Chapter 5
We wind through the creamy marble halls of Amery Academy, passing carved statues, polished mirrors, and gilded paintings, many of them salvaged from old museums. A line of students files down a wide, curving staircase, including first-years like us, second-years marked by their green tunics and ribbon accents, and third-years marked by red.
Trinity and I exchange wary looks as a group of massive third-years barrels past us, their conversation loud and intrusive.
A group of Storm Guard cadets.
They wear sleeveless purple shirts that stretch over muscles to reveal defined arms and capable hands, bodies honed for combat and withstanding Spark.
Spark travels most efficiently through blood and muscle versus bone or fat. Thus, Storm Guards strive to be as lean and built as possible, maybe even taking it a bit too far.
“My word,” Trinity whispers, clutching my arm.
The men pass in a cloud of cologne and unwavering male confidence.
“Trinity,” I say, feigning shock. “You have a boyfriend.”
Obviously, I know she loves Edward with all her heart.
She grins and flutters her lashes. “That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the view.”
At that, we both cock our heads, staring at the extremely tight ass of one of the third-years as he lopes down the stairs.
“View, indeed,” I say, and we burst into giggles.
“What’s so funny?” Edward asks a moment later.
“Nothing,” Trinity says, throwing her arms around his neck. “Just that I love you.”
A line forms between his brows, but his hands come to her waist, and he kisses her before they break apart. “Hungry?” he asks us.
“Not really,” I say as my skin explodes with another rash of itching. I roll my shoulders as Trinity gives me a worried look. “But I think we’re expected to show up.”
We join the flow of students and approach a wide arch leading to a massive cafeteria where the delicious smell of home-cooked food fills the air.
An aisle runs down the center, and the room is crammed with dozens of long white tables with little stools attached at equal intervals.
Unsurprisingly, we’ve carefully and intentionally divided along perceived Society lines with Fiama, Aria, Asale, and Tera each occupying a corner.
The walls are lined with crisp white tiles, echoing the chatter against the high ceilings.
At the far end of the room hang massive portraits of each current member of The Shield: General Sol, Chancellor Marks, and Chancellor Colt Orsen, like they’re watching over us even when they aren’t here.
I’ve only met Chancellor Orsen a handful of times. He’s an austere man, with dark hair cut in a precise manner and little humor about him.
I’ve never met General Sol in person, only seen her at a distance, though my father convenes with her regularly and my parents have dinner at her penthouse occasionally. She never married or had children, despite that being the expectation within Society.
“Poet,” Trinity says. “Let’s get in line.”
I turn my attention away from the portraits and follow my friend to the food counter at the room’s far side, where we meet up with Silver and Hazel.
We pass tables full of students wearing second-year green and third-year red, along with others in Storm Guard cadet purple. Some glare and some smirk, enjoying our uncertainty in this new environment.
In the corner, I spot a group of E-squad recruits wearing burgundy, though I think it looks more like dried blood. I shiver as another rash of itching creeps across my scalp.
Extinguishers in training.
The elite force is managed by House Aria, due to the fact that infected Keepers are considered a mental health issue that must be managed and mitigated for the good of everyone. Thus, one of their main responsibilities is to root out Spark Keepers—something they take very seriously.
Their methods are very secretive, but they claim they’re just trying to protect infected Keepers from themselves. All anyone knows is that when an Extinguisher comes for someone, they’re never seen again.
Hence, I need to do my best to keep my distance from any member of Aria.
Thankfully, I’ve heard they also keep to themselves, and that seems obvious in the way they’re hunched together, their heads close, making my skin crawl.
“How’s your room?” I ask Silver, who’s reaching for a metal cafeteria tray.
“We’re with Jade and Apple,” she says, naming two other Fiama Society girls we’re friendly with.
“Lucky,” I say as we both watch Winter and Lacey carrying their food to a table.
“Just ignore them,” she says. “They’re just scared bullies.”
I shrug and then turn my attention back to the counter to study the options. The food at Amery is generally regarded as top-notch. We’re all used to the best. I opt for a brie-and-tomato sandwich and some iced tea before I follow my friends to a few empty seats.
“Poet!” a familiar voice bellows as my friends all settle around a table. “Poet!”
I clutch my tray and inhale a deep breath, slowly turning around. I could ignore him, but I know he’ll just come and physically retrieve me, and that would be even more humiliating.
“I’d better go.”
Trinity gives me a sympathetic look, and Hazel reaches out to squeeze my wrist. They never hold Knox’s behavior against me, something I’m endlessly grateful for.
“I’m sorry,” I say, walking away.
I drop my tray on the table and glare at Knox, but he doesn’t notice or care. Jackson and Sal, his two best friends, sit across from us. They’re all talking about their rooms and school and, most importantly, their pledges to House Fiama.
Jackson is a big guy. Broad shoulders, a wide chest, medium-brown skin, and close-cropped hair. He’s cocky and a bit intimidating to look at, but he’s actually a big softie.
Sal is Jackson’s complete opposite, comically so, with pale white skin, wild auburn hair, and a lanky frame. I like him less. His face is a bit too pretty. A fact he uses to treat girls with little respect.
Knox picks up his fork and immediately digs into his pasta Alfredo and fries, stacking everything onto his fork in one enormous bite.
A moment later, another gaggle of his hangers-on crowds around the table.
Verity McNichols drops into Sal’s lap and grinds her hips before wrapping her arm around the back of his head.
They kiss sloppily, with noticeable tongue, oblivious to everyone around them.
They’ve been on-again, off-again fuck buddies for months, but I like her, and I’m worried Sal’s just going to break her heart.
Or maybe she’ll break his. He’d kind of deserve it.
After they pull apart, she sits up and leans across the table, folding her arms.
“Hey, Poet,” she says with a grin, her olive skin crinkling around her blue eyes. She shoves two black braids behind her shoulders. “Having fun yet?”
“You could say that,” I answer with an eye roll as Knox wraps an arm around my neck and pulls me against him while he basks in the admiration of his “fans.” Bile climbs the back of my throat as I’m trapped against his chest. I stiffen, but I don’t pull away.
I learned long ago it’s best if I let him stake his claim first. Knox has the attention span of a goldfish.
Winter has made her way over, glaring at me, and I close my eyes, wishing I could convey how much I’d rather it were her being manhandled instead.
Someone tosses a bun in the air, and Knox lurches to catch it, nearly yanking me from my seat.
“Get off,” I growl, finally elbowing him in the ribs. “I’m trying to eat.”
Knox rolls his eyes but lets his arm fall away as he stabs a fry and stuffs it in his mouth. “Relax,” he says, like this is all my fault. “We’re here to have fun. You’re always so tense.”
Thanks to the combination of the storm and my bottomless loathing for Knox, I’m this close to losing my shit. I inhale deeply, trying to center myself and resist the desire to scratch my arms and legs.
My parents think I’m anxious, too, so I spent years with a therapist, learning how to settle my pounding heart and restless limbs. Of course, she couldn’t ever know the true source of my distress, so her methods were only partially effective.
I stare around the room, taking in the air of excitement mingling with a dose of apprehension. My gaze slides to Knox, who’s pouting as he stuffs more food in his mouth. Why do I feel the need to apologize? He’s far too good at acting like a jerk and then convincing me I’m the one who’s wrong.
That’s when I notice a slight disturbance near the door, several heads turning that way.
The Solitude from earlier stands there in that strange, still way.
He’s changed into an Amery uniform—a dark-gray T-shirt that stretches over his chest and fitted black pants with silver stripes running up the sides.
His cowboy boots have been exchanged for the academy’s standard black leather.
This close, I can see that his tattoos are actually maps with inked lines of topography and curving arcs representing rivers, lakes, and mountains.
For some reason, they make me think of freedom, and I can’t help but wonder why he chose them.
The room begins to quiet as more and more people take note of his presence. Knox makes a sound in his throat that’s half scoff, half grumble. Verity glances at him and then meets my gaze, her eyebrows rising as if to say, Get a look at him.
The Solitude rolls his neck before he heads for the food counter and picks up a tray, whispers following his every move.
Knox glares as he stuffs another bundle of noodles into his mouth.
He chews slowly, intentionally. Like he’s planning something, and I already know it will be painfully senseless.
A moment later, a bullhorn slices through the silence, sending a collective flinch around the room.
“Welcome, first-years!” comes a deep male voice from the far end, where several third-years in red and purple are gathered.
I recognize the speaker as one of the Storm Guard cadets we saw earlier—-the one with the nice ass.