Chapter 4
My new friends are sadly on point about the state of the water temperature.
I make do with a cold spit-wash in the stained sink.
After dressing in the Defectivum uniform, I feel dirty, ugly, and ridiculous. The outfit is a mix between Sailor Fuko and a UPS delivery driver, though that combination even sounds better than the humiliation of what I’m wearing.
“You look nice,” Duncan tells me as I meet up with him and Willow. It doesn’t take a mind-reader to know that’s bullshit.
“Uh-huh, sure I do.” I narrow my eyes at Willow. “How come your blazer looks so much better than mine?” It’s subtle, but there’s something about what she’s wearing that has more style.
She gives me a sheepish look. “My parents paid to have it tailored, and this polyester blouse may have been remade in modal.” My eyes drift to Duncan, who is drowning in clothing several sizes too big.
He shrugs. “As you can tell, my parents don’t do any of that pampering stuff for me.
I’m the youngest, and everyone’s basically given up on Duncan amounting to much.
” He twirls his fingers in the air, pretending to spellcast. “I’m the disappointment of our family line,” he adds.
“The first time a Links has been a remedial, plus all my siblings play FateBall, three of them professionally, and I’m more into writing code than wrestling jocks so wah-wah-wah,” he sad-trombones.
“Poor Pa, he lives in a mojo dojo casa house—and I’m just a Ken. ”
Poor Duncan. He’s making light of it all, but it’s obvious that years of pain and hurt are hidden behind his words.
“Parents are the worst,” sighs Willow as she pulls on my sleeve. “Come on, we mustn’t be late.”
I wish my parents had lived long enough for me to be frustrated with them. Their last words ring in my head.
“Don’t let the WMO find you, my sweet Theo,” Mum had whispered, without opening her eyes.
“And if someone discovers your secret...run,” Dad had croaked, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. I’d lain, pinned under a crumpled door until a passing delivery driver had found our smashed van.
Over the years, their voices faded. When I’d won the chance to spend six weeks at Validus Vale, I’d barely paused before accepting.
I loved my parents, but they had always been so strange, so consumed by fear.
Yes, me being a telepath was baffling, but thinking secret organizations were out to get us? That was paranoia—right?
Though now, in the back of my head, a small voice nags that I'm letting them down. They’d battled to keep me anonymous, and I’ve ended up right here in Havengard, the nerve center of the WMO instead of fleeing in the opposite direction. My parents would have been so disappointed.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Forgive me.”
“Eh?” asks Duncan.
“Nothing.”
He nods and goes back to his laptop. Duncan is staring at the screen and occasionally typing something one-handed as he walks.
The evening has the last remaining rays of golden sunlight casting a haze over the grounds, hiding the weeds around our housing, and making the place look like a beautiful painting.
“Validus Vale,” declares Willow, “is like a supermodel in a Vogue photoshoot. All perfect from the front, but take a peek behind and you’ll see her dress is clamped together at the back, and there are acres of tit tape giving her that cleavage.”
She pulls me closer and whispers, “I’m so glad you’re here. None of the other remedials are sociable, and Duncan is great, but gaming-obsessed. Can I audition to be your BFF?”
Warmth shoots through my veins. “Let's just cut to the chase and say we’re BFFs already.”
Sorry, roly-poly, you just got demoted.
Willow grins. “Phew! Strike that off our list of things to do. It’s been non-stop since move-in day.” She goes on to tell me about orientation and various meetings that I missed over the last few days. “No biggie, though, I’ve got your back.”
Duncan is several yards ahead of us, and we hustle to catch up.
We’re walking behind the other Defectivum kids; there must be a dozen of them in total.
They’re a quiet bunch, heads lowered down, trying to keep the lowest profile possible.
As we get onto the main driveway, we approach Communis House.
Now hundreds of students, dressed in the slate-gray uniforms that denote Ordinarii, are milling around and slowly heading toward the auditorium.
The head chatter is too much for my tired brain.
ASSEMBLY. If I really need a distraction, I challenge myself to find four-word letters or more. ASSEMBLY: Able, beam, base, beams, bases, mess, male, lame, males, messy.
“Where are you going?” Willow grabs my elbow as I’ve veered off the path, nearly stumbling into a marble phoenix. “This way, Theo.” She steers me back, and I see the Electi Tower looming.
My stomach flips.
Elite students come sauntering out. These young adults are a distinct breed altogether.
Generations of wealth and peak familial magic radiate from their pores, smoothing away any natural blemishes or physical imperfections.
The guys are broad-shouldered and athletic-looking.
The girls? Tall, leggy, and drop-dead gorgeous.
I don’t need to look down to see I’m their polar opposite: small, pale, and disheveled.
As we finally reach the main building, I pause again. Shit, this is it. Am I really doing this? The last time I’d seen Donovan and Wes, I had shiny, love-filled eyes (and was wearing the lottery student-intensive uniform—a very reasonable maroon with pink thread).
Now I’m piggy-eyed and sweating in brown polyester.
“Theo? You OK? I know it all looks intimidating, but we’ll stick together.
” Willow gives me a look that I know is meant to be reassuring, but for all her confidence, I can see she’s frayed at the edges as well.
Her inner thoughts flash into my brain. —Remember what Gramps said; I’m a Bloomhower and Bloomhower’s never back down from a battle—
What I wouldn’t give to have a loving relative give me pep talks.
Tilting my chin slightly in mock-assurance, I take one step forward, then another, until I’m through the threshold.
The echoing foyer, filled with marble pillars, chandeliers, and plaster molding in various scrolls and flourishes, channels the throngs towards the assembly hall.
We wait at the bottleneck, and I crane my neck to look inside. The focal point of the room is a long, raised stage, framed by heavy, velvet curtains. Two dozen professors are sitting on it in rows of chairs, mostly chatting. But one sprawls, reading a book, ignoring everyone around him.
“That guy,” I mutter, as we wait for the crowd to start moving again.
“Who?” asks Duncan.
“The one on the end, Professor Feniks? He picked me up from the airport and was not exactly welcoming.” I’m turning my eyes away when suddenly an elbow slams into my back.
“And what the fuck do we have here?”
Shitballs.
I’d know that whiny superior tone anywhere. Without needing to turn around, I easily guess Jordan Singleton-Smith is behind me. “All alone?” she sneers. “No surprise there. How long did it take for the twins to dump your trashy, worthless ass?”
Jordan puts her hands on my shoulders, spinning me around. Grabbing my chin with her dangerous pink nails, she forces me to look up into her perfect, awful face. “You should quit right now if you know what’s good for you,” she hisses. “You’ll never belong here.”
How can someone so beautiful be filled with so much venom?
It doesn’t seem fair. She pinches my face harder, and any second, I expect to feel small crescent moons of blood forming on my chin.
“You won’t last a week. But while you are, keep looking over your shoulder.
It’s not just me coming for you. Cosmo is going to destroy you. I’ll be in the front row watching.”
Gulp. I do not want to think about Cosmo Drakeward.
“Evening, ladies.” Little Professor Bilderblast suddenly stands between me and Jordan, forcing the Elite Queen Bee to retract her talons. “Let’s all take our seats now, shall we? Ms. Singleton-Smith, may I escort you?” Jordan, thankfully, has no choice but to take his arm.
I watch gratefully as the professor leads her to the Elite seating. Willow brings a hand up to my chin and examines it for damage. “Wow,” she whispers. “What a bitch. What did you do to deserve that? And who’s Cosmo?” —that was weird, how does Theo know her?—
“Long story,” I mumble, not wanting to get into how I’d become her number one target as soon as Donovan and Wes had taken an interest in me.
“You’ll have to fill me in sometime,” Willow says, giving me a hug. “I guess she thinks she’s all that because her dad is the WMO President.”
“What? Jordan’s dad?” No wonder she can get away with whatever she likes. “I knew her family was in politics, but not that powerful,” I sigh.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Duncan nods. “The last WMO President dropped dead a couple of months ago, and Alistair Singleton-Smith got voted in. Huge shocker to everyone.” He pauses, then adds, “Especially as his initials spell ASS.”
“Dare you to say that to his face,” Willow grins. “He’d probably have you beheaded.”
“Or iron-maidened,’ Duncan says.
Willow smacks him over the head. “You cannot turn iron maiden into a verb; your verbication is getting out of hand.”
While they bicker, I close my eyes and take some deep breaths. The cacophony of student thoughts pounding through my cerebellum is almost too much.
—Nice rack—who’s that?—where’s my bag?—ooh, he’s nice—somebody farted—hungry—
“Hurry up, duds!” We’re jostled from behind as the crowd starts moving again.
“Where do we sit?” I ask Willow, forcing dozens of different brain waves out of my head. “Are there assigned seats?”
“This is the first assembly, but, um, according to the handbook,” Duncan shifts from one foot to the other uncomfortably, “we sit in the front row.”