Chapter 2
The next morning, I lie in bed, staring up at my hands, flipping them back and forth.
I’ve returned to normal again, relatively speaking.
The storm’s charge has ebbed, and I’m no longer glowing with Spark.
I can extinguish the energy by smothering the points of light with a pinch of my fingers like embers from a fire, but I prefer to let them linger, hanging on to the bliss as long as I can.
Otherwise, they dissipate on their own after a few hours.
The clouds have cleared, and bright light filters through my window. Slowly, I sit up, rolling my shoulders with the phantom sensation of Spark dancing under my skin. It takes a moment to orient myself to the present, as my thoughts remain muddled and fuzzy.
I’ve discovered that if I go too long without a “hit,” I grow anxious and itchy, like my skin is too tight, and I have no choice but to give in to it. But I can never be seen, so I’ve had to get creative.
My stomach twists. Being at Amery Academy, where I’ll be surrounded by people at all hours of the day, will make my secrets harder to keep.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stare around my little-girl room, even brighter and frillier in the morning light. I don’t know why I’ve never updated the decor. Maybe a part of me thought I’d never have to grow up if I was always surrounded by my little-girl things.
But as my gaze snags on the Amery uniform hanging in the open closet, I understand everything moves forward whether I want it to or not. Today, I will embark on the next chapter of my life.
It’s not like my childhood was anything to cherish anyway.
After heaving myself up, I approach the window and peer at the plaza below. Whoever was blitzed last night was already cleared away by the sweepers after the storm.
Sometimes, we’re given a warning, and sometimes, the storm comes from nothing.
We’re well-protected in our Society apartments thanks to the fully manned Storm Towers strategically placed on the roofs of our neighbor-hood.
However, even that isn’t guaranteed, as evidenced by someone’s blitzing at the party last night.
More Storm Towers surround the city’s perimeter, each one manned by a group of Storm Breakers who have undergone years of intense training.
When an Empire Storm hits, they help deflect whatever Spark General Sol can’t use for the generators with specialized wands that direct the energy away from the city and into the Towers, which safely ground the charge into the earth.
My phone lights up with an early-morning message from The Shield, our triumvirate government made up of two chancellors and General Sol.
Their round emblem features a shield in the center, depicting four different quadrants—one for each House—and is surrounded by the curved, scripted font of New Manhattan’s motto: Protect. Preserve. Prosper.
Every device in the city is temporarily overridden for exactly seventy-six seconds at precisely eight thirty each day, while we’re reminded of the four Houses and their role in maintaining the peace and prosperity of New Manhattan.
Technically, we’re supposed to stop whatever we’re doing and give the message our full attention, so I sit and dutifully wait for the missive to end, only partly paying attention.
Once it’s over, my phone buzzes, and I see a notification from my friend group chat that includes Trinity, Silver Sato, and Hazel Chopra.
I skim through the messages, mostly about who made out with whom last night, until I see one that makes my heart freeze.
hazel: so surreal that Bethany got blitzed
As more rapid-fire texts fly across the screen, I clutch my phone, staring at it.
I think back to the charred body on the floor of Knox’s apartment with a shudder.
I want to feel bad for her, but a vindictive part of me is struggling to feel much remorse.
We grew up together, and yet I can’t recall a single time she said something nice to me.
I skim the rest of the texts, but it’s just more chatter about Bethany and her faults. I may not care that she’s dead, but I won’t revel in someone else’s pain. Something my father loves to point out as a weakness of mine.
I sigh and flip back to my main list of texts.
There are a few from Knox, wondering where I disappeared to last night and if I want to head to Amery with him soon. I don’t bother replying.
Instead, I head into the bathroom and shower quickly before pulling on my dress uniform for the first day of school—fitted black silk pants, high black boots with small buttons running down the sides, and a tailored black jacket with a high collar and flared waist. On the breast is a small crest depicting a flame, marking me as a member of House Fiama.
I grab the wide silver ribbon from the hanger and cinch it around my midsection, then tuck my small knife into my boot.
Both for protection and the reminder of my brother, who taught me how to use it.
I approach the mirror over the sink, inspecting my light-brown complexion and my midnight-purple hair with its brighter streaks.
I was sixteen when my natural black waves began to give way to this puzzling shift.
Some instinct told me I had to hide it then, and I’ve kept this secret from everyone else in my life, too.
The fact that so many people dye their hair has made it easy to get away with.
I’m sure it relates to my other secret, but I don’t entirely understand how.
Gently, I touch the thin, barely visible scar slicing across my cheekbone, courtesy of my father. He has a temper, especially when he’s drunk. I was seven years old when he lost a leadership vote to Delta Aziz, and he was dousing his failures in whiskey when I got in his way.
It would be three more years before my father finally won his coveted role as scion, and while the physical scars were healed and mostly erased by a team of doctors, I still wear them like fresh wounds on the inside. He never hit my face again, but that still left the rest of me as fair game.
I swipe on some makeup, covering the evidence of my past, and then some black liner and mascara to highlight the green eyes also inherited from my father. Most of my clothing has already been sent to my dorm room at Amery, and the only thing left to pack is a box with my personal effects.
I toss in my favorite blanket, a few more bits of clothing, skin care, shampoo, other hair stuff, and photos of me with Trinity and my family. I stare at Teddy sitting on my dresser. I can’t stand the thought of leaving him behind.
Quickly, I snatch him up and bury him under a sweater, and the tight knot in my chest immediately eases.
The last thing I do is put on my necklace that sits on my nightstand.
Besides Teddy, it’s my most precious possession.
A delicate chain dangles with a tiny gold mask encrusted with amethysts.
It was an offering from my mom after my father nearly killed me, as if jewelry was supposed to make it better.
Nevertheless, I’ve worn it every day since.
I pick up my box and carry it into the living room, planning to join my parents for breakfast and, more importantly, to make one last-ditch effort to appeal to my father about my future.
My boots squeak on the slick azure tiles as I approach the front door and set my box down for one of our staff to pick up and deliver to Amery soon.
I can’t believe this is my last day in this place.
The entire apartment, decorated in royal blue and silver, with blue silk walls and silver decor, hasn’t always felt like a home . . . but still.
I head toward the living room, which is furnished with velvet sofas and marble tables adorned with handwoven blankets crafted by my mother from bits of colorful scrap.
The organic designs are entirely at odds with the grandness of the decor, but her art makes her happy.
When I round the corner, my parents look up from the long glass table at the far end of the penthouse.
“Poet,” my father says, eyeing me up and down as I approach. I can’t tell if it’s with pride or suspicion. Maybe a little of both. “It’s nice to see you in Amery black and silver.”
My chin dips in acknowledgment, a silent question sitting on the tip of my tongue. For years, we’ve argued about my desire to become a Storm Breaker until he shut down the entire conversation with a whispered threat that plagued my thoughts for weeks.
So, I gave up. Temporarily.
I take my usual place next to my mother, settling into the white upholstered chair before our cook-slash-maid bustles out of the kitchen. Cara sets a plate of cheese, cured meat, and a small bowl of fruit in front of me.
Our multistory greenhouses and barns are located at the island’s south end in an area once known as Wall Street.
Food production and distribution are carefully monitored and controlled by House Tera, another of New Manhattan’s four Houses that constitute the upper echelons of Society.
Thanks to careful temperature and humidity control, they provide us with animal products, fruits, and vegetables once native to places that no longer exist.
These were things they enjoyed in abundance during the Warming Age, the one where humanity treated their planet like it was there only to serve them, until violent weather and flooding wiped almost every person off the earth.
After Cara pours me a cup of coffee, she hustles back into the kitchen, and I eat in silence alongside my parents.
My father scrolls on his tablet, undoubtedly catching up on the morning news. “Bloody Hollows caused a riot last night,” he mumbles to himself. “Third time this month. Might need to recruit some additional Patrols.”