Storm of Shadows (The Firestone Academy #1)

Chapter 1

Briony

Snowflakes swirl in the gray sky, catching in my hair and my eyelashes and the cold is biting. I blink them away and hug my bag more tightly to my chest, trying to ignore the stiffness in my fingers, the wetness creeping in through my boots and the ache in my chest.

I can’t decide if I’m pleased to be leaving Slate Quarter for the academy or really pretty furious about it.

It doesn’t matter either way. I’m going. I don’t exactly have a choice in the matter.

I glance down the platform at the other kids my age, surrounded by family and friends – hugging each other close, wiping tears from their eyes, laughing and joking.

There’s a sense of anticipation in the air, of excitement. I can practically taste it on the end of my tongue. These kids actually believe this is their ticket out of here. Their tickets to better things.

I snap my head away.

They’re fucking deluded.

And, actually, not kids anymore either.

Young adults – that’s what they call us when we hit twenty-one and that’s why we’re all lined up waiting for the train that’s going to whisk us away to the Firestone Academy.

The old clock on the wall, its face cracked, ticks another minute.

Monday, January 3rd. 8:57am.

The train will be here in three.

My dad isn’t coming to see me off.

Why am I even surprised?

He makes all sorts of promises in the evening, rarely keeps them in the morning. I know that, so why the hell did I think this time would be any different? Just because I’m leaving. Just because he swore on his life. The pull of the tavern has always been more alluring than the pull of his only daughter.

Only remaining daughter.

I swallow hard, trying not to think of that. Of the last time I stood on this platform waiting for this train. That day had been filled with glorious sunshine – rare out here in Slate Quarter – and my stomach had been full of that same excitement and anticipation that’s buzzing around today.

I don’t think it’s full of anything today. Mostly because Muriel refused me breakfast. Partly because it’s been years since I felt anything at all.

In front of me, the rail tracks vibrate, then rattle and then the station fills with the roar of the train. The people down the platform pick up bags, grab last-minute embraces, and kiss each other’s cheeks.

I simply clutch my rucksack and wait as the train slides into the station, halting with a hiss like a giant silver snake, the blacked-out windows of the engine like soulless eyes. It’s eerie and, as the doors part and an announcement instructs all young Slate Quarter adults to board, I can’t help but feel like we’re about to step inside the stomach of a monster.

I’ve no one to hug. No one to say my goodbyes to. Not even someone to wave to. So I climb on board, walking as far down the carriages as I can until I’m right at the front of the train and there’s nowhere else to go. I pick a bench on the far side from the platform and slide along to the window.

I’ve no interest in watching any more of the spectacle out there on the platform – a reminder that others have people who actually give a damn about them. I’m more than aware of that.

It takes a few more minutes and another announcement over the loudspeaker, and then the others board the train – a trickle at first, just one or two. Then groups of friends, chatting away animatedly, talking over one another, so damn excited. The noise makes me wince.

No one picks the seat next to me on the bench, but I keep my bag on my lap anyway, clinging it tightly to my chest. I lean my head against the frigid pane of glass and close my eyes.

Soon, the train jolts and then slithers forward. I don’t bother to open my eyes, to watch my home slip away from sight. It hasn’t felt like home for a long time. I don’t care if I’m leaving, even if I have no desire at all to go where we’re headed.

Around me, the other kids keep right on chattering like monkeys locked in a cage. I wish I had a way to block out all the noise. I wish I was out in the forest, away from everything and everyone. I’ve never ‘peopled’ very well.

Or maybe I did once.

Then things changed.

Unfortunately, like everyone else on this train, I have no special powers, no remarkable abilities. I don’t have a way to silence all the voices or block out all the sound. Just like them, I’ll endure a year of hell at the academy – tested, assessed, probed to the extreme. Only for them to find out just how ordinary we all are and send us straight back to Slate Quarter.

An hour passes and another. Somewhere along the journey, I open my eyes and watch the passing landscapes outside the window. I can’t help it. I’ve never left Slate Quarter before. This is the furthest I’ve ever been from home, and I am curious.

At first, it’s all snow and ragged crops of mountains as far as the eyes can see, then gradually it thaws and trees and grass spring up from the ground – so much green it makes my head buzz. I want to press my nose against the glass and breathe it all in, pretend this is some magical adventure and not the start of a year of pain.

Unfortunately, any hope of escaping into a comforting daydream is interrupted by the slamming open of the carriage door. I should ignore whoever is swaggering through the doorway, but that damn curiosity of mine gets the better of me and I can’t help peering over my shoulder.

Stanley Chandlers and his band of merry meatheads.

For a second, I catch his eyes and his top lip – one I’ve kissed – curls in disgust. Then I snatch my head back round and stare straight ahead.

I’m not interested in any of his bullshit.

“Hello, friends,” he snarls, and I can almost hear the others in the carriage shaking around me. Seriously, and they think they’re actually going to make it through Firestone Academy? That they’ll return home heroes to their families and not in a body bag?

I’d roll my eyes, but I know it’ll only provoke a jerk like Stanley.

“You know the drill,” he says, striding into the middle of the carriage, hands deep in his worn pant pockets. “Open your bags and hand over your lunches.”

There’s a menace in his voice, at odds to his laid-back demeanor, and no one argues. There’s rustling as people unzip bags and root around for their lunches – lunches their moms probably packed with care.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Stanley’s gang move around the carriage, snatching boxes and parcels of food, irritatingly smug grins plastered across their faces.

I turn my attention back to the window.

“And you too, Storm.” I feel a hand slap down on my shoulder and then his hoarse voice by my ear. “We all know you think you’re special or some such shit. You’re not. Give me your lunch.”

I’m trapped. My usual method of escape – running as fast as I freaking well can – is not an option. The only place to run to is right off the end of the carriage, onto the tracks, and most probably under the wheels of the train.

I snap my head around and glare at him. “Why? Did your mom forget to pack you one?”

It’s a low blow. One I know will hit him hard. I doubt anyone else knows about his mom. Only me.

His brow furrows, his eyes turn cruel, and he shakes me so damn hard I feel my brain rattle against my skull.

It’s hard to remember the sweet boy he used to be, the one I spent that summer with three years ago. The one who was my friend. The one I kissed.

That was before he got tall and big and popular.

“Give me your fucking lunch, bitch,” he snarls.

I keep my face blank. I learned from Muriel that if you show nothing, it makes them even madder. They want tears. They want anger. It’s best if you don’t give them anything at all.

“I don’t have any,” I say robotically.

He slams me back against the seat. The carriage is silent except for the rattle of the train on the tracks and the wind whistling past the windows. Everyone else is still, watching us.

“You’re lying.” He takes a fistful of the collar of my thin jacket. “You think you’re special.”

“I don’t,” I whisper.

“You think you’re going to get to the academy and they’re going to see how smart you are and you’ll be assigned Granite Quarter. But you’re wrong. You’re fucking stupid. There’s only a handful of us who are going to make it through the academy with enough points to be assigned some better quarter – who aren’t going back to that shithole. And you won’t be with us.”

For once, he may actually be right. Although, I doubt it will be as many as a handful. One or two, possibly. Stanley, though, has a good chance. He’s strong and athletic – he certainly won’t make it to Granite Quarter with all the nerds and scholars, definitely won’t be going to Onyx Quarter with the shadow weavers, but he has a good chance of Iron Quarter with all the other jocks and soldiers.

“Oh - kay,” I say slowly, as if what he’s saying is the most boring thing I’ve ever heard.

His expression hardens further. Since his glow up, he’s been used to people treating him with respect. I can sense the blood in his veins boiling.

“Last chance, you little slut.”

I snort.

And he slams his fist right into my face. I hear my cheek crack and pain spirals right across my face and into the recesses of my skull. My mouth fills with the warm coppery taste of blood and my vision multiplies.

Despite the pain, I wrap my arms tightly around my bag and clutch it to my chest. He tugs on it, but I cling all the harder, refusing to let it go.

“You’re going to regret this,” he snarls, swinging his fist into my ribs and then against the side of my head.

I expect him to keep swinging, to beat me until I’m unconscious and he can take the bag from my limp arms. He doesn’t. He stops and stalks away with his treasure, the carriage door slamming shut behind him.

He knows I’m not lying.

There may be something hidden in my bag, but it isn’t lunch.