2. Two Pretty Best Friends
TWO
two pretty best friends
“I just think we got off on the wrong foot,” I tell him as I push my fingers through his messy dark hair. “We could be friends, you and I.” I swear I can almost feel the softness of his thick locks. “You have really great hair, by the way.”
“I said stop haunting me,” he growls, his gaze staring emptily—yet highly annoyedly—ahead.
“Stop interrupting me. It’s rude. You could be great boyfriend material for someone if you got a handle on your anger, I’m just saying, I could make a fantastic wingwoman.” I sit down at my friend’s side in the sleek high-back chair and take in the sight of the room he’s brought us to. It’s larger than the dorm. A sprawling black desk with a little nameplate is in front of us. The little metal plate reads Headmaster Reign, and I instantly wonder if my new friend here is in trouble.
It wouldn’t be surprising, really. He almost murdered his brother just moments ago. Think of what else he’s done when I wasn’t watching.
Shit, what if I was watching and I just don’t remember? What if I’m supposed to be one of these guys’ guardian angel, and I’ve accidentally let them become total rage-riddled sociopaths while I wasn’t looking . . .
My lips form a small O as I consider if I might have dropped the ball for a moment before shrugging in an It is what it is sort of way.
I tip my head back in the excruciatingly stiff chair and peer up instead of looking at the worry that’s etched across the man’s face. The ceiling comes to a sharp point, unlike the walls that seem to circle on forever in perfectly laid, black bricks. This place is big on architectural design. Comfort . . . not so much.
“What is this academy for, anyway?” I ask out loud. “ Death Rider Academy . Sounds serious.”
He ignores me, releasing a heavy breath as his head drops, hanging tiredly between broad shoulders. His fingers lace together amid his widely parted knees, and I can just barely see stark ink that lines his wrists beneath his shirt. It’s solid black ink like he has covered every inch of skin from his wrists to . . . I let my gaze trail across his strong arms. The thin fabric creases and strains against the corded muscle beneath, and with a roll of my eyes, I have to remind myself to try not to get ridiculously attached to the man I’m trying to make miserable.
He’s pretty. It’s not an accomplishment. And I can’t let pettiness distract me now.
Undead rule number one: Never fall in love with the living. It can’t possibly work out.
Instead of continuing to undress him with my eyes, I take the time to flick his nose rather hard before shoving out of the chair and pacing the room. I hear him curse under his breath, and the smallest smirk tilts my lips as I take in the portraits on the wall. None of them are of old, dead men like I thought they would be. The one in front of me is a beautiful, fiery picture of blazing embers drifting across the night sky and ground like a line of fire. The picture dances in the oddest way, the flames swaying casually, carrying the white smoke across glinting starlight. I narrow my attention on the moving portrait before taking a few steps to my right.
The next one is of blues and blacks mixed perfectly together. It’s a swirl of dark gorgeously gothic hues. Streaks of silver paint accent the darkness like lightning cutting up the sky. It, too, moves ever so slightly. It flashes stunning colors across the canvas. Stars twinkle in the wake of the storm. Glimmering magic swirls within the art. Two glowing red eyes look out from among the shadows. They blink slowly. Watchfully.
“Okay. Kind of creepy,” I whisper to myself.
The third and largest portrait has me stopped in my tracks. An enormous wingspan like I’ve never seen before takes up the left and right, and there in the middle is a creature looking down on me. Its hungry eyes are like diamonds shining through a slitted, deadly glare. It’s feasting on my appearance as much as I am theirs. It’s enormous head tilts this way and that. A pink tongue slithers between brown lips and swirls across it’s snout as it’s head lowers down to meet me at eye level. Big eyes narrow even more, and it inhales slowly. Strange heat wafts over me while the paint moves, and it exhales a plume of billowing white smoke. A slow, crawling snarl shakes the black frame against the wall. Jagged teeth lunge at me. I barely react in time. My boots stagger over one another, and I land once again on my ass, looking up at the monster with sharp, white teeth now bared to me.
“Don’t look the portraits in the eye, haunting,” a deep, familiar voice calls out. “They’ll fuck with you like you fuck with me.”
“Again, rude,” I whisper, wishing like hell the man could actually hear me instead of just feel me.
The door opens, and this time, I don’t react quick enough as a man in a fitted black suit and shining black shoes walks quickly through me. I inhale sharply, for no other reason but to calm the electric buzz that’s crackling through my body.
“I’m getting real sick of you solid folks just waltzing right through me and screwing up my entire being.”
I glare daggers at the man’s slender back as he takes a seat in a large wingback chair behind the solid desk. Literal mahogany wings are splayed out from the grand chair. He’s centered with his little nameplate. It’s now a label slapped on him that he seems to wear with immense pride.
“Arcane Deces, my boy.” A smile like rusting blades slices up the headmaster’s lips. His eyes shine as he looks at the guy I’ve been haunting all morning.
“ Arcane ?” I tilt my head at him and consider the heavy-sounding name on my tongue.
“Ready for this season?” the old man asks.
“As ever.” Arcane pushes back from his previously slumped position, and his posture is rigid now, not revealing a hint of the exhaustion he showed when it was just him and me.
“Trials begin next week. I’m looking forward to seeing how much like your father you really are. You’ll rip those raiders to bloody shreds. I just know it!” He claps his hands together with literal glee, his smile turning snakelike.
My brows lower hesitantly.
“They really put this guy in charge of kids’ education?” I ask Arcane with a skeptical arch of my brow, but once again, he ignores me.
Arcane simply nods as if he’s taking mental notes that he doesn’t want to share with the class. I choose to think he’s secretly agreeing with me, but that’s just my own optimism shining through my undead life.
“Are you friends with this guy? You’ve got to get better friends.” My arms fold over my chest, and I wait for whatever it is we came here for to end. “Can we get back to the boy in the dorm room? He seemed slightly better than this psycho.”
“About my brother,” Arcane says, his words coming out slow and careful. “I don’t want him at the trials. He’s not a Death Rider. He shouldn’t even be allowed at the academy, and he shouldn’t be allowed to distract the others.”
“ A Death Rider ?” I look to him, but his attention stays steady on the maniac in the wingback chair.
“Just because he hasn’t shifted yet doesn’t rule out that he’s a Rider. But of course. I agree. His little interruption at orientation this morning in front of the King cost us early admission to Dragon’s Lair. He’s already skeptical of our tactics. Now we have to fight for the chance to defend our dragons!”
Arcane agrees with a little, silent, plotting nod, and I’m getting more and more confused as the conversation continues.
“I’ve grounded him from shifting for the rest of the semester.” The headmaster’s words are dull and uninterested in the topic at hand it seems
“You grounded him?” Arcane echoes.
“I can’t have him risking our rank. He’s not allowed to shift for the rest of the semester. At least until the trials begin and we show the Kingdom of Attika we’re their true protectors. Not the bloody King’s men!”
“You just flunked him then?” Arcane’s brow arches slightly.
“That’s not what I said.” The smile comes back with a new glee alight within his dark, demonic eyes.
“If he can’t shift, he can’t rank,” Arcane explains painfully carefully.
“Well, we don’t even know if he can,” the headmaster reminds him.
“He’ll be kicked out of the academy.” Arcane’s response is flat and held together with barely contained fury.
“Possibly,” the sociopath says. “Or he’ll rise above his challenges. We need good souls like him. We do need his medical training either way. He’s shown that he’s a great healer. He just has to learn to fight for what he wants.”
A scraping of expensive chair legs drags across the dark brick as Arcane stands abruptly. He pauses there, and I can almost feel the rage radiating off of him, short-circuiting my own unnatural energy within myself. I walk closer and take my place behind him, giving him the backup he needs, even if he can’t see it.
“Thank you for your time, Headmaster Reign,” he says through grinding teeth.
And then turns on his heels and strides right through me.