It may be my imagination, but I feel like Miles is sitting down to eat with us more often, or intercepting us in the commons to walk across the grounds together before parting ways for the next class.
Maybe he just wants to make sure I haven’t offed myself yet.
It feels like more than that. It feels like he’s listening to my conversations with Anna, taking in every word that comes out of my mouth, even while Leo’s chatting away in his other ear.
While he’s watching me, I’m watching him.
Miles is much more clever than I realized. I knew his grades were shit and he barely tried in class, basically doing the bare minimum to prevent being expelled. He slacks off in the Quartum Bellum. His team was first eliminated last year and he hardly seemed to care. He might even have disappeared for half the match.
But when he’s talking about a subject on which he’s genuinely passionate, he seems to know everything in the world.
For instance, this morning he’s discussing Bitcoin with Ozzy. He’s so engrossed in the conversation that his whole face lights up, and he looks much more like Leo, instead of his usual sardonic stare.
“It was the cartels that started Bitcoin in the first place!” he says to Ozzy, gesturing with his long, flexible fingers. “It’s the perfect basket for obscuring transactions. I keep expecting the government to regulate it, to refuse transferal to American dollars, but they ignore it.”
“They don’t understand it,” Ozzy says. “Politicians aren’t programmers.”
We’ve got a break between classes, and we’re sitting on the raised platform amongst the orange trees, enjoying the last truly warm sunshine before the autumn weather begins.
This is the first time I’ve been over here since my altercation with Rocco up on that wall. The very wall I’m sitting against at this moment, the stone sun-warmed and pleasant against my back.
I can’t help glancing upward to the empty ramparts. Miles catches me, and our eyes meet in one swift jolt of understanding, before Ozzy draws his attention again.
We’re sprawled out with our bags and books scattered everywhere: Leo and Anna, Chay, Cat and me, Miles and Ozzy, then Ares and Hedeon.
Ares is Leo’s roommate. He’s a gentle giant—an inch taller even than Leo, with deeply-tanned skin and that particular shade of blue-green eye that you sometimes see in Greeks. He’s quiet and studious, so I’ve always liked him and found him a good study partner.
Hedeon lives on the same floor of the Octagon Tower, with all the male Heirs of our year. I can’t say I enjoy his company quite as much as Ares’ because Hedeon is touchy and prone to angry outbursts. He’d be good-looking if he weren’t so sulky all the time—he’s dark-haired, clean-shaven, well-groomed. The only thing marring his handsome face is the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, as if it were broken in the past and never properly healed.
He’s improved since our Freshman year. I think Leo and Ares are a good influence on him, because neither of them can hold a bad mood for long.
But right now Hedeon is in as foul a temper as I’ve ever seen him. He and his brother Silas got into a fistfight at breakfast over the last blueberry muffin in the basket.
I don’t know how the fuck Hedeon dares fight with Silas. Silas is a walking leviathan. He looks carved out of stone, and he’s about equally as emotive. I’ve never seen him smile, unless he just finished beating the shit out of someone in Combat class.
Yet they clash with each other constantly, with real fury, over the most petty provocations.
Anna thinks Silas is bitter because their parents appointed Hedeon as Heir. If that’s true, I’m not sure what Hedeon is so angry about.
Hedeon gets the worst of it in their fights, but he never backs down. It’s like a scab he can’t stop picking.
“Gimme some of that water,” he demands of Anna. She has a flask full of the lovely, cold, mineral-tinged water that you can pump up from the well next to the dining hall.
“No,” Anna says, taking a swig herself. “You already drank half of it, and you should have brought your own.”
Hedeon tries to snatch it from her, but Anna pulls it back out of reach. Her dancer’s reflexes are as fast as any of the boys. Except maybe Leo.
“Don’t know why you’re sunbathing,” he says to Anna. “I’ve never seen you catch a tan darker than chalk.”
Leo frowns and opens his mouth to tell Hedeon off, but Anna forestalls him.
“Quit barking at all of us because Silas slapped you silly,” she says. “It’s not our fault your brother’s an ass.”
Hedeon gives Anna a stare of such furious heat that even Anna looks slightly abashed.
“He’s not my brother,” Hedeon hisses. “There’s not a drop of shared blood in our veins.”
An awkward silence falls over the group as we all remember that Hedeon was adopted by the Grays, and so was Silas. They were raised together, but it obviously engendered no affection.
Quietly, Chay asks, “Do you know who your biological parents were?”
Hedeon’s lips are pressed tight together, his jaw rigid with anger. I don’t think he’s going to answer her.
Then he says, “No.”
It’s a twisted, tortured syllable, as if it pains him to let it out.
I’ve seen Hedeon hit the heavy bag in the gym, over and over and over again, until his knuckles are bloody and his shirt is soaked through with sweat. Those white t-shirts become transparent when wet. Hedeon’s back is a topographical map of scars, raised and crisscrossed, newer scars lain over older. They run down the backs of his arms, too, and up the base of his neck.
I think about those scars, and the slightly crooked nose.
I wonder when that happened. Before he was adopted? Or after.
The silence is thick, as most of us want to say something to Hedeon, but don’t know what. His expression seems to indicate that he’ll bite the head off the first person who tries.
To my shock, it’s Cat who pipes up.
“My roommate beat the shit out of me in Combat class again,” she says. “But I almost think it’s cathartic for us. Really seems to ease the tension in our room afterward.”
Chay can’t help laughing. “What the hell? Who would want to beat you up?”
“Rakel really seems to enjoy it,” Cat says, mystified. “I am learning how to get my hands up. And I knocked her over once today, so that’s progress.”
Sure enough, Cat’s sporting a fresh fat lip to go along with the bruise under her eye from a previous sparring session. It only highlights the innocence of her big, round eyes and her delicate face.
Hedeon looks at her with a bemused expression. He’s still radiating anger, but at a less radioactive degree. More asbestos than Chernobyl.
The tension broken, Miles and Ozzy return to their conversation.
“It doesn’t do any good to stay right below the ten-thousand-dollar mark for deposits,” Ozzy is saying. “They’ve got algorithms to track that. You put in ninety-four hundred every three days, and they’re still gonna pop you. You gotta write your own algorithm to keep it truly random.”
“Can you do that?” Cat asks him eagerly.
“Sure,” Ozzy says, surprised that she’s taking an interest. “Easily.”