“We’re not going to stand by for that,” I tell him flatly.
“That’s your choice,” Rocco says. “This was your warning. There won’t be another.”
Ozzy returns from the supply cupboard, arms laden with baggies and jars. Carefully he sets them down on the table, then slides into his chair once more. He looks over at Rocco, his broad face creased in a scowl, checking to see if we’re still barking back and forth at each other. Rocco smiles at him, his thin lips like a gash in the lower half of his face.
Wade finishes gathering his supplies, his arms even more heavily-laden than Ozzy’s. He walks slowly and deliberately. As he passes Ozzy, he drops an open beaker of clear fluid all over Ozzy’s bare forearm.
Howling, Ozzy leaps up from his seat.
The fluid sizzles on his arm, his flesh instantly lobster red and even bubbling in places. I smell chlorine.
Ozzy tries to run for the door, probably to sprint to the infirmary, but I seize him by the collar of his sweater vest and drag him backward. Yanking the faucet handle, I seize Ozzy’s wrist and thrust his arm under the steady flow of cold water to flush the area clean.
“What’s going on?” Professor Lyons shouts.
“Wade spilled something on Ozzy’s arm,” I say. “I think it’s hydrochloric acid.”
Professor Lyons uses tongs to lift the spilled beaker off the desktop and hold it aloft in front of her safety glasses. She squints at the soaked, blurred label.
“Why was this open?” she demands.
“It was an accident,” Wade says, trying to get in front of the story before we can accuse him. “I thought it was benzene.”
“Then you’re an idiot,” she snaps. “Go to the cabinet. Get me calcium gluconate. Try reading the label this time.” Then, adjusting the faucet slightly, she says to me, “You keep that water running over his arm for twenty minutes. Not too hard—just like this.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I tell her.
She surveys the scene with eyes no longer sleepy but sharp as a hawk. “How do you know?” she says. “Wade is an idiot.”
“He tripped,” Dax says from behind me. “Miles stuck his foot out on purpose. I saw the whole thing.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!” I snarl.
Professor Lyons ignores my profanity. Cursing is common as breathing at Kingmakers.
“Twenty minutes,” she reminds me. “Then we’ll apply the calcium gluconate.”
Ozzy’s face is a rictus of pain, his lips drawn back to show his tightly-clenched teeth, his stocky body rigid and trembling as the acid continues to burn the exposed nerves of his arm. I hope the cool water is soothing him a little.
As soon as Professor Lyons moves away to dispose of the empty beaker of acid, I hiss at Wade, “You’re fucking dead for this.”
He smirks. “They’re not even gonna punish me. It’s four against two that I’m just clumsy.”
“Think twice before you stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” Dax grunts at me, shoving his desk forward so it hits the back of my legs. I’d fucking pop him, but I have to keep holding Ozzy’s arm under the water. Ozzy’s shaking so hard that I don’t think he could do it himself.
I’m ten times angrier that Wade attacked Ozzy than if he’d dropped that shit on me. I’m sure that’s why he did it—failing to protect your soldiers is a grave insult in our world. Ozzy isn’t really my soldier—he’s an Heir himself, the only child of the Duncans, with sole control of criminal activity within Tasmania. But on campus, I make the plans and he helps execute them. As with any set of best friends, one of us has to take the lead.
I feel responsible for this.
The burn is fucking awful, the flesh raw and sure to scar.
“You’re gonna be okay,” I mutter to Ozzy.
“I know,” he grunts, red and sweating with pain. “It’s not that. It’s my Tails.”
“Your Tails?” I ask blankly.
“Yeah,” he pauses, grimacing, then continues. “On my arm. He was my favorite. And now look at him.”
I look at the spot on his forearm where the doubled-tailed fox used to reside. It’s nothing but a red, swollen mess now, with barely a hint of an outline where the tattoo used to be.
“Ozzy . . .” I say. “That was your worst tattoo.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It was fuckin’ hideous, man. So bad. He looked like a squirrel. Honestly, Wade kinda did you a favor.”
I say that low, because fuck Wade if he thinks I’m being serious. He’s gonna pay for this, whether the school punishes him or not.
Ozzy laughs, though it comes out more like a groan. “Tails was wonky,” he admits. “But that’s why I liked him.”
When the twenty minutes elapses, Professor Lyons applies the calcium gluconate to Ozzy’s arm. She squirts it out of a tube similar to toothpaste. It seems to ease his pain a little. The professor wraps his arm in clean gauze.
“Take him to the infirmary so Dr. Cross can check him out,” she says.
“Can I bring a couple of those poppies with me?” Ozzy asks weakly. “Feel like I might need a taste of the dragon, you know what I mean, Professor?”
“You can ask Dr. Cross for painkillers,” she says unsympathetically.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing Ozzy’s bookbag.
I’m sure Dr. Cross will be thrilled to see me again.
Ozzy stays overnight in the infirmary. When he returns to class the next day, his left hand is stiff and swollen and the whole arm is wrapped up, hung in a sling to help protect it from jostling. Ozzy tells me the flesh is still raw. The slightest contact, even over the gauze, is agonizing.
I’m fucking furious that this happened to Ozzy because of me. I hook him up with some of our best edibles to take the edge off, but I need something better than that to cheer him up. So I get up nice and early the following morning and sneak into the Gatehouse.
The Gatehouse is where the Enforcers have their dorms. The rooms are neat and uniform, having been used in the old days as barracks for soldiers. Almost no female students are Enforcers, except for Ilsa Markov, who I’ll admit is a pretty fucking badass bitch.
There’s a distinct smell of testosterone and unwashed socks in the air. Also the overpowering Aqua Di Gio Wade always wears. I’d be able to find his room even if I didn’t already know which one was his.
From what I’ve observed, he likes to get up nice and early to hit the gym in the Armory before class starts. He’s part of the 6:00 a.m. crowd, along with Dax, Dean Yenin, and the rest of the masochists.
I wait outside his door, hearing him rustling around while he pulls on his gym clothes and those spotless white tennis shoes of his. I hear three distinct spritzes as he douses himself in cologne, which assaults my nostrils a few seconds later as the sharp scent seeps through the cracks around the door.
I’m waiting to the right of said door, phone in my left hand, right hand curled around my zippo for a little extra oomph.
The hinges creak and I ready myself.
The moment Wade opens the door, I haul off and punch him in the nose with all my might. It’s a sucker punch, totally unexpected, and not something I would usually do. But in this case, it’s fully deserved.