I rein in my temper, acutely aware of the smaze weaving in and out between my ankles. “There’s nothing going on between me and Fleur.”
“Funny, she said the same thing at first. But Reconditioning has a way of dragging the truth out of a Season.” His bruised knuckles crack quietly in the space between us as that single word ricochets through my head. They put Fleur through Reconditioning. They let Doug torture her because of me. And when she wakes up, she’ll hate me for it. She’ll hate everything about me.
Doug shakes his head. “I wasn’t sure at first. She was hell-bent on protecting you. Elusive when we asked about her transmitter. Evasive when we asked about yours.” He watches me, hungry for a reaction, but I refuse to give him one more reason to be suspicious of her. “What the hell is it about you that inspires such loyalty, Sommers? I mean, the memorials she carves in those trees...” His forehead wrinkles with disgust. “You’d think she was actually in love with you.”
The words cut clean through me, so deep I can barely breathe. “Doesn’t mean anything,” I say through clenched teeth. “They’re just hash marks. Trophies.” But his smug smile says he knows exactly what they are. It feels like he’s intruded on a secret, something sacred between me and Fleur. Like he’s intercepted a private letter and read it out loud, and suddenly I want to kill him for it.
“Maybe. I can’t tell if she’s crazy about you or just punishing herself. Either way, she has an impressive tolerance for pain.” He leans close as if he’s about to confess a secret. “She’s tougher than she looks. It took me hours to break her.”
My vision glazes with frost. I land a single punch to the side of Doug’s jaw before he grabs me by my collar and returns it threefold. Denver takes me in a chokehold from behind. With a rush of heat, Doug conjures a flame. It writhes in his palm and I wrench away from it, straining against Denver’s grip as the fire inches closer.
“Mr. Lausks.” We all go still at the familiar stern voice behind Doug. Professor Lyon.
Doug’s flame gutters. He cusses under his breath, but I’ve never been so relieved to see anyone in all my lives.
“You and your colleague are dismissed,” the professor says. “I’ll escort Mr. Sommers and his Handler from here.” Chill shrinks behind Professor Lyon’s back.
Doug’s breath is hot on my face. He clenches a fist, his body wound tight. “Back off, old man. This doesn’t concern you.”
Chill stiffens, his eyes wide in the empty frames of his glasses. Daniel Lyon may be retired, but the legendary Lion of Winter held the coldest region in the world for three hundred years, and his name commands respect here.
“‘Old man’?” Professor Lyon parrots back, a hint of disdain in his smile. “You assume I’m frail? That I keep my teeth in a jar beside my bed?” The professor’s arctic blue eyes darken as he leans close to Doug’s ear. “I’ve far sharper weapons than teeth in my head, Mr. Lausks. Be careful how you bait me.”
Denver releases my neck. I sag, struggling to catch my breath.
Doug’s nostrils flare, his mouth twitching as he utters a warning. “Next time Fleur sees you, you’d better hope she buries you.” He gives me a last shove, the palm of his hand still searing hot from the fire. “Stay in your lane, Sommers. And stay away from my girl.”
Doug backs away, reluctant to tear his gaze from mine as Denver takes him by the shoulder and steers him back to the cafeteria. When he’s gone, I lean over my knees, rubbing the burn where he pushed me. Professor Lyon’s dress shoes appear close beside me.
“Thanks,” I manage, still starved for air.
Lyon adjusts his cuffs without looking at me. “Follow me, both of you. You’re wanted in the Control Room.”
No sympathy. No lectures or his usual reassurances. Lyon sets off toward the Crux without another word.
They know. They know what happened on the mountain. They think we’re in love. That we’re hiding something. They’ve already punished Fleur for it.
A cold dread settles deep in my bones at the thought of what awaits us.
6
Ash to Ash
JACK
The smaze hugs Professor Lyon’s heels as they click briskly down the hallway to the Crux. The campus is divided into four cardinal wings: Winter to the north, Summer to the south, Spring to the east, and Autumn to the west, the segregated living spaces radiating from the center of campus like the spokes of a wheel. The Crux lies at its heart. The circular corridor is divided by a series of controlled checkpoints, designed to restrict access between the wings and regulate passage to the administration floors below.
“What do you think they want?” Chill whispers as we pass the Guards stationed at the end of the wing.
“I don’t know.” The lie comes far easier than the truth.
Professor Lyon waves a key card over the scanner. The light beside the plexiglass divider blinks green, and the pneumatic door to the Crux slides open for him. The rush of temperate air that greets us fogs theprofessor’s glasses. He peels them off, wiping the thick lenses with a handkerchief he draws from the breast pocket of his blazer as we wait for the elevator. The Crux is dense with the discordant smells of the other wings. Through the clear barrier to my left, I can just make out the entrance to the Spring wing, the view inside obscured by tendrils of creeping ivy that grow from giant pots beside the gates. Fleur sleeps somewhere on the other side of them. I rub my swollen lip, my jaw already sore where Doug clocked me. Our entire scuffle lasted no more than a few seconds. But Fleur...
Hours, Doug said. It took him hours to break her.
“Clean yourself up, Mr. Sommers.” I tear my attention from Fleur’s wing. The professor holds out his handkerchief without meeting my eyes as we file into the elevator. I take the cloth, pressing it to my split lip, unsettled by Lyon’s tone. By the simple fact that he won’t look at me.
He calls me Mr. Sommers whenever I’m teetering on the edge of doing something I shouldn’t be. He’s always been amused by my choice of surname. We’re expected to take a name reflective of our season, entrenching us in our new identity like some crappy cell-block tattoo. The fact that I chose a name that flies in the face of Gaia’s expectations of me is a constant source of curiosity for him. “A rebel,” he called me during my first year here, when he’d caught me picking the old iron padlocks to the catacombs under the school. He’s always looked me in the eyes, smiled even, when he’s caught me doing something stupid. And he’s never once submitted me for disciplinary review.
