“Always,” I laughed.
“Once we were climbing the stairs of the Library Tower and my shoelace came undone. I stopped to tie it, and Miss Robin thought Ares came in alone . . .”
“And?” I said, giddy with the thrill that always comes over me when I learn a piece of information I’m not supposed to know.
“Well . . . she didn’t say anything strange. But it was the way she talked to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just so . . . familiar.”
“Oh.” I had shrugged, disappointed. “He’s in there all the time, just like you.”
“I suppose,” Zoe said stubbornly. “It just seemed so . . . intimate.”
“You think they have a thing for each other?”
“I don’t know,” Zoe was losing confidence in her theory, realizing the flimsiness of her evidence.
“She’s a lot older than him,” I said.
“But she’s so beautiful . . .”
I had shaken my head, dismissing Zoe’s idea.
But I’ve thought of it plenty of times since—almost every time I’ve seen Ares or Miss Robin. They’re both so reclusive, and so carefully contained. Just the sort of people who could hide a secret affair. It does seem impossible that someone as handsome as Ares would resist so much willing female attention from his fellow students without a very good reason . . .
“I told Joss I’d meet him in the Grand Hall,” Rakel says, snapping me out of my speculation. “You want to walk over with me?”
“Sure.” I nod. “I’m meeting Dean there, too.”
We cross the long expanse of crunching, frosty grass separating the Solar from the Grand Hall. Dozens of students in their dress clothes likewise hurry in the same direction, some paired up as couples, and other bunches of males left without a date in our gender-imbalanced school.
I spot Dean waiting outside the doors, instantly recognizable with his pale skin and hair ghostly white against his ink-black tux.
“Go on ahead,” I say to Rakel.
She passes through the doors into the hall, while Dean pulls me to the side so we can speak in relative privacy.
“Sorry I’m late—” I begin.
“Never mind that,” Dean says. “Why are you wearing that?”
He’s looking at the collar around my neck.
“I thought . . .”
“The month is over. You can take it off.”
“Alright,” I say hesitantly. I reach behind my neck to undo the buckle, fumbling with the cold-stiffened leather.
Dean turns me around and deftly unbuckles the collar with his much-stronger fingers.
My neck feels cold and naked without it. I’ve worn that collar almost constantly this last month. Dean slips it in his pocket. I feel strangely rejected, as if he’s taken something from me.
“Our deal is done,” Dean says, his purplish eyes fixed on mine. “You held up your end of the bargain. And your secret is safe. I’ll never speak a word of it to anyone. In fact, you don’t have to do this tonight.” He nods toward the pale golden light leaking out of the heavy double doors. “We can go inside, part ways, and never speak again, if that’s the way you want it.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask, looking up at him, his face like marble in the moonlight.
He flinches and I see it—the crack in his armor. And the real person beneath.
“No,” he says quietly.
“I don’t want that either,” I say, slipping my hand into his. “I want to dance with you tonight.”
“Good,” Dean breathes. “Because the way you look in that dress—I couldn’t stand to see you dance with anyone else.”
My heart is beating faster than it ever has before—even in Dean’s and my most vigorous moments.
I think we’re about to walk inside together, but Dean holds me back a moment longer.
“I did get you something,” he says, his breath frosting on the air.
He reaches into his breast pocket and takes out a flat velvet box.
“I don’t like to take something away without giving something in return.”
Dean opens the lid.
I see a glimmering ruby on a spider-fine chain. Dean lifts the necklace aloft. The pendant hangs suspended from his fingers, the stone as rich and dark as a droplet of blood.
He drapes it around my neck, the necklace already warm from his body heat.
“It suits you,” he says softly.
“You like how I look tonight?” I ask. This is my first time dressing as a woman, not a girl—sultry, sophisticated. I didn’t know if it worked, or I only look ridiculous.
“Cat,” Dean says seriously. “There’s no one more beautiful than you.”
My heart soars up all over again, and I can’t help saying, “So . . . is this a new version of the collar?”
Dean tries to hide his smile. “If you want it to be.”
We enter the Grand Hall, decorated for the holidays with fresh fir boughs that fill the air with the smell of pinesap and deep, cold forest. A fire roars in the massive hearth, offset by the two double doors standing open.
Almost every student at Kingmakers is crowded in here. The Christmas dance is the only official school party of the year, and no one likes to miss it.
Even the Chancellor is in attendance, dressed in a tuxedo that looks more like a smoking jacket with its velvet lapels. I have a deep-seated loathing for him, after the way he executed Ozzy’s mother. But I can’t deny his powerful magnetism that draws the eye of everyone around.
His black eyes gleam as he chats to Professor Lyons, the Arsenic Witch, dressed fittingly in a gown of poison green. Behind her, my Combat teacher Professor Howell is sharing war stories with the expert in Environmental Adaptation, Professor Bruce. Literal war stories, I’m sure, as Professor Howell fought with the Israel Defense Forces and Professor Bruce was a SEAL.
“I don’t see Miss Robin,” I say to Dean.
“No surprise there.” He shrugs. “I almost never see her outside the library.”
“She usually comes to the dance, though,” I say, disappointed. For all Miss Robin puzzles me, I like her very much. And a tiny part of me wanted to see if I could catch her admiring Ares in his suit. Or vice versa.
“Snow came,” Dean says, sounding pleased. He points out the new boxing teacher, with Dr. Rybakov on his arm.
I’ve heard plenty about Snow from Dean, who intensely admires him, and a little more from Sasha, who tended to me so kindly after I fell on my head at the Quartum Bellum. But I’ve never actually seen him in person.
He is, quite frankly, terrifying. Tall and brutal-looking, with several scars on his face and a nose that likely retains little resemblance to its original shape. Add to that a granite jaw, closely-buzzed graying hair, and frost-colored eyes.
Even his suit can’t conceal his rough and brutish physique. The set of his shoulders, the way he walks—everything about him says “street.”
By contrast, Sasha Rybakov looks like she just put her name on a wing in the Guggenheim. She’s elegant and refined, her blonde hair sleek and shining, her pale blue gown in faultless good taste.
“Cat!” she says, waving and coming over at once. “How are you feeling?”