Chapter 9
I balance a stack of books in one arm, haul the strap of my bag around my other shoulder, and try not to deck it in front of the whole class as I come skidding through the doors.
The soles of my loafers screech over the stained wood floor.
Every gaze swerves to my flushed face, curtained with loose strands of definitely-not-brushed hair.
It’s Master Silva who narrows his eyes on me—and the doors slam shut right behind me.
The force of the slam is enough to shudder the floorboards and rattle the desks.
I woosh a breath that puffs out my cheeks.
Master Silva drops his gaze, back down to the worksheets spread out over his desk.
Guess I made it, then.
He’s a stickler for tardiness. Once those doors shut, they don’t open for another two hours.
By the skin of my teeth, I made it.
I avoid the stares that are starting to drift away from me, losing interest, and I look for a spot to sit.
Just three rows of desks on each side of the classroom for just twelve students who chose this class for their final semester.
Magic and Nature.
The study of the relationship between both, how they each give and take from one another, and a focus on maintaining the balance.
I chose it for obvious reasons.
No actual magic is needed to take this class.
And they take it because they are primed to lead one day soon—the faces still angled towards me, the gazes that follow me to the only free chair left in the class.
My unbrushed hair comes lifting up around my flustered, flushed face.
I lean forward and let the books spill onto the table before I drop into the seat with a thud—and it rattles.
Great. I get the wobbly chair.
I throw a look at the half-breed beside me, Dragana, and wonder if she knew this chair was wobbly, and swapped them out before I got here.
Dragana keeps her cheek to me as she smooths out the creases on her workbook.
“Psst.”
I slide my dark gaze to Landon.
At the desk in front of me, he leans back in his chair, balancing on the hind legs, and his hand grips onto the edge of my table.
His spine is all twisted as he eyes me over. “What the fuck happened to you? You look like you’ve been shagged through a hedge.”
My lashes lower.
I let my bag drop to the floor. Something in it cracks, glass of sorts—then I remember I stuffed a phial of mint paste into the side zipper before I raced out of the dorm.
“Forgot to set my alarm,” I grumble, then kick my bag under the table. “Got a mint?”
Landon makes a face.
The disgust is obvious, and he considers my lips, like he’ll see all the hidden nasties there—because now he knows I didn’t exactly have time to brush my teeth when I woke up to my curtains closed, opened them, and saw that the dorm room was empty, and the clock was ticking much too close to the start of class.
I’m just surprised I don’t have my sweater on backwards, I got dressed in such a rush.
Beside Landon, the chair creaks.
I turn my darkening, tired gaze on Dray as he reaches into his trouser pocket, then draws out a white stick of gum.
Without looking over his shoulder at me, he tosses it back.
It lands on my desk.
My thanks is a filthy look I run over the back of his sawdust hair, but still, I snatch the gum and shove it into my mouth.
Spearmint floods my tongue.
Still twisted around in his chair, Landon asks, “How were you the only one to sleep through the alarm?”
Because I shut my curtains and forgot to bring my alarm clock into the bed with me.
But I won’t admit that.
I’m too cranky, no caffeine in my system, and the toll of the veil travel from Stonehenge to Edinburgh, then through to VeVille, weighs on me.
I’m not exactly feeling so warm about our fresh friendship.
My jaw rolls, tense, as I set out my books. “Just did.”
That’s the only answer I give.
The shuffling of paper comes from the head desk. Master Silva gathers a pile of parchment into a bundle, hits it onto the walnut wood to straighten the pile, then sets it aside.
I watch as he moves for the chalkboard.
Then an unwelcome intrusion inches into my peripherals.
Down at the front, Asta sits with Mildred, and both of them are turned around in their seats, glaring daggers at me…
But not just me.
Landon, too.
Because Landon talks to me, leans back in his chair to chat with the untouchable deadblood.
Landon prompts me with a snap of his fingers in my face. “Earth to Olivia.”
I snap at him, “What?”
A sound catches in the back of his throat, a scoff, then turns to face the front.
But I saw it, the hard look that splintered his relaxed, lazy mask, a firm glare that reminds me of my end of the deal.
Master Silva draws away from the chalkboard. White stains disturb the smooth brown of his fingers as he gestures to the writing. “Copy.”
I set out my books and pencils over the desk.
Dragana has put a divider of rulers down the middle. She always does. But like everyone else at the academy, I ignore her, and look over to the right side of the class—at the rear desk that, like mine, is closest to the draught whistling through the doors.
Courtney and James are willowy replicas of each other, thick glasses sliding down glossy noses, not a clean sort of glisten, and neither of them look at me as they start jotting down the notes from the chalkboard.
I loosen a breath, then do the same.
The first hour of class is copying notes from the chalkboard, then chunks of the textbook that Master Silva reads aloud.
The second hour is me tuning out.
Dray and Landon seem to be paying attention, but not overly zealous, not like Serena at the table in front of theirs, who is practically draped over her notebook, pen scribbling away.
Oliver, beside her, looks to be asleep. Arms folded, slumped in his chair, and his head down, as though his chin is tucked to the join of his clavicle.
The moment the bell chimes, and the doors click against the whistle of the draught, I drag all my things into my bag, the fastest packing I’ve ever done, and I race down to the mess hall.
My stomach is in sickly knots, coiling with acid and bile. The growl of my stomach leads me straight to the buffet.
I pile way too much onto my tray before I wind my way back to the doors—and I drop into the chair at my usual table.
I lure the bag strap off my shoulder and let it thump to the floor.
Those coils of nausea are snaking through me as I grab my fork with a trembling hand and dig it into the pile of hashbrowns.
I shovel them into my mouth.
Nothing proper about the way I eat, not right now.
Mouthful after mouthful, flakes misting in the air, crumbs falling onto my lap, I gorge myself until the traffic picks up, and more and more students are coming through the doors.
When I say I rushed out of class, and raced all the way down here, I mean it. Because it’s only now that the rest of the class are coming in—and two trays set down on the table, across from me.
I drift my gaze up from the trays, over thin arms covered by too-wide shirt sleeves, the sort of fabric that reminds me of parchment, then up the bony necks I recognise, peppered with some angry red spots, and finally, their familiar faces.
Courtney and James sink into the seats opposite me. Across the table. Not beside me…
They usually sit beside me.
I arch a brow. “Uh, hello?”
They mutter the word back to me. But neither of them looks at me.
My gaze cuts between the pair.
Not a flicker of a glance my way.
Something is definitely amiss with these two. A grudge I know nothing about. Or a new alliance formed between the two that excludes me.
My heart flutters at the thought, ice-cold.
I latch my stare onto the weaker twin. “How are you feeling?”
James can’t resist a good whinge.
He lifts his dull gaze to me, a sullen look quick to sag his face.
“I have pains here.” He rubs his stomach before he rolls his hand over his forearm.
“And an ache here,” then he leans his temple to his palm, “and my head is splitting.” He sighs and drops his hand to the table.
“But the witchdoctor kicked me out of the infirmary this morning. She said she was going to harvest my organs if I don’t get out. ”
Sounds about right.
I scrape the prongs of the fork over the mound of beans. Now that the lumps of hashbrowns and bacon strips and square sausages have settled in my stomach, I find I’m not so hungry anymore.
“Well,” I say, “you look fine.”
The truth is that he looks like he’s been run over by a horse-drawn carriage in the witch-hunt days. But he doesn’t look sore. Just frazzled with those dark circles around his eyes, the puffiness of his narrow face, the crumpled collar of his shirt.
James slouches over his tray.
Courtney looks at me over the thick rim of her glasses. “What happened over the break? You didn’t respond to my last letter.”
Ah. There it is.
That’s why my reception is so cold.
I did forget to respond.
In my defence, my whole world exploded all around me, and that left me a bit distracted.
But these grim events in my life, they aren’t for Courtney’s ears.
I know what she’ll say if I tell her anything about it. She’ll order me to just not marry Dray, to stand up to my father, to walk away—tell me that I don’t need this life. Because even after all these years, she still can’t see that no one in this fucking world has a choice.
Not even she can walk away from this, not alive, and I don’t think she’s figured that out yet.
I snatch the banana from my tray. “The usual. Lots of yachts and lots of politics,” I peel the yellow skin, then tear off a chunk before I sigh, “and lots of Dray.”
Her face hardens. “What did he do?”
“Nothing, really.”
She scoffs, then shakes her head.
Tired of my lies, like I’m tired of her vibe.
I throw a look around the canteen, as though I’ll spot the bane of my existence among the faces—but he isn’t here.
Neither is my brother.