Kingmakers, Year Three

17. Dean

17

DEAN

C hristmas morning I lie in my bed, thinking of the night before.

I danced with Cat long past midnight.

I held her in my arms, and spun her around, and dipped her, and never took my eyes off that beautiful face.

Cat had never looked more captivating.

That scarlet silk gown clung to her figure, shimmering in the firelight. The pendant rested on her collarbone like a throbbing heart. Her hair lay in sleek shining waves, her eyes looked up at me like burning coals.

She honestly intimidated me.

Cat has changed so much, and I don’t think she’s finished .

I feel like I witnessed the birth of a star, a creature that will burn brighter and brighter until she eclipses us all.

Our agreement is over.

I no longer feel like I own her.

But I still want to.

When the party ended, I walked her back to the Undercroft.

I put my coat around her bare shoulders, because the night was as cold as I’ve ever felt at Kingmakers.

Our breath rose up in smoky plumes.

We paused outside the old wine cellar, looking at each other. I was thinking it was the first night in a month that we hadn’t fucked each other. And yet . . . it might have been my favorite night together, despite how much I had enjoyed all the others.

I touched her face gently. Then kissed her once more, softly, carefully, as if it was the first time.

As I kissed her, I felt something cool against my face. Snowflakes drifting down, light as featherdown.

When I pulled back, I saw them resting in Cat’s hair and in her thick black lashes, like a hundred tiny frozen stars.

“I’ve never seen it snow here before,” Cat said in wonder .

I put out my hand and caught one perfect flake on my fingertip.

Cat brought my hand to her mouth and let it melt against her tongue.

I grabbed her and kissed her again, much harder.

I only released her when a crowd of Spies came along, wanting to descend down to their rooms.

Among them I saw Lola Fischer, tipsy on punch, leaning heavily against Dixie Davis, who had refused to wear a gown to the dance and was dressed in a tux instead.

“Look at the two lovebirds,” Lola said, grinning at us maliciously.

I watched her pass, silent and irritated.

For all that Cat has grown, I don’t like the idea of anyone holding a grudge against her. It makes me want to keep her right by me, and not let her out of my sight.

“Do you want me to walk you to your door?” I asked her.

Cat shook her head, slipping my jacket off her slim shoulders and handing it back.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured. “I’m not afraid of Lola.”

I’m not either. But I still watched Cat enter the dark yawning staircase with a feeling of unease .

I want to see her again today.

It’s the first day in ages that I’ve been completely unencumbered, not a single paper to write, no studying to do. Exams are over. I’m not even training with Snow, as he’ll be spending the day with Sasha, probably calling New York to speak to their two children.

As I think of him phoning his son Zane, the talented boxer on his own rise to fame, I feel that old spark of jealousy. But I crush it down at once. Snow has been good to me. I have no right to envy his son.

Besides, I’m much more interested in seeing Cat today than I am in receiving a phone call from my own father.

I shower and dress, trying to stay quiet because Bram is still snoring in his bed, then I head down to the dining hall to see if I can intercept Cat.

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 eg gs, 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.”

“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, indicating 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?”

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?”

“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 st one.”

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 stuffs 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 tell 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 consum ed 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 photog raphs 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 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…”

I keep my palms 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. 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 nothing 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.

He glances up as I enter, and I can tell from his expression that he already knows .

“Dean—” he says, moving to intercept me.

I push past him, looking for someone to fight.

“Who wants to spar?” I shout. “Who’s got the stones? Jasper? Bram? Silas? Leo?”

I challenge them all, and I wish they’d all agree. I’ll fight all four at once. I’ll fight the whole fucking class.

“Dean,” Snow says, more forcefully, grabbing my shoulder.

I shake him off.

“COME ON!” I shout. “Who’s man enough to face me?”

Silas looks like he’ll take the bait. He takes a step forward and I’m already clenching my fists, ready to run at him until Snow intervenes.

“Everyone out,” he barks.

The class stares at each other for one brief second, before hustling off to the change rooms.

The impotent rage I feel might burn me alive.

I have to fight.

I need it.

I turn to face Snow, angrier than I’ve ever been in my life.

“I’LL FIGHT YOU THEN!” I howl. “I’m ready. ”

Snow holds up his hands, saying, “I’m not going to?—”

But I’m already rushing him, swinging with all my might.

And I hit him. I fucking hit him, right in the jaw.

Then I hit him again, and again, and again.

I’m striking him with all my might, with all my fury.

I’m in such a blaze of violence that it takes me far too long to realize that he’s not trying to duck or dodge. He’s not trying to defend himself.

He lets me hit him, over and over, in the face and body, without ever even holding up his hands to block me.

He lets me exhaust my anger on him, until I realize that I’m hitting the only friend I have, the only man who’s ever been good to me.

And then all the strength goes out of me, and I would have sunk down to my knees if Snow didn’t wrap his arms around me and hug me tight.

I’ve never been hugged like this, by someone strong. Someone who could hurt me if he wanted to, but instead is using his immense power to give me that sense of protection and support that I’ve never known in all my life.

I could have been a better man if my father had been more like this .

“Why couldn’t he be happy?” I sob. “Why couldn’t he live for me, for us?”

I’m thinking of my mother, too, of all the years she tried to laugh with him and joke with him like they used to. He shoved her away, over and over. Until she couldn’t even smile anymore, not for him and not for me.

Snow doesn’t try to answer. He just holds me, because somehow, he understands.

I’m crying again, and I’m so ashamed.

Cat saw me like this. And now Snow.

I’m weak and broken.

And that’s the real truth that torments me.

The real reason I’m so angry and alone.

“Why didn’t he love me?” I cry.

Snow puts his heavy hands on my shoulders and looks me in the face. His eyes are pale blue, clear as ice, but there’s no coldness in them.

“When you become a man worthy of love, you will receive love,” he tells me.

I search his battered face, trying to understand .

“I was alone,” Snow says. “No parents, no family. They called me Snow because I fought so cold. But I had anger inside me, too. An old boxer took me in. His name was Meyer. He was hard on me, and he was good to me, too. He showed me friendship. Love came later when I met Sasha. I saw her for what she was: a treasure to be protected at all costs. To have her, I had to become the man she deserved.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” I admit.

“It’s always a step into the dark,” Snow says. “No one knows the path they haven’t walked before.”

I look at Snow’s face, cut and swollen from my fists.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“Don’t be sorry,” Snow says. “Be better.”

I wait outside Cat’s Security Systems class for a period of time that feels equally like minutes and hours.

I keep thinking of my father’s house, burned to the ground.

It was the only address my mother knew. The only place we lived in Moscow.

If she’s still alive, if she ever tries to send another postcard . . . it will have nowhere to go.

Of course, I don’t really believe any postcard is coming.

It’s been far too long for that.

Why did my father choose to die by fire? After all the pain he suffered, I can’t imagine that anything terrified him more. Was he trying to prove to himself at the end that he wasn’t a coward?

How could he destroy the only home I’ve ever known—the only reminders I had of our old life, the few good memories.

The one blow we struck against the Gallos was to burn their ancestral home.

Now he burned ours too, as if to wreak revenge upon ourselves.

I don’t understand him. I never did.

I hear the scraping of chairs and shuffle of feet as class dismisses.

I step to the side to let the exiting students pass, watching for Cat .

When she spots me, her eyes get bigger than ever, and her mouth opens in shock. I really must look like shit.

“Dean!” she gasps. “What happened?”

For me, the opposite effect occurs.

The moment I lay eyes on Cat, the maelstrom of sorrow, anger, and resentment swirling inside of me finally eases. I throw my arms around her and hug her hard against me, pressing my face into her thick black curls smelling my favorite scent in the world—the scent of this girl.

“What’s going on?” she says, pulling back just a little to look up into my face.

“Something happened today. I had to come tell you.”

“Tell me what?” She says.

“That I love you, Cat. I fucking love you.”

“What!” Cat squeaks, sounding as terrified as the very first time we spoke.

I laugh and then I kiss her, harder than I ever have before.