Chapter 12
Twelve
Kieran
Evie’s slap reverberates and kills whatever snide remarks the others have poised to make. Surprise flickers through me before I catch a glimpse of fire in Morgan’s eyes. I know that fire.
I live it.
She’ll erupt any second now, her body giving into the vibrations and the hatred. Evie has taken a step too far over the line. It’s her right to do it, too, in this place. DragonSpear not only allows but encourages violence among its students.
Evie has stomped on too many weaker people to count them and used their bodies to reach the top.
Not the middle, as suggested.
And I’ve never let her kneel her way to influence me, despite her attempts.
Morgan rears up and sucks in a breath. Preparing to do battle and ruin us all with her first—and last—hit.
Reacting, I grab Evie by the elbows and drag her away from Morgan.
If she gets kicked out of DragonSpear and her employment terminated, I can’t use her fire. I need her and I need her here. Otherwise it changes future plans and there are already too many variables up in the air.
“You vicious little snake. Do you think your sharp tongue makes you clever?” Evie gripes with a broken laugh.
“Stop it, Evie.”
The blonde kicks and struggles against my hold, digging her heels down. I grind my teeth and bear down. She’s got energy in her slender body and the training to make her a vicious, lethal fighter. If she actually gets herself together.
Evie Fortescue is direct, vicious, and a little chaotic. The mean girl tendencies have got to end. They probably never will.
The only one who appreciates her capricious mood changes is her mount, Emazo, a three headed dreg of a hydra who will eat a face off its owner without a second thought.
“Let go of me, Kieran,” Evie seethes. “Did you hear what she said about me? Did you hear what she implied?”
I snort. “Yeah, I heard her.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
I need Morgan more than ever. I just have to find the right way to approach her.
I fix my stance and aim both eyes at Morgan. Evie fights, jarring me until my teeth rattle, but she’s secondary. A distant annoyance in the face of such pure unadulterated rage.
Morgan’s hands clench at her sides. Her cheeks are bloodless outside of the stark pink outline of fingerprints. Keeping a careful watch on her makes it easy to note the hint of jealousy flickering in her eyes when she’d accused Evie of sleeping with me.
Maybe I can use that, too? I certainly tuck the observation away for later.
Jealous. A spark lights in my chest.
Why would she be jealous?
Evie elbows me in the side when I’m silent for too long. “Get off me. I’m fine.”
I release her with such abruptness Evie stumbles before finding her footing. She tosses her hair, smoothing a hand over her face like I’ve smudged her prettily arranged features out of order.
“That’s no way to treat your bed warmer,” Morgan mutters.
Evie remains statue-still.
This is the worst time to laugh. Except I want to. I want to let the control keeping my jaw snapped tight release and bark out one of those thunderous laughs reserved for other people. Evie will hate me. Morgan will think it’s demeaning.
Which means my laughter dies.
Morgan hinges at the waist to retrieve the fallen book and limps slightly to the shelf, purposely showing us her back.
It’s a power move. And a brilliantly effective one, too. She lifts on the tips of her toes, supporting herself with the shelf, and carefully slips the book back into place before I catch a look at the title. Before I realize the shelf she plucked it from.
Interesting.
Would I have had the guts to turn my back on a group of people who want to hurt me? When the power dynamics are clearly skewed out of my favor?
I’m not sure.
“He’s not my bed warmer,” Evie seethes. “You know nothing.”
“She’s saying it to get under your skin and you’re letting her,” I admonish Evie softly.
“So?”
I angle in front of her, putting myself between the two women before one of them does something stupid.
“So, I’ve never known you to give someone else the upper hand.”
“Hmm.” That’s all Morgan says, a low moan of curiosity, before she limps past us with her shoulders thrown back and her chin tipped high.
She grabs her discarded feather duster and broom, tucking the former under her arm.
She’s more regal than anyone has a right to be in that shapeless servant’s uniform—like no matter how they try to diminish her, she refuses to be small.
The fabric is limp and hangs off her limbs, purposely shapeless around her curves and too tight around the collar, as though the staff needs a reminder of who holds their leash.
Still, Morgan impresses me with her bearing and resolve.
Evie hikes her thumb at Morgan. “You’re going to let her speak to me this way?”
My eyes roll into my head as I compose and discard a thousand taunts. “Are you?”
“She’s a maid.”
“Then stop seeking her out to fraternize.”
It sounds simple to me. Evie hates simple. She hates anything shaking the foundation of her loyalist life.
“You’re seeking me out?” Morgan asks.
I shake my head, but the image of her backside lingers despite the way the others stare at me when I turn.
They’re silent witnesses to the awkward triangle between the three of us.
There is always a crowd when something interesting happens, to mark the occasion, to mark your failures if you happen to be the one standing out.
Today, Evie’s friends might as well not exist for what they add to the situation.
They’re not standing up for Evie, either. I wonder if she’ll lay into them later. She won’t let it slide. I’ve known her too long.
“Wow.” Evie’s hands go to her hips. “What is the matter with you? Kieran!”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
She’s gearing up for a tongue lashing, drawing it up from the depths of her stomach before gusting it like a foul breeze. She’s known for it and maybe the others at the academy fall for her charm but the truth is written on her skin. It’s plain to see if you look close enough.
Evie is an opportunist like the rest of us.
She’ll use and she’ll micromanage, she’ll bluster and she’ll flirt, all to get what she wants.
Who am I to fault her for it?
Whether she uses charm or manipulation makes no difference.
“Leave her alone, Evie. Playtime is over.” I shrug.
The crowd parts for me on my way out the door. A bell tolls from somewhere in the bowels of the castle to mark the end of the day.
Unless you’re the son of the kingdom’s most notorious general. Or the chosen few who took on the burden of an extra night class three days a week.
I march into the hallway and take a sharp left turn away from the classroom. We all do what we have to do in order to survive. It looks different for everyone.
For me, it’s finding a way to recruit Morgan to my cause without giving myself away or getting her into trouble. She accomplishes it well enough on her own. Or maybe she’s like me and trouble finds her.
If anyone finds out she read one of those books in the classroom, she’ll be sent straight to the mines. I have no doubt about it.
Nerves rattle my heart. A vein throbs on the side of my head.
The short folds of a narrow staircase draw me down a level and I take them two at a time, landing hard.
Here, there’s noise and life. The hallways fill with the press of bodies rushing out of the dining hall, and those needing to beat the second clang of the bell signaling the start of our final class.
If Evie and the others are smart, they’ll hurry up and forget about the slap. I cut through the crowd and pull into the much smaller classroom already filling with students. A line of empty seats near the outer ring of chairs has my name all over it. I throw myself against the wood.
Yet every move is purposely languid, lazy, authoritative.
This class is for the elite, or so the administration coins it to make the extra studies more palatable. Our schedules are already demanding. The full class load is designed to break us and reform whatever pieces are left into something special.
They make this class sound like an incredible opportunity to grow and get ahead.
Really, it’s so the kids marked by their family’s money or prestige can feel better about themselves. Like they’re getting a better deal than the rest of the populace.
The professor already looms at the podium in the center of the room. His slender body is long and lean and his nose hooks over his lower lip far enough to cast a shadow.
He knocks his fist against the wood to grab our attention.
Evie and the rest of her gang slide through the door and into the last empty seats as the last bell tolls out the hour.
Under the wire.
I flash them a disparaging grin as the professor clears his throat.
“Now that everyone is present—” he pauses, silently counting the heads of his audience. “We’ll get started with today’s lesson. It’s going to be a good one and I’m sure you’ll all be pleased with the subject matter. It’s good you made it on time, Miss Fortescue.”
Evie lacks the grace to blush. No part of her is cowed by the reprimand. She sits primly in her seat and arranges her own books in front of her in two neat piles, topped with a blank ledger.
I drag my own reluctantly from the pocket of my shirt.
There isn’t a pressing need for notes in this class. Most of the material covered is historical—inaccurately so—and how the events relate to today’s circumstances.
Professor Clark isn’t skilled when it comes to keeping the students’ attention, either—he’s been teaching too long to care much about the past when he covers history. He has the nasty habit of coming alive when he touches on anything within the last decade.
Specifically when Roman Ryson began his campaign against the enemies to the crown.
Professor Clark is a self-proclaimed sucker for watching history in the making.
Today, the maniacal gleam in his eyes, half hidden under bushy brows, gives him away. He’s excited about something, and his excitement flavors the air in the wrong way for my stomach.