Why is she being so clingy? Has my father told her to keep an eye on me?
If so, things in my life are going to get even more tiresome.
At least with the Conclave orders for students to remain corralled into their apartments, I get to have peace in the evenings.
Carefully removing my loafers, I settle my feet into Dolce & Gabbana velvet slippers. The ritual calms me.
For all of five seconds until my phone rings.
If there is one song I never, in my entire life, want to hear again, it’s American Nightmare by Ice Nine Kills.
“Father?”
“You are to lead a new organization at the academy,” he says with no greeting or preamble. “Conclave Cadets will be for specific Elite students. The aim is to re-educate the next generation into Conclave ideology and provide innate-magic training in anticipation of their ascensions.”
Right. Basically Hitler Youth then.
My father continues, not needing to hear my agreement. It’s taken as read. “Giving young and untested Elites innate magic was not going to happen so soon, but now Janine has finished developing an innate magic suppressor; if one goes rogue, we can neutralize them easily.”
Shit.
“That is wise, father. How is the suppressor administered?”
The more knowledge I can gain about this the better. “Various ways, from a simple injection, to having the vapour pumped through an air filtration system. We’ll be introducing that into all prisons soon. But, back to the Cadets; obviously, you will be more of a figurehead, than an active instructor. But I will expect you to attend all meetings and assist Professor Gimble in whatever she needs.”
Fuck.
My.
Life.
“She’ll be in touch,” he says, then hangs up.
I throw my cell across the room. It smashes against the window frame and is now undoubtedly destroyed, but I don't care at all. It will give me at least a moment free from more fatherly instructions.
“Something wrong?”
Feniks is standing in the doorway to the penthouse. Now he’s the tower supervisor, he has a key to get in anywhere he likes. “Do you not understand what knocking is?” I snap.
“Heard a crash,” he shrugs.
"It was just the last of my hopes and dreams dying," I mutter.
Feniks raises an eyebrow at my hyperbole, as well he might, then follows my gaze to the cell on the floor.”Your father, by any chance?" He walks across the room and takes a seat—uninvited.
“Tyrus Drakeward at his finest. He has a new vision for the future.”
“Another one? I thought his Conclave 2.0 was everything he’d dreamed.”
I slump down onto the sofa. “There’s always more with him. And this particular scheme involves me being the new poster boy for the 'Conclave Cadets.'”
Feniks chokes slightly. “What the fuck?”
“Exactly. From what I gather, I’m supposed to lead a group to make sure all the academy Elites are mindless Conclave zealots before their ascension. And get this, I may be the titular head of this operation, but the one actually in charge is Gimble.” The thought makes me shudder.
“Classic fascism,” Feniks sighs, scratching at his stubble. “Re-education to control the narrative. Control the story, control the masses.”
I close my eyes for a moment and try to control my breathing. “And that’s not the worst of it. You know I’d heard about an ‘ascended kill-switch’? Apparently, it’s now ready for use. The Conclave has a way to neutralize our innate magic.”
