Chapter 5
First Assembly of the school year, and it’s utterly, irrevocably wrong.
Why?
Because Wes and Donovan are not here, standing beside me. Ruling the academy with me.
Fuck my life.
And then there’s Larrisa Crankshawe. Hmm, I haven't got her measure yet, but the new dean would be monumentally stupid to cross me. The only thing I have on her is that her brother is a member of The Conclave, which means my father owns him.
My father's influence stretches all the way to the top. Everyone dances to his tune.
I decide to give a wide bypass to the ‘Italian feast’ in the cafeteria.
Undoubtedly, it would be a bastardized American-Italian version of my favorite cuisine, and I just can’t tolerate even the thought of it.
Retreating to the sanctuary of Electis Tower is the only option.
Some drone from the staff handles getting me an alternative meal.
What’s her name? Donna? Daisy? Something with a D, like the size of her fake tits. Irrelevant.
Also irrelevant was her offer to suck me off. I’d had a fleeting flicker of interest, but quashed it immediately. Staff are off-limits. I don’t mess with the help.
Still, she’s perfectly capable of rustling up my favorite Ferrante's dishes. I throw open the door to my suite, revealing D-cup herself, presenting the steaming bowls of pasta with a flourish.
Darcy? Maybe.
I toss a wad of bills in her vicinity. “Appreciate it. You can go now.” Her wide, vacant eyes start an eyelash flutter routine. I don’t bother to suppress a sigh. “That will be all, Darcy.”
“It’s Dharla,” she mutters, an angry flush staining her cheeks.
Ha. Knew it started with a D. “Close the door on your way out.”
As she’s about to make her exit, Manu and Troy come barrelling through the apartment door. Dharla/Darcy plasters on a saccharine, nervous smile and bats her eyelashes some more.
Troy bulldozes past her, but Manu’s hand finds purchase on her ass. Predictably, she giggles, followed by the obligatory lip bite and the hair twirl. The humans here in Havengard are always desperate for a taste of magic. Pathetic. They should stay in their lane.
“Looking for some fun, mama?” Manu slings an arm around her shoulders, his fingers grazing her breast.
“I love fun!” The woman seems eager to be dragged into Manu’s bedroom; more fool her. There is something off about Manu Hale. The jock facade is paper-thin, revealing a disturbing serial-killer style hollowness in his eyes.
This year, he’d clawed his way to second in the Elite rankings. This meant he and his Neanderthal friend, Troy Farrington, who was ranked third, were now my unwelcome roommates.
Another bedroom door slams open, and the twat himself swaggers back out and over to the liquor cabinet.
Troy takes my Irish whiskey, slops a generous amount into a tumbler, then turns, offering me a drink with a smug tilt of his head.
My teeth grind together, not impressed by his attitude.
At some point soon, I’m going to have to set some ground rules.
i.e., I rule this school and my word is law.
Fuck.
The standard of the Elite is plummeting. Last year, as a mere sophomore, I topped the rankings. Now? No one even comes close; certainly not the likes of Manu Hale.
Though I’m surprised Troy Farrington is so feeble, considering his parents are Conclave members.
It seems like the only Elites worth keeping an eye are fucking Jordan Singleton-Smith, and a freshman, Francois de Vaux.
Power pulses from them both, though de Vaux is more subtle than Jordan, just quietly observing everything.
But, however skilled that young Elite may be, he won’t match Dono and Wes.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Regret isn’t an emotion I indulge in often, but the twins—that is a wound that refuses to heal, constantly raw. I would fix it, but they’d made their choice. Which was a monumental fuck-up on their side of the equation.
“You scope out any fresh meat yet?” Troy’s tiresome voice drags me back to the here and now. “I saw a couple of eager little sluts I wouldn’t mind breaking in.”
No, I won’t be ‘scoping out’ the freshmen girls. I’m not interested in blushing virgins.
Troy starts shoveling my cacio e pepe into his mouth. “Isn’t there any fucking meat in this?” he grumbles, oblivious.
“Cacio e pepe means cheese and pepper. It’s simple but nearly impossible to perfectly execute,” I say, the words lost on him as he roots around in the refrigerator. He emerges, clutching cold cuts triumphantly. “Better,” he declares, chewing with his mouth open.
“That is jamón ibérico,” I say. “Spanish Iberian ham.”
“Cool.”
A slice of the ($200/lb) meticulously cured meat slips onto the floor. Troy ignores it and turns back to the pasta. Fuck this imbecile. With a flick of my fingers, I send a sharp gust of air across the room, slapping Troy's moronic face.
“Hey!” he snarls, a fork clattering to the polished floor to join the ham. His fists clench, but the fight drains out of him before it has even begun. Pathetic. “Pick up your mess,” I snarl, and he complies. The utter lack of challenge is mind-numbingly boring.
The twins challenged me.
And in the end, they’d won.
A knock echoes at the apartment door. I flick my gaze to Troy and incline my head. He groans but lumbers to answer it. A nervous Communis student stands in the hallway.
“Come in, Simon,” I say, giving Troy a dismissive wave of my hand. “What have you got?” My network of informants is crucial. I have ears and eyes everywhere, gathering information. I loathe being out of the loop.
“Oh, well, Mr. Drakeward, it’s….” Simon tugs at the hem of his hideous gray blazer, his gaze fixed on the parquet.
“Well?” I prompt, my patience wearing thin despite Simon’s past usefulness.
“It’s a new girl,” he mumbles, a sweat breaking out on his upper lip. “I thought you should know.”
New girl?
“Know what, Simon? Spit it out.”
He fidgets, his anxiety radiating off him in waves. “Simon?” I repeat, my tone softening slightly. He knows better than to waste my time.
“The British AUA. The one who was here last year for a few weeks. The ones your friends liked…”
Theodora Fucking Cunt Wilson.
“What about her?” I snarl. Even her name is like poison to me.
“She’s, she’s here, sir.”
“Here?” My mind short-circuits. She’s here? At Validus Vale?
Simon nods. “In with the remedials. I heard she got the Guggenheimer Scholarship.”
I keep my breathing even, refusing to show a scrap of emotion. “Did she come alone?”
“Yes, sir. It’s just her. Arrived this afternoon.”
As the shock wears off, I realize this is a very interesting turn of events. Very interesting indeed. “You can go, Simon.” I hand him $100. Loyalty has its rewards. “And keep tabs on her. Daily reports.” He practically bows as he scuttles out.
“Who’s this Wilson chick?” Troy slurs, filling his glass again. “You gonna fuck her up, bro?” I ignore him, my mind in a storm.
She came back—and without the twins.
“Dude?”
Something snaps. I can’t tolerate this asinine moron polluting my space for another second. “I am not your bro. Or your dude. Don’t speak to me, don’t touch my food, and don’t drink my whisky. Understood? I don’t even want you in the same room as me.”
“Fuck you, asshole.” Troy slams his glass down, the crystal thankfully heavy enough not to break under the force. “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m the third-highest-ranked witch in this fucking academy, and you know who my father is.”
“And my family makes yours look like a convent of nuns. Don’t test me, Troy. I am not in the mood.”
He glares, then stalks off, knowing better than to push back.
“Am I going to fuck Theodora Wilson up?” I hiss at the empty space once his bedroom door slams shut.
My gaze drifts to the wide leather sofa, the ghost of laughter echoing in my memory from the nights hanging out with Donovan and Wes.
I’d be trying to read, and they’d be goofing around, making fun of my taste in literature.
Donovan waves a glass in front of my face. “I made a cocktail just for you, Cos.”
I looked at the dubious concoction and raised an eyebrow.
“It’s Down Rum Toddy? Get it? Say it fast.” He lets out a giggle, and behind him, Wes grins.
“Down rum toddy?”
Donovan starts chanting it over and over, then cracks up. “Downton Abbey! Like your posh show.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. They’d have been drinking French 75s in the early twentieth century. You can make me one of those.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Donovan falls to his knees, bowing and giggling.
Being with them allowed me moments where I felt young and almost free.
Yeah. I’m going to fuck her up. And once she’s broken, I’ll get my twins back. Because if she’s here, they won’t be far behind.
Theodora Wilson has no fucking idea what’s coming for her.