Chapter 7
As I slump down in my office chair, twirling a cigarette around my fingers, I delete the latest emailed complaint from Smithfield next door.
He’s always bitching about the smell, but until he comes and has a conversation with me, face to face, I’m not changing any of my habits—fucking kusip??.
I suck down some more nicotine, then park the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
Piles of paper litter the desk, and at a guess, there are at least a hundred unread emails flashing red in my inbox. Gods. Is all this worth it? I fucking hate students, and the faculty here are even worse. Almost half a year at Validus Vale and I’ve made nolla headway.
The original idea had been simple enough; get a job at the academy, then surreptitiously find out what the fuck had happened to Maximus.
It wasn’t exactly rocket science to spell Coach Oliver into deciding to take a sabbatical.
Getting myself hired as his replacement—slightly trickier, but doable.
It’s true that the best way to get people to do what you want is to make them think it was their idea in the first place.
A few whispered conversations in the right ears were all that was needed to convince the board that a ‘military rigour’ was essential for life at Validus Vale.
Omitting the fact that I’d been medically discharged because my left arm was fucked up after the IED incident. The healers did what they could, but some damage is too much.
So here I am, going nowhere fast, ingen steder, and pandering to privileged assholes who are just here because mummy and daddy can pony up for a private education.
Gah!
These little brats will go on to have positions of power all around the world; presidents and mob bosses (like the current head of the Russian Bratva—that fucking runkata), or CEO’s and tech magnates (billionaire founder of Mystik-Tok, anyone?).
All powered-up and polished alumni of this place—or its equivalent.
On the other hand, Elites in my home country?
A handful, tops. Not because the people of Kormovia are less, they’re just poor.
Simple as that. The patch of frozen nowhere, wedged between Finland and Russia, doesn’t exactly breed privilege.
Becoming an Elite takes time, money, muscle, and grit.
Hard to train when you’re worried about feeding your family.
I’d like to drop a load of these asshole students in the middle of the fell region and see if they could make ends meet.
Spoiled privileged fuckers, the lot of them.
Except.
I think about the girl I picked up from the airport yesterday. Funny little thing, dressed in a giant sweater covered in home-made lettering. It was odd she’d received the Guggenheimer; it didn’t usually go to a remedial student. What is the Academy’s endgame there?
There is always something. Nothing is altruism.
Whyever she’s here, I hope she doesn’t waste the opportunity. I may hate everything it stands for, but I can’t deny that getting an education from Validus Vale will open doors.
I’d been an asshole to Theo Wilson, and I’m not sure why.
Being shitty to low-status kids is not my MO; they already had enough to deal with.
But there was something about her that rubbed me the wrong way.
She’d looked so fragile and exhausted; her eyes, glowing an eerie silver, wide and full of worry.
Made me want to whisk her up and take her far away from here.
Which is ridiculous. I’m not the type who saves damsels in distress.
I guess she’ll sink or swim. But probably sink. She has no fucking idea what monsters some of these students can be, but I can’t make it my problem. I’ve one true job here and I need to start making some fucking headway.
Fuck it all. I pick a decommissioned Fateball off my desk and throw it at the wall, hard. “T?m? on perseest?!”
As the Fateball bounces back into my hand, a timid knock on the door makes me look up. “Come,” I growl. I have nothing scheduled, so why am I being bothered? “Now,” I shout.
The door opens, and in walks Theo Wilson, like I’d conjured her by my thoughts.
She looks ridiculous in that shitty uniform, the shapeless blazer drowning her petite body. Petite, but with the nicest curves. Curves, I tried hard not to notice when she was sleeping in the passenger seat of my Jeep. Fuck.
I immediately clamp down on the feeling. I’m supposed to be a goddamn pretend-teacher, and even though I’m sure a lot of the teachers here perv out on their students, I don’t want to be one of them. She’s got enough battles ahead without an old horndog like me checking her out.
It’s the celibacy. I haven’t fucked in months. That’s all it is. Just hormones. Nothing personal. Nothing else.
“What do you want, Wilson?” I snap, maybe being a tad aggressive. I watch her pale white throat swallow, and I try not to get a perverse thrill out of making her nervous. Making her submissive.
Shit, I’m going to have to avoid this piece of temptation at all costs.
“I need to talk to my counselor,” she says, “and I believe that’s you.”
I flick open my tablet and enter her name. Yah, I’m officially her guidance counselor. Well, great, that sinks the avoidance plans—helvetti.
Wilson lowers her eyes so that long eyelashes graze her cheek, and I turn on my professor mode. “So, tell me what your problem is,” I grunt, and she looks up nervously and bites her lip again.
“I think my schedule is muddled up with someone else's,” she replies quietly.
I’ve become quite skilled at this teacher act over the last few months. I flick through the tablet, checking her assigned classes. “Hope you’re not complaining about your workload already, Wilson,” I mutter, scrolling through her file.
Aha. Her class list.
I read it. Then, reread it. She’s right. Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. And the name signing her up for all these advanced classes? The new dean. Why would Crankshawe include a remedial scholarship in the top Elite courses? Something’s off, to say the least.
“I’ll look into it,” I tell her. “For now, you’d better go to the classes you’ve been assigned. Try to keep up.”
“But, won’t there be Elites in that class?”
“What’s that?” I ask, “I can’t hear you over the sound of my indifference.
” I look up and see she looks like she’s two seconds from a freakout.
I flick my eyes to the wall clock. “Your Restricted Studies class is in the Dark Arts Department, and that’s on the other side of campus.
It starts in five minutes, so you’d better get a move on.
” Her eyes widen, and I can’t resist playing with her a little.
“I’ve heard Professor Gimble likes to spell late-comers with donkey ears.
” I flick my hand in a shoo gesture. She takes the hint, gulps, and then turns tail.
I can hear her running footsteps echo down the corridor as I close the door.
Why is she in those classes?
When something doesn’t make sense, it’s worth investigating. Does Wilson have a stellar fucking pedigree, even though she’s remedial?
I open the drawer in my desk and pull out a second computer from a hidden compartment. This one’s clean. It can’t be touched, hacked, or mirrored. Stubbing out the smoldering butt, I start a deep dive into Theodora no middle name Wilson.
After fifteen minutes, I’ve seen all that her school records have to offer. First thing that jumps out: she’s no remedial, oh no. She’s a fucking AUA.
Born in the UK. Parentage unknown. Abandoned outside a hospital. The DNA test revealed latent magic of unknown origin. That’s interesting. Why unknown?
Baby No-name was in a care home for the first few months of life and then adopted by Anne and Kevin Wilson. Anne Wilson was a low-level witch, and Kevin was purely without a spark—fully human.
The Wilsons were killed in a car crash when Theodora was nine years old, so from there, she went to live with her Aunt.
Theodora Wilson attended regular public schooling, earning average grades, then, last year, she won the WMO lottery.
The six-week intensive confirmed her AUA status.
She has a spark, but it remains unawoken.
So why the fuck was she here on the Guggenheimer Scholarship?
Paraphrasing Hamlet: Something’s rotten in the state of Validus Vale.