“Can you tell me where it is, then?” she hedges, staring up at me. I crook my eyebrow at her boldness, and she backs into the doorframe, startling when she realizes I’ve cornered her.
“Where did you come from?” I ignore her question, reaching out to feel if her wild curls are as soft as they look. She slaps my hand away and we both freeze in shock.
“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?” she demands, and my other hand reflexively circles around the thin column of her throat, squeezing hard enough to steal her next breath when she swallows. Her eyes widen and she clutches my wrist, trying to pry it from her neck. The moment I release her, she flees down the hallway without a second glance, and I watch her disappear.
My hand still tingles from the memory of massaging her pulsing throat, and my fingertips throb with the urge to feel her heartbeat again.
“One week, Drystan,” I say without looking back, and let the door slam behind me. The echoes of her pounding footsteps on the cold marble floor sing to me, mimicking my own violent pulse.
They follow me to my first class, just like the other sounds she made—her light voice that grew more stern as I taunted her. The little gasp that escaped her pink lips when I stalked her like a predator. And perhaps most tempting of all, the slap of her hand against mine, so reminiscent of my own hand against heated flesh.
Fascination becomes fixation as the day passes, and my mood darkens. Professors and other students alike vie for my attention and approval—despite refusing to acknowledge their pandering, it only inflames their attempts to gain my favor, deepening my disdain. It’s insulting, to be so powerfuland so disrespected by their contemptible supplication. Our parents relish in it—they love to sit on their proverbial thrones, congratulating themselves for fortuitous scheming and manipulation while everyone else worships at their altars. We just want to be left the fuck alone.
Not even Luther’s merciless combat drills quiet my racing mind by the time we sit down for dinner, watching and waiting for the pretty bird with the dark eyes to flit into the Great Hall. I don’t know if I want to put her in a cage until I can discern why I feel this way, or snap her wings for making me feel anything in the first place. One thing is clear: I need to know who—and what—she is.
8
NYX
The uniform fits better than I thought it would. Obviously, I’d rather be in my own clothes, but I won’t deny how good it feels. I tried to put the matching headband that somehow ended up in the box delivered to my dorm last night, but when I looked in the mirror, it just felt like I was wearing a costume.
I’ve dressed.
I’ve primped—and by that I mean I’ve done my hair and put on minimal makeup.
I’ve put on my high tops.
I’ve done everything I need to do before going through that door, and yet my legs won’t move. Sounds from the hallway creep under my threshold, and I catch snippets of murmured conversation as students make their way to breakfast. I don't know if I can even stomach breakfast right now, but I do know that as soon as I close the door behind me, I’m on my own. Augustine’s parting wisdom and Tori’s rundown of the hierarchy echo in my mind.
I’m going to be the weakest.
I’m going to be the poorest.
I’m going to be the most ignorant, despite all the reading I did yesterday.
If I were a betting woman, I wouldn't even consider putting money on the odds I’ll make it through the day unscathed.
A knock on the door interrupts the world's shittiest pep talk. When Tori appears through the crack in my door, I try to hide the sigh of relief at the sight of her cheery smile.
“Want to grab breakfast?” she asks. I give her a shaky nod, grab my backpack, and lock the door behind me. We join the flow of other students pouring out of the dorm building, and she asks me how the rest of my Sunday went.
“Good. Quiet. Spent most of it setting everything up. Probably stayed up reading later than I should have,” I say with a wry smile.
“Here.” She reaches out her hand for my phone. “Let me give you my number, if you have any questions. Or if you want to grab a bite sometime.” I hand over the shiny new device I’m still treating like a loaner. When she hands it back, I grasp it like a lifeline. I suppose it is, in a way.
“Do you have your schedule yet?”
“Most of it. I have a meeting with the Headmaster., Apparently I’ll be given some kind of assessment?” I hedge, hoping she’ll fill in the blanks.
“Oh, yeah. Most students stay home until their epiphaneia and then enroll in the following term. By the time they get to Dreadhurst, they usually already know the basics of wielding, our history, society, etcetera. They’re usually assessed during admissions by a panel of professors to gauge their power level and abilities so they’re put into the right classes. Since you’re a latecomer,” the students around us perk up, eavesdropping on our conversation, but Tori doesn’t seem to notice. “You get the rare treat of being personally assessed by the Headmaster. Lucky you.”
“Goody,” I deadpan.
“For real though, there are some professors and staff you should probably watch out for, but Headmaster Church is alright. Send me your schedule once you get it and I’ll give you the low down on all the teachers.” She waves to someone in the distance, and I take a moment to sort out the best way to ask the question that's been plaguing me since we parted ways yesterday. Fuck it.
“Why are you being nice to me?” She looks at me, confused. “Augustine gave me the impression that this place was some kind of dog-eat-dog, survival-of-the-fittest, magical thunderdome.” She giggles at my description. “Yesterday, I understand—it’s not like you could say “no” to the powers that be. But this,” I motion between us, “I don’t get it.”
“Why do you think it’s a burden to be nice to you?” she counters, I’m not nearly emotionally prepared for her question at all, because aside from a few people back in Lynden, that’s all I’ve been my whole life: a burden.
