Chapter 22
The image of the little dud’s hands rubbing oil over my skin is annoyingly burned into my brain.
My fault for asking her to touch me; I hadn’t realized my body would respond, but apparently it found the tiny, breakable girl very fuckable.
Irritating. I do not want to be turned on by that piece of trash.
I stalk over to the liquor cabinet, deciding some eighteen-year-old, double cask McCallan calls my name. The smoky burn in my throat will hopefully ignite some clarity about this mess.
Dean Dartmouth—what’s his angle in all this?
Dartmouth's leaving last year was a blow; he’d been completely under my control. I’d discovered an unsavory vice the dean indulged in, and exploited it to my full advantage, until he left. Here one day and gone the next. Striker seriously needs to run the retired-Dean Dartmouth to ground.
Also boggling my fucking mind is the dud fighting off my command to stay silent. The voice of Vizzini from The Princess Bride echoes around my head.
“Inconceivable.”
How did she do that?
I settle onto the worn leather of the armchair, the glass heavy in my hand, and dissect every word she uttered, every flicker in her eyes.
She was usually an open book. It had been obvious to every fucker within a ten-mile radius that Wes and Donovan were fucking crazy about her, and vice versa.
So why would the dud so easily believe Dono and Wes had ghosted?
Didn’t exactly paint a picture of soaring self-esteem.
A few days of silence, and it’s straight to ‘wah, they must hate me, boo-hoo-hoo.’ Pathetic.
Though getting Dartmouth’s ‘stop stalking’ email might have sealed the deal, along with Dono and Wes leaving her on-read.
Shoving thoughts of the dud aside, I reach for my tablet.
Striker’s report glows on the screen, and I scan the familiar details.
The twins renting that storage unit—yeah, knew that.
They’d packed everything up in a couple of hours, bribed some Ordinarii lackeys to haul boxes out.
I remember looking out of the window and seeing the boxes being loaded into an obnoxiously large SUV, obviously one of the other students; the twins wouldn’t be caught dead in something so… practical.
My thumb scrolls the digital document.
According to Striker’s meticulous tracking, the digital security footage showed the twins leaving—presumably heading for the storage place—at 16:45.
The SUV, a Rivian S1, according to Striker, registered to Gordon Handy, a senior Elite living one floor below me, returned with the twins at 18:04. That was the last time Validus Vale’s ever-watchful cameras captured Wes and Donovan Hart.
Striker had also hacked into the Rivian’s onboard computer. The internal dash cam and GPS confirmed their route: direct to the storage unit, seventeen minutes spent unloading, then a straight drive back to the academy.
A thought occurs to me, and I shoot off a text.
ME: Could the school CCTV be altered?
STRIKER: o_O
STRIKER: ….
STRIKER: Yes
ME: Was it?
STRIKER: Negative. Day in question no AI/magical tampering. Same w/ wards around VV
ME: Have you got Dartmouth’s address yet?
STRIKER: Negative, am following a lead
STRIKER: ….
STRIKER: Of interest. Max Larsen. VV Ordinarii. Jr. Rptd missing from VV 11/3 last year. VV/cops claim ML a runaway. Fam disagree
Maximus Larsen.
I remember him; he was hard to forget. A high-ranking Ordinarii kid, possibly even headed for Elite Status for his senior year. And a complete lunatic. The twins hung out with him sometimes. He went missing? I thought he’d quit school.
ME: Dig up everything you can on Larsen
STRIKER: o7
Striker signs off with her customary salute emoticon, and I put my mind to Max Larsen.
Maximus Larsen. Hmm
An interesting kid. If by interesting one means a complete maniac.
He’d come to Machete on occasion and definitely made his mark in the cage.
Larsen would have even given that naked ape a run for his money.
I realize I’m unconsciously rubbing my ribs, where the weirdo’s meaty fists had smashed them.
Fuck that guy. I should have just paid a healer to fix me up, but so many of the school staff are in my father’s pocket.
I’d rather he not hear that someone got the best of me in a fight.
He doesn’t take a Drakeward loss lightly; letting down the family name will always be punished.
Anyway, back to Larsen.
He’d disappeared.
No way that could be a coincidence. I pick up the phone again.
ME: Look into any other VV disappearances in the last few years
ME: And hurry the fuck up with Dartmouth
STRIKER: ….
STRIKER: ╭∩╮
I’m giving a middle finger back to the phone as a door opens and Troy saunters in. He’s got his usual slack-jawed idiot expression on his face. I graciously ignore him as he raids the fridge, snagging a couple of beers.
“I’m off for a good time,” he drawls. I look up to see a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Against my better judgment, my eyebrow arches a fraction.
Troy’s imbecilic grin widens. “Manu says he’s got a wild little time lined up for us both.”
“Good for you,” I reply, the disinterest in my voice genuine. It really is time I got them both removed from the penthouse. Sure, officially, the top three Elite share this suite, but they were so far below my status that it made sense I had the place to myself.
“Gonna be really good for me,” Troy snickers, oblivious to my disdain. “Manu’s got us some fresh dud to play with. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
Dud? The word hangs in the air for a moment.
My mind fizzes with a flicker of something I don’t want to acknowledge. “A new dud, eh? So where’s Manu hosting this party?” I drawl like it’s the most boring question in the world.
“Never mind,” Troy says a little too quickly, his eyes flicking away. “Forget I said anything.” He makes a move towards the apartment door, and that’s when my fingers twitch, the familiar hum of my power a subtle warning in the air.
Troy stops dead, a wince twisting his features. “The fuck?”
“Which dud?” I say, my voice calm, but with an edge. I give a barely perceptible squeeze of my control to tighten the atmosphere.
“Fuck off, Cosmo. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Which. Dud.”
Yeah, it’s considered a serious breach of etiquette to compel another Elite, a power play that usually ends badly. Still, Troy’s barely scraping third in the ranking, nowhere near my league. Etiquette can go fuck itself.
He lets out a frustrated groan. “Alright, fuck, man—chill. That cute little dud that was here. Manu texted and said they were hanging out and she’s down for some playtime.”
A flash of anger runs through my body, but I don’t show it. “No can do,” I tell him. “She’s mine.” Troy might not like it, but even his thick skull understands the unspoken rules. I’m number one in this school. I get the pick of whatever litter I choose.
And laying a finger on what’s mine is an invitation to a world of pain.
“Aww, man, fucking cock block. Does Manu know about this?” Troy whines.
“I’m going to tell him right now.”
“Fine.” Troy turns tail and storms into his room.
My animal instinct is to rush out into the night, hunt down Manu, and teach him not to mess with my property, but I try never to give in to my base side. I take the marginally less volatile route and pull out my phone, hitting Manu’s number.
It rings and rings, unanswered. Ignored.
Not good.
I disconnect and call Theodora Fucking Wilson instead. She picks up on the fifth ring. “H-h-hello?”
Her voice is soft, hesitant, and definitely not laced with the sounds of whatever ‘playtime’ Manu had in mind. More like I’ve just dragged her out of a deep sleep.
“Where are you?” I bark the question sharply.
“Er, in my dorm room?” she answers.
“Alone?”
“What? Yes, of course—why?”
I hang up. Whatever Manu had planned, it seems that Wilson managed to avoid it. I don’t try to dissect the unexpected wave of relief that washes over me. But one thing is clear: Mr. Manu Hale and I are going to have a very serious fucking conversation.
Going back to the matter at hand, I return to Striker’s report. She’d better hurry the fuck up with Dartmouth’s location. The sooner I get my hands on that slippery bastard, the sooner some of these pieces will finally click into place.
A chime from my tablet breaks the silence. It’s a reminder about morning detention with Professor Feniks. Shit. Another problem to deal with. If Striker can dig up some dirt on that prick, he’ll learn to fall into line soon enough.
I grudgingly set my alarm for five-thirty. I’m always up early to run anyway, but it’s the principle of the thing that grates.
◆◆◆
I hadn’t slept, my mind churning over everything I’d learned. Every time I shut my eyes, it was like someone hit rewind on the last two decades—images of me and the twins, our whole messed-up history from pre-teen brawling to now, flashing back and forth in a dizzying, condensed reel.
The morning rapidly improves, though. Finally giving up on the futile pursuit of unconsciousness, I get up to make coffee and find Manu wrestling with several oversized bags near the penthouse door.
“Going somewhere?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says in the tone that always made me want to punch him.
“I got a much better offer than this dump.” He turns to face me.
The smug little twist of his lips is overshadowed by the remnants of two black eyes and a broken nose, like the healers did their best but couldn’t quite clean up the mess.
His face hadn’t been like that last night. It’s both interesting and gratifying.
“Yeah, Drakeward. Enjoy your little schoolboy life. Where I’m going requires real men.” He’s practically vibrating with the desire for me to ask what this ‘better offer that requires real men’ entails, but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.
He’s moving out, that’s all I need to know.
I turn and head back to my room to get dressed in workout clothes.
When I arrive at the gymnasium, I stride in, faking an energy I’m far from feeling.
Surprisingly, the little dud is there, slumped on an exercise mat, going through some half-hearted stretches.
She looks like shit. Pale as bleached bone, with huge, bruised circles under her eyes. Wilson didn’t get much sleep either.
Her tongue is clenched between her teeth as she widens her knees, keeping her ankles together. My gaze flicks down, taking in the prime view of her brown leggings' cameltoe. She looks up, sees me, and snaps her legs shut faster than a Venus flytrap.
I turn my back on her and start my own stretches, the familiar pull in my muscles welcome.
I keep with my routine until the energy in the room changes when Feniks enters.
It’s interesting, where I let my power pulse out of me—intimidating everyone around me—Feniks seems to be repressing his. I wonder why?
“Wilson?” The professor’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“I didn’t think you’d…” he trails off, his tone carrying an undercurrent of something…
odd. His gaze flicks over to me. I offer him a scowl in return.
“Drakeward,” he says, as he drops a heavy-looking gym bag onto the floor with a solid thud. “Come get your weights.”
I’ve really got to get that fucker in line.
Wilson scurries over quickly, but I deliberately take my sweet time, my gaze never leaving Feniks’.
He pulls out ankle weights and tosses a ridiculously light pair at the dud.
To me, he hands a pair that feel a good ten pounds each.
“Running non-stop for thirty minutes, then you’re done, Drakeward. Wilson, to me.”
Feniks drops to his knees, talking in an undertone to the dud as he straps the weights on for her. “Slow and steady, Wilson,” he says. “Don’t push yourself too much.”
A sneer curls my lip as I start to run. The added weight is a surprisingly grounding sensation and actually relaxes me.
This is what I need. My feet find a steady rhythm, almost uncomfortably fast, pushing the edge of my endurance.
Thirty minutes of this is going to burn, but at least it’s something to focus on, something to keep my frustration at bay.
Half an hour later, my muscles are screaming, and sweat plasters my shirt to my back. I’d deliberately blanked out the dud during my run, but now I hear a series of ragged, stumbling footfalls behind me. She pitches forward onto her knees, her hands splayed on the hardwood for support.
I lightly jog on the spot. The last thing I need is a build-up of lactic acid turning my legs into lead. The little dud is still sprawled on the floor, looking like she was about to cough up a lung.
“Cool down,” Feniks calls from the side where he’s repping lunges with a couple of dumbbells. I can see a slight wince in his face, not surprising—that fucked up left arm of his is currently lifting one hundred pounds.
The clang of metal echoes as Feniks returns the weights to the rack. “Come on, Wilson,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “You’ve got this.” She lets out a pathetic groan, but somehow manages to drag herself back onto her knees.
“I can’t move,” she croaks. Feniks simply takes her by the arm and hauls her to her feet. “Why does a witch need to be fit and strong, Wilson?” he asks.
“Because… using your magic… is taxing…” she gasps, her face flushed tomato red.
“And why does a woman need to be fit and strong?”
A beat of silence. Then, a hesitant, “To fight off trouble.”
“And are you fit and strong, Wilson?”
I let out a snort, then head to the corner, pulling a bottle of ice-cold water from the cooler.
Looking over my shoulder, my eyes are drawn to Feniks as he looms over the trembling girl.
Without really considering why, I grab another bottle and walk back to where she’s a sweaty mess.
“Here,” I say, the word clipped as I thrust it in her direction.
Feniks raises a single eyebrow. “You two are bosom pals now?” he asks, then turns back to the dud. “Fit and strong, Wilson. How do you expect to awaken your spark if you’re this weak? We do this again tomorrow, six sharp.”
He’s not wrong; she is weak. And this brutal training? I’d agree it’s probably the best thing for her.
If I gave a fuck about her well-being and potential, which I most definitely do not.
Downing the water in a few long gulps, I toss the empty bottle into the trash and head back to the tower, the image of Theodora Wilson, pathetic and gasping for air, already fading from my mind.