“You know,” I say, “I always thought you were a Mozart kinda girl. That was pretty fuckin’ metal.”
“That impresses you?” Zoe raises a soot-black eyebrow. “Jumping off a cliff?”
“I mean . . . yeah. Assuming you survive.” I swallow hard, looking at her closely. “You are gonna survive, aren’t you, Zoe?”
She’s silent for a moment, then she lets out a sigh.
“Yeah,” she says. “For now.”
It’s the closest thing to a promise I’m going to get out of her.
And besides, who am I to make her swear she won’t try to kill herself again?
I might do the same if I had to marry that walking corpse Rocco Prince.
6
Cat
My classes are a nightmare.
Each is worse than the one before.
The professors are harsh and impatient. They expect us to know things that I’ve never even imagined, let alone studied in detail.
The students who come to Kingmakers are the ones raised to the mafia life. They’ve been fighting, shooting, and scheming since they graduated from diapers. They learned the history of their ancestors at their grandparents’ knees. They always knew what role they’d take in their organization.
I’m the only one plucked out of art school and chucked into the den of lions, ignorant as a newborn babe.
I know this is partly my fault. Zoe paid attention to what our father was doing. I preferred to stay in my room, painting and drawing, or sometimes sneaking down to the kitchen to help our cook make paella and crema catalana.
I loved our house staff. Our cook Celia was gruff but a patient teacher, explaining how to add saffron to the paella to give the rice color and flavor. Our maid Lucia was young and gentle. She used to sneak me magazines so I could look at pictures of party dresses, until Daniela caught our father looking at Lucia one too many times and fired her on the spot.
I’m terrified of every adult at Kingmakers, from the burly grounds crew, to the tattooed kitchen staff, to the professors with their wealth of sinister knowledge.
Worst of all is the Chancellor Luther Hugo. I saw him when he called us all to the Grand Hall to announce the terms of this year’s Quartum Bellum. He stood before the roaring fireplace, the wild flames behind his dark, imposing figure making him look like the devil himself risen up from the ground.
He reminded us of our duty to our families, the stakes of our future careers in the criminal world, and the dire consequences if we dared to step one toe out of line at Kingmakers.
I could swear his coal-black eyes were boring into me the entire time. His face looked as wrinkled as old leather, but those eyes were agelessly bright.
“Remember,” he said, staring into my soul. “Every choice sets the table. Sooner or later, we all sit down to a banquet of consequences.”
I think if he ordered me to jump into the fire behind him, I might have done it. That’s how much that man terrifies me.
The information that followed was no more cheering.
The Chancellor explained that the Quartum Bellum, or “War of Four,” is an annual battle between the Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors. It’s an elimination tournament with three separate stages.
Every student participates—mandatory, no excuses.
I was already wondering if I could use the newfound information acquired in my Chemistry class to give myself a convenient case of food poisoning.
I waited until the Chancellor dismissed us before I squeaked to Perry, “How do they expect us to compete against Seniors? Or Juniors or Sophomores, for that matter.”
“They don’t.” Perry shrugged. “You’re just supposed to try. Nobody thinks we’ll win.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Lyman Landry told her. “The Freshmen did win last year, for the very first time.”
“How?” Perry demanded.
“Leo Gallo,” Lyman said, his broad, earnest face shining with admiration. “He was the Captain. He’s a fucking champion. A god, even. He’ll win again this year, you’ll see.”
“A god,” Perry snorted, rolling her eyes.
I could feel myself blushing, because I had met Leo Gallo at breakfast, my very first morning at Kingmakers. He did look like a god. I’ve never seen someone so handsome—tall, deeply-tanned, with amber-colored eyes and a smile brighter than the sun.
Of course I’d never dare have a crush on him. He’s dating Anna Wilk, a moon goddess in her own right, as dark and mysterious as Leo is bright and blinding.
He was kind to me. So was Anna.
I wish I could say the same for my classmates. I haven’t made a single friend, other than Perry, who barely shares any classes with me.
Most of my classes are with Spies and Enforcers. I don’t know which is worse. The Spies are ruthless, sarcastic, and disdainful. The Enforcers are mostly hot-heads and bullies, the type of jocks who don’t just want to win, they want to fucking destroy you.
I hate Combat class most of all. As soon as we face off against our opponents, I can see the change come over my classmates. Their pupils dilate, they crouch down low, their breathing slows. That’s how a predator prepares to attack.
My body chooses flight over fight. My heart rate quadruples in speed and my muscles scream at me to RUN RUN RUN, so all I can do is raise my hands in surrender, to duck and cringe.
I’ve been knocked out twice already.
The first time was by a heavyset Enforcer who looked utterly bewildered when I woke up staring up at him from the mat.
“You didn’t even try to block my punch,” he said, shaking his head in bemusement.
The second time happened today, courtesy of my very own roommate Rakel. It felt a lot more personal. Anytime she and I get left without partners, I can see her boiling fury that anyone might think she’s equally as undesirable as me. She put me in a headlock within five seconds and ignored my hand desperately tapping on her shoulder, begging her to let go.
I woke up face-down on the mats, blood gushing out of my nose.
“A tap-out means you stop,” Professor Howell informs her sternly. He’s only a few inches taller than me, but he’s lean and fit and faster than a jackrabbit. When he’s in a good mood, he’s one of the more pleasant professors. But when you cross him, he fixes you with a black stare that could curdle milk.
“I didn’t feel her tapping,” Rakel says, insolent and unrepentant. Even amongst the Spies, Rakel has a perpetual scowl that has made her barely any more popular than me.
“You’ll feel the consequences if you try it again,” the professor says, scalpel-sharp. “You see that over there?” He jerks his head toward a tall metal cylinder in the corner of the gym. It looks like an Iron Maiden—smooth and featureless on the exterior, with only a glassed-in horizontal slit at eye level.
“Yes,” Rakel says slowly.
“That’s a deoxygenation chamber. Useful for training for high altitudes or increasing stamina by forcing the body to overproduce red blood cells. I can change the oxygen percentage to any level I like. You ignore a tap-out again, and I’ll put you in there for half an hour. You won’t suffocate. But you’ll feel like you’re drowning the entire time. Do you understand me?”