Chapter 3 #2
There are two primary ways to join a House and become a member of Society. The first is to be invited by a scion. The other is to send your child to Amery and hope they can earn a pledge.
I catch the eye of a girl with medium-brown skin and long black hair that falls in soft waves around her shoulders. I offer a little wave to hopefully ease some of her tension. It takes her a moment to realize I’m addressing her, and she returns the tiniest smile.
“Poet,” says Mrs. Robins, wrapping me in a hug. “We’ll miss you both so much.”
“We won’t be far,” I say, squeezing her tightly as a knot expands in my chest.
“I know, but it won’t be the same, will it?”
She’s been like a mother to me when my own couldn’t be the one I needed. It’s not the same as having my parents here, but I suppose it’s the next best thing.
After another round of goodbyes, the parents hop into their gondola to return home. A moment later, our friends Silver and Hazel wander over. Silver is aptly named, with her long platinum hair streaked with deep purple, while Hazel sports a mass of pale lilac curls.
We embrace in a flurry of excited squeals, chattering about our classes and options, upcoming parties, and nights out.
I spot Knox, hovering near the wall, with his arm draped around Winter Jenkins, his posture languid. It’s like he’s incapable of standing up on his own strength.
I recall my father grumbling about Winter’s dad at breakfast. Cameron Jenkins has been attempting to undermine my father ever since he was sworn in as scion, angling for the position himself.
When Knox spots me, he unwinds himself and strides over, his gaze traveling from head to toe. I never understand what he sees when he looks at me.
When we were younger, we were friends. We even liked each other. He would flatter me, telling me I was smart and pretty and that he couldn’t wait to marry me.
Apparently, not pretty enough, because I clearly fell short. We were seven-teen when we had sex, a decision I’ve regretted every day.
In my naivete, I thought maybe he’d be loyal to me if I caved to his needs. The very next day, he hooked up with someone else, and I haven’t touched him or anyone else that way since.
“Poet,” he says, snagging my wrist. I tense up, but if he notices, he doesn’t care.
This is another thing I hate about Knox.
He doesn’t want me but still wants everyone to know I’m his.
Despite my apparent shortcomings, I’m still the daughter of one of the most powerful men in New Manhattan.
Knox’s entire future relies on me, and while that offers a certain kind of value, it isn’t worth much.
He tugs me over to his circle of friends, his arm claiming my shoulders as he leans heavily against me like I’m here just to prop him up, both literally and figuratively. I take a calming breath.
“Knox!” exclaims Lacey, flicking her long blond hair over one shoulder. “Will you sit with me at dinner tonight?”
She pouts, stoking the flash of rage that burns in my chest. I’m just a fucking joke to everyone, no better than my mother, forced to endure my father’s transgressions with a pained smile plastered to my face.
“Sure thing, baby,” he replies and points at her with his finger and thumb cocked. Bile climbs up my throat for a whole slew of reasons.
Lacey beams and then tosses me a dirty look. I remind myself that she can’t help how she’s acting. Most girls are taught to believe it’s better to be like my mother, protected by a powerful man. The reminder only marginally cools my anger.
A bell dings somewhere over our heads, and a door swings open. I scan the shifting tide for Trinity, Silver, and Hazel, but it looks like they didn’t follow us over. Not that I blame them.
I’m trapped under Knox’s elbow as he propels us into a wide tunnel. We wind through a few corners before we find ourselves in Amery’s great main hall.
I’ve seen pictures, but nothing quite prepares me for the grandness of it all.
The floors are shiny wood inlaid with floral and geometric designs, the walls lined with arched windows decorated with metallic gold and silver frames.
To top it all off, four massive crystal chandeliers dangle from a domed ceiling covered with mirrors.
I don’t have time to truly admire everything because a booming voice shouts, “Everyone! Please line up. Everyone!”
Several men and women in teachers’ uniforms shout at us to arrange ourselves in lines marked on the floor. Their attire resembles ours, with black fitted pants and coats, tall black boots, and wide ribbons cinched around their waists, but with gold accents instead of silver.
It takes a few minutes and some jostling to form four groups.
I stand with House Fiama between Knox and Trinity, facing the center of the room. Across from us, House Aria assesses our lines, and the teachers slowly walk past, eyeing us carefully, perhaps deciding who will survive the next three years and who . . . won’t.
A glance to my left shows the cog kids have randomly slotted themselves into each House.
That’s when the doors open at the room’s far end.
A hushed murmur ripples through the crowd as a trio of Storm Breakers emerges.
They’re dressed in their tactical gear that includes fitted black pants and sleeveless vests overlaid with metallic purple harnesses designed to highlight the chiseled strength of their carefully honed bodies.
The two men and one woman also wear sleek, high-tech goggles propped on their foreheads to protect their eyes from flashes of Spark. They proceed down the center of the hall as everyone falls silent.
They’re beautiful and intimidating. Absolutely fearless. Slowly, they walk the length of the aisle in their metallic purple combat boots, and I find myself straightening and holding my breath.
I don’t care what my father wants; this is why I came to the academy.
With my ability to withstand Spark, I could help protect my city, family, and friends.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. And maybe if I can prove that I’m useful and good at it, it will give me a bit of freedom from the controlling grip of my father’s hand.
As they pass, I recognize Henry, my brother’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. I haven’t seen him since the funeral, when he cried so hard he almost had to be carried away.
He seems older. Harder.
He’s also sporting a beard that looks good against his deep-brown skin, and he’s buzzed his black curls close to his scalp. I can’t help but smile to myself. Raine would have loved this new Henry.
His gaze catches mine for the barest fraction, and his lips press together before he proceeds like he doesn’t know me. We were never close, but his dismissal twists a prick of longing deep in my chest.
After the trio leaves the room, everyone bursts into a flurry of excited talk.
Storm Breakers always carry a sort of magnetic pull.
Not only must one be at their physical peak, but they must also be mentally fit. Nothing is more important than the line that protects New Manhattan.
“Please!” comes the same booming voice, trying to settle us down. “Can we please have silence!”
Eventually, everyone quiets before we’re introduced to the school’s head, Dean Selena Withers, whose piercing blue eyes scan the room. She’s a tiny woman with a ramrod-straight posture, her smart black suit contrasting nicely with her fair skin.
My chest tightens as I spot a silver pin with the House Fiama crest on her collar. The dean will be loyal to my father, then, and I make a mental note to stay out of her way.
Next to her stands one of the leaders of The Shield, Chancellor Tennessee Marks, who governs House Aria and House Fiama.
He greets us with an amiable smile, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
He wears a long navy robe over a dark suit, and his brown hair falls in messy tangles around his face.
Thanks to my father’s position, Chancellor Marks is a regular fixture for dinner at my parents’ apartment, and he’s always struck me as a reasonable and fair leader.
Dean Withers begins reciting the academy’s rules in a clipped voice.
We have an eleven p.m. curfew. We aren’t allowed to leave the premises without permission, except on one Friday night per month, when we’re permitted to visit the city until one a.m. No stealing, killing, starting fights, and all the usual things one would expect when a few hundred hormonal young adults are forced to share a building.
While the dean speaks, my palms start to itch, and I scratch them absently. A storm must be brewing. I force myself to hold my hands at the small of my back, all too aware of how many eyes are in this room.
Dean Withers is giving us a rundown of our class timetables when we’re interrupted again by the tall double doors at the far end of the hall slamming open. The dean’s speech cuts off as everyone looks over to see sunlight pouring into the room, revealing a silhouetted figure.
Someone else has arrived.
Footsteps echo around the space as the stranger enters and then stops a few feet away from where I’m standing. His posture is almost preternaturally still while he stares down the length of the hall. His wavy, chin-length hair is so dark that it almost looks purple as he tips his head.
He wears a fitted black T-shirt and jeans. And a pair of cowboy boots, worn and battered. I’ve never seen cowboy boots except in movies. A silver piercing glints in the arch of his left eyebrow as his intense gaze sweeps over the room.
High cheekbones. A strong jaw. White skin lightly tanned with a dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose.
I’ve always liked freckles.
He looks capable. Confident. Makes Knox seem like a little boy.
Both of his arms reveal a swirl of black tattoos that do nothing to obscure the power coiled beneath his skin. He’s huge. Towering over us like some kind of vengeful god.
He looks too different to be Society. A cog, perhaps?
I’ve seen photos of how people once inked their bodies and pierced them with bits of metal in the Warming Age, but only one group wears those markings now.
Which can only mean . . .
A Solitude.
But he looks nothing like I’ve ever imagined.
While the storms are the biggest threat to New Manhattan, Solitudes are a close second.
A hundred years ago, they organized themselves and invaded the city with rusty, makeshift weapons.
They were after our food and supplies and managed to kill thousands of our people before they were finally subdued.
The Solitudes were driven out, except for one concession: they would be allowed to send a handful of children per year to school in New Manhattan so they could escape their old lives and be integrated into our civilized world.
It was an attempt to bridge the divide between our people. A show of benevolence from our leaders.
Of course, I’ve never heard of it actually happening before.
No one in the room seems to breathe as the stranger makes his way down the center aisle, one slow step at a time.
He approaches Chancellor Marks and Dean Withers with the loose gait of a predator who’s assured of his kill. I can tell from the stunned looks on their faces that neither of them was expecting him today.
He reaches the front of the room and runs his fingers through his mane of thick hair.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says in a deep voice that I swear causes every person in the room to swallow. “I hear this is where I can join the academy.”