Twenty #3
Julian’s heart roared in his ears. The game was far from over, but he’d just gained an immense advantage. What was she doing?
Had she misplayed on purpose, so that she could come back and beat him in the most theatrical way possible?
But Klaudia was not faking her reaction. There was no way to fabricate the true panic that flared in her eyes.
Her next move was obvious. She brought out Psycha and Marionette. Psycha’s black gown fluttered in an invisible breeze, partially
obscuring Klaudia’s face. Marionette’s smile would give a child nightmares. The warbling, discordant notes of the Ghostly
Chorus rang out.
His pieces were trapped and on a timer now. He had three turns before both would faint, and no way to escape.
Except . . .
Tradecrafter, the useless joke of a piece, had a unique ability: Clean Getaway. It was terrible under almost every other circumstance, but right now, it was exactly what Julian needed. When Tradecrafter’s health bar fell below 50 percent, it was automatically switched out.
It was the only ability that could break Ghostly Trap.
Before Julian clicked his move, he looked up again at Klaudia. She knew. Even this obscure piece with its obscure ability
had not passed beneath her attention. Her complexion had gone even paler than usual. Her lower lip was quivering.
Julian attacked Tradecrafter with his own piece, automatically switching it out. It allowed him to bring back the piece waiting
in the back, his sweeper. Cervelet, with its enormous damage potential, could knock out both her pieces in a single turn.
And Klaudia had no way to stop it.
Julian felt the adrenaline of victory race through his veins. A heat, a tightness in his belly. It was like the moment on
election night when he had walked onstage for his victory speech. The audience was his audience now. The crowd chanted his
name.
And then he made a mistake: He looked back at Klaudia.
Her eyes were wide. Nothing of the icy remoteness he had come to know so well remained in her expression. A strand of hair
had slipped from its pin and fallen against her cheek, a single dark curl that Julian had the odd urge to stroke back into
place. A swallow pulsed in her throat.
She looked afraid. As afraid as she had looked that day in the reading room with Carter. As afraid as she had been on her
knees. Only this time she was frightened of him. Julian had done this to her, cowed her as she should never be cowed. Not Klaudia.
Moments ago the crowd had been shouting his name; now they were whispering. Klaudia trembled visibly. Even the back rows could
see it. What’s her problem? Has she finally lost it?
Suddenly, her shoulders began to rise and fall erratically, as if she were run through with an electric current. Only she wasn’t; it was worse. Klaudia Shimonova was laughing.
The audience fell completely silent. Jane, who had taken a seat beside Mikhail in the first row, looked as white as a ghost.
Mikhail’s expression was both bewildered and alarmed. And then there was Carter, watching from the sidelines and smiling in
unrestrained glee.
Something akin to horror rose in Julian’s throat. He almost choked on it.
Klaudia’s laughter was quiet, but it had a gasping, almost manic quality to it, as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
It seemed to Julian that she was trying to keep herself from hyperventilating. She had lost control entirely.
Either way, Klaudia had cracked. But Julian could not bear to be the one who shattered her.
So he made the only mistake he could have made. He used a weak move against Psycha, leaving it with enough health to survive.
The counter ticked down, and at last the Ghostly Chorus claimed its victims.
The lecture hall was silent as Professor Narendra presented Klaudia with her trophy: a small, cut-glass object that he carefully
removed from a Tiffany-blue box. Julian watched as her fingers clenched and unclenched around the trophy, knuckles white.
Professor Narendra’s voice was stilted when he said, “Thank you all for your participation, and congratulations to our winner
and finalists.” He, too, was watching Klaudia, clearly concerned.
His favorite student—Valeran’s top student—had fallen from grace. Technically, she still retained her number-one ranking,
but they had all seen Julian throw the game. And by tonight, when the reports were published, everyone at Valeran would know.
Julian tried to make an unobtrusive exit. He shoved his way through the gathering crowd of students as they pressed in on him, questions on their lips.
Why did you do it? Did you feel sorry for her?
And again: Has she finally lost it?
Julian pushed open the double doors, shaking one of the laurel garlands loose. It drifted to the ground, scattering gold flakes
into the air.
“Stop!”
Startled, he turned. Through the haze of gold he saw her. Klaudia, stalking toward him, the crowd parting to make a path.
Her lips were pulled back, showing her teeth. With her black hair streaming out behind her and more strands falling around
her face, she looked like a vengeful fury.
Julian’s heart climbed into his throat. “Klaudia . . .”
But what was he supposed to say? I’m sorry? He had done it for her. Given up his chance at number one, at the weekend furlough, out of what? Guilt? Pity? Neither of
those sentiments stirred in him. What he felt instead was the desire to take her hand, to touch her, to do something—
Klaudia stopped before him. Rage turned her eyes incandescent.
“Don’t ever,” she said, her voice both tremulous and knife-edged, “do that again.”
He hadn’t expected her to be grateful. But he hadn’t expected her to be so furious, either. And he couldn’t help but feel
an answering anger rise within him, summoning up cruel words.
“Do what?” he asked lowly. “Hand you a win?”
“The DOD doesn’t give out top-level appointments to students who win on technicalities. I never asked you to surrender.”
“Asked me?” His voice shook with incredulity. “That’s beside the point. What else was I supposed to do, when you were staring at
me like—”
Julian cut himself off. He was acutely aware of the crowd, watching with unblinking stares. Mikhail had his arm around Jane, clutching her to his chest. Carter’s smile was so smug it was almost blissful.
Klaudia’s gaze grew flatter. Colder. “Like what?”
“Like you needed my help.”
As soon as Julian spoke the words, he regretted them.
“I don’t need your help.” Klaudia’s tone was pure poison. “And I don’t want a trophy to someone else’s benevolence. You feel
bereft of your victory? Take it.”
Klaudia stepped back, putting enough space between them that he couldn’t have reached out and touched her, even if he’d had
the courage. Then she hurled the trophy at him.
It bounced off his chest and pitched to the ground, shattering instantly. Glass shards flew up. Julian felt a bite of pain
on his cheek. He put a hand to his face and the pads of his fingers came away bloody.
The other students gasped and scattered. Klaudia turned and swept through the crowd. Julian watched her until she vanished
down the corridor. He felt spent and hollow.
The crowd closed in around him. Blood dripped from the cut on his cheek to the collar of his shirt, spoiling the white with
red. Julian shut his eyes.