainder of our brain's percentage, allowing us to use it to its full potential.

  Hence our heightened senses, our ability to gain knowledge instantaneously and retain it – it even affects our biology; we can move quicker, we are more agile, we can jump higher, run faster, be stronger.

  Of course, in order for any new Immortal to train their abilities to reach their highest potential; dedication, commitment and time are required. Achieving your goal can take years of strenuous practice. Some Immortals spend hundreds of years training inexhaustibly to reach their fullest potential – others settle for only the skill they need to get by.

  Soon enough, you will decide for yourself which category you fall into.'

  I nod, wondering whether I'll become the type of Immortal who dedicates her time to pursuing her biological potential, or simply settles for the basics.

  'Shall we make a start, Miss Ryder?' She asks, a glint in her eyes beneath the wavering firelight. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward once more, carefully selecting four sheets of paper from the pile and placing them on the table in front of me.

  I blink, staring at them, trying to hide my confusion. Three are blank, and one has a single black circle faintly outlined in the centre of the otherwise bare page.

  'What do you see?' Miss Morelli asks. I study her face, deciding whether or not she's the type to ask trick questions.

  I tell her of the circle and of the blank three pages and she tells me to look closer, urging me with hissing tones to pick out the patterns. I squint my eyes, I widen them, I block my peripheral vision with the palms of my hands, but no matter what angle I approach the page from – in what way I look at it – I still see nothing but bare, empty paper.

  For an entire hour this process continues. Each time Miss Morelli's hand jerks, I sigh with relief, anticipating the next task. But each time, she slams the same pages back down in front of me. My only hope of gaining Miss Morelli's approval and the key to a new – more interesting – lesson is to discover the patterns.

  She grows frustrated as I grow bored. She hisses at me to 'Look closer!' but my eyes are star
ting to play tricks on me, the faint lines of the pages wriggling and writhing into and amongst one another until I'm not sure what I see.

  By the end of the lesson, Miss Morelli is exasperated and I feel close to tears, but as soon as the clock strikes midday, she leans back in her seat and offers me a polite smile.

  'You did well today, Miss Ryder,' She nods, gathering up the ghastly pieces of paper. I scoff, raising an eyebrow.

  'Truly,' She assures me, rising from her seat. 'You didn't see anything, but I didn't expect that you would, certainly not during your first lesson. You will see blank pages for many more lessons to come, I assure you, Miss Ryder,' She smirks as I groan inwardly, unable to bear the thought of another minute glaring at blank sheets of paper, let alone hours.

  'But the day will come when you'll see something; a faint pattern in the corner of your eye – and from there you will flourish.'

  'I hope so.' I sigh, feeling inexplicably exhausted. With a formal handshake, I rise from my seat, grab my bag and bid goodbye to Miss Morelli; safe in the knowledge that my next One-To-One lesson is at least twenty four hours away.

  Chapter Nine