“Where is your roommate anyway, Olympia?” asked Tessa.
“When I called this morning, she was still figuring out what to pack.” When Olympia giggled, the whole room seemed to brighten.
Actually, the room did brighten. A Lightbringer then.
“What else do we have, Caleb?” asked the guy standing next to Matthew and I. He was about the same height as my roommate but olive-skinned and wiry, his shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Like Tessa, he had green eyes, but his were pale, the color of sun-bleached grass.
I swallowed a curse. I was going to have a hard time getting any action at all if every first-year man ended up being prettier than I was.
“Let’s see… most of us are Threes, of course.” Caleb cocked an eye at Tessa. “Except for little Ms. Telekinetic here. Low-Four? Pretty sweet!”
She blushed prettily. “If you got it, flaunt it, right?” The second roster sheet peeled itself off the cork board and floated to her hand. “Ooo! We have a Healer too! High three!”
“Whoa.” That was Ponytail again, but I think we all shared his sentiment. Given how rare Healers were, having one in our class—let alone a High-Three—was just as impressive as our High-Four Pyro. “I hope she’s hot.”
“Shane Stevenson? Sounds like a guy to me.”
“Then I retract my last statement,” grinned Ponytail. “Guy already has an unfair advantage. Everyone loves the unicorns.”
Tessa’s gaze was cool. “And who are you?”
“Santiago Tomayo.” He executed a credible bow. “Santi to my friends, El Bosque to my admirers.”
“And do you have a lot of admirers, El Bosque?”
“More and more all the time,” he assured her, his grin widening.
“I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”
Santi’s smile slipped slightly, but he shrugged. “Nothing for you to worry your little head about, regardless… I prefer flowers to weeds.”
Leave it to a Druid to insult a woman using plant metaphors.
Tessa stiffened, her green eyes flashing dangerously, but before we could get into our very first student-on-student melee, the front door opened. The guy who stepped in was six and a half feet of hulking muscle, so wide that he almost looked short at first glance. He was tanned and dark-haired, but his most prominent features were the scars down one side of his face, and a pair of unblinking, golden eyes.
“How’s it going?” My roommate was already walking over to the newcomer, hand outstretched. “Matthew Strich, but I go by—”
The other man brushed by him without a word, never slowing as he bypassed the rest of us and headed down the hall to the boys’ dorm rooms. Matthew watched him go, his tan almost hiding the flush of embarrassment.
Holy hell. Someone even less social than me. Talk about unicorns…
“That must be Alan Jackson,” whispered Caleb, still looking at his sheet. “Beast-shifter, Low-Four, and… get this… he’s from the Badlands.”
Santi whistled. “Fuck. That makes him my roommate. I sure hope he’s housebroken.”
Olympia shook her head. “Not everyone is a charmer like you, El Bosque. I’m sure if we give him time—” Her light flickered as a door slammed shut down the hall. “Lots of time,” she corrected, “he’ll come around.”
“Or murder our resident Druid in his sleep.” Tessa seemed in favor of that idea. “Alan’s one of two Shifters, apparently. We also have a Titan and… ooooo a Switch. Low-Three, but still… that’s pretty cool.”
Switches were a bit of an oddity in the powered community. Unlike most Powers, they couldn’t do anything by themselves. Instead, their abilities worked to amplify the talents of Powers around them or mute those same talents. They weren’t as rare as Healers—or Crows, for that matter—but with every Team wanting at least one on their roster, demand far outstripped supply.
“Three Fours, a Healer, and a Switch.” Matthew shook his head. “We’ve got one heck of a class, don’t we?”
“Hell yeah,” agreed Caleb with a grin, floating a few inches off the ground as he continued to read through the roster. “Class of 76 is going to be fucking legendary! We’ve got almost every element covered too, plus a secondary Stalwart, a Teleporter, and…” He frowned, his voice trailing off. “Hold up. This can’t be right.”
“You not the only Flyboy Jitterbug, dude?” drawled Santiago.
“Huh? No.” Caleb shook his head, voice absent. “I’m one of a kind, Treefucker.”
“Can you at least try not to swear every three words?” pleaded Olympia.
“What is it, Caleb?” asked Tessa.
“It’s got to be a typo, but… this says we have a Crow.”
Olympia’s light went out.
•—•—•
“That has to be a mistake.” Tessa snatched the second roster sheet page out of Caleb’s hands—using her own hands this time instead of her telekinesis. “Or some sort of twisted joke.” She scanned the sheet and frowned. “Low-Three, Damian Banach.”
Any chance I’d had of delaying my reveal went out the window at that point. Matthew was already turning to me, eyes wide.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
It’s said some Black Hats can clear a room just by walking into it. I didn’t have that sort of mojo going for me, but a space had opened around me almost before I’d finished speaking.
“You’re a Necromancer?!?” That was my roommate, who’d swapped out his easy smile for something stone-faced. “Seriously?”
I shrugged.
“Crows aren’t heroes,” protested Olympia. “They’re insane, murdering assholes.”
So much for her concerns about language. Or for me being welcomed with open arms. I looked at my fellow classmates, noted the horror, fear, and outright hate shining from their faces, and bared my teeth. “I haven’t murdered anyone, but the day’s not over yet.”
Matthew positioned himself between me and the two ladies, but Olympia had gone even paler than normal at my words. A moment later, she fled down the hall toward her room.
I felt bad about that, actually. Nobody wants to make a Lightbringer sad. But she had no business calling me names.
Our strange little standoff had lasted for maybe ten seconds when a high, almost nasally, voice cut through the tension. “Don’t everyone welcome me all at once or anything.” A newcomer stood just inside the doorway, tall and thin, her hair pure white and waist-length, her nose only slightly less crooked than my own. “Penelope Von Pell,” she announced. “I go by Winter.” She frowned at the lack of response. “Am I missing something, or are you all just massive jerks?”
“We were saying hello to our new classmate, Penelope,” said Caleb. He was the least imposing of any of the male first-years I’d met, but the menace in his voice almost made up for that fact. He gestured in my direction. “Meet Damian… the Crow.”
“The… Crow? Oh to hell with that shit.” She spun on one heel and stalked back the way she had come, her snow-white hair fanning out prettily behind her. At the door, she paused to address the rest of the class over one shoulder. “I’m going to complain to the dean and my father, in that order. If anyone wants to lodge a similar complaint, they are more than welcome to join me.”
Apparently, I’d undersold my ability to clear a room. Within moments, I was the only one left. I picked up the class rosters from where they’d been dropped to the floor, glanced over the list of people I hadn’t yet met, and then carefully tore both sheets of paper into tiny pieces.
So far, superhero school sucked.
CHAPTER 15
None of the others were back by the time dinner rolled around. Not that I wanted to eat with them or anything, but I’d have at least learned whether Bard had shut their protests down or not. If they all got their parents involved… well, I was pretty sure the Academy would rather have twenty-four first-years and no Crow than one Crow and no first-years.
Regardless, even a Necromancer had to eat, and I decided to head f
or the cafeteria. Unfortunately, when I hit the common room, I found Olympia doing the same thing. She froze in her tracks, pale eyes wide.
Murderous, insane asshole Crow I might be, but one thing nobody would ever accuse me of being was a bully. I stopped a good distance away. “I’m sorry if I scared you earlier. I’m not going to hurt you… or anyone else. I just don’t like being called an asshole.”
“You’re a Crow,” she told me quietly. “Your kind always hurts people, sooner or later.”
“I’m here to prove otherwise.” And to not go insane… but that didn’t seem like the sort of thing that would help the conversation.
“Do whatever you want,” she said. “Just stay away from me, please.”
I choked down at least a half-dozen retorts and nodded. “I was going to the cafeteria to get something to eat, but if you’re heading there too, go ahead. I’ll wait. And don’t worry, I’ll eat at my own table.”
She studied my face—presumably to see if I was lying and would murder her as soon as she turned her back—and then nodded, crossing the common room as fast as her long legs could carry her. In a moment, she too was gone.
•—•—•
One good thing about the cafeteria was that it served all students, not just Capes-in-training. It was easy enough to lose myself in the hundreds of people, many of them practically bouncing off the walls with excitement at being away from home. None of them knew a damn thing about me, or who and what I was, and I had no difficulty finding a seat in the chaos.
The second good thing about the cafeteria was the food. The night before, they’d made me an actual sandwich, with real salami and everything. This time around, I had a bowl of stew, the meat in it recognizably something other than synth-protein or rat, and a tall glass of cool water that didn’t taste like it had been run through the recycler a dozen times.
It was good enough I went back for seconds. A few years of this and I might actually put on some weight for the first time ever.
Assuming the other first-years didn’t get me tossed out.
That was the sort of thought that could kill even my appetite. I nodded a goodbye to the normals I’d shared the table with, deposited my bowl and glass on the wheeled table reserved for dirty dishes, and trudged back towards the dorm.
The sun had fallen by then, but the lights streaming from the building told me that more first-years had arrived, or the original group had returned, or—most likely of all—some combination of both. I paused outside the door, took a breath, wrapped myself in a cloak of don’t-give-a-fuck, and entered the common room.
The conversation I’d been able to hear even from outside cut off instantly. There were a few new faces, but for the most part, I’d already met the people in the common room. They rose to their feet in silence, a dozen different faces made similar by hostility.
You know what? Fuck this being nice shit.
“Looks like we’re all still here,” I noted. “Sucks to be you.”
I picked my way through the field of Super-assholes-in-training, and made my way down the hall to my room. Behind me, the conversation started up again, this time with a fresh undercurrent of anger. I slid one hand into my pocket to touch the reassuring weight of the steak knife I’d stolen from the cafeteria. So far, other than the crying-to-the-dean bits, this was playing out an awful lot like a day at Mama Rawlins’. That meant I could expect some sort of attack as soon as the lights went out. I’d be ready.
A small voice at the back of my head reminded me that—not even six hours earlier—I’d taken the huge step of deciding I actually wanted to be a Cape. Stabbing fellow first-years didn’t really fit that mold, did it?
I told that little voice what it could do with its reminders. The other first-years had started it. Hell if I was going to just let someone jump me. Bard could expel my bony ass if he wanted.
I stalked into my room, and came to a halt. Matthew was almost done re-packing his suitcases.
“Going somewhere, Paladin?” Fucker didn’t even have the brains to know that his codename was already taken by an active Cape. He’d be sued to an inch of his life if he tried to use the name after graduation.
Unlike the other first-years, his face didn’t ooze hate, but his blue eyes were opaque. “I asked for and received dispensation to switch rooms.”
“I didn’t know they let cowards become Capes.”
He started to say something, then swallowed it back down, tossing the last stack of perfectly folded clothes into his suitcase and zipping it closed. “You shouldn’t be here. Maybe you’re trying to make some sort of point, but there are twenty-plus other Powers in our class whose careers and lives will depend on what they learn over the next three years. It’s bad enough that you might turn those years into a sideshow, but once we graduate? Whatever sort of distraction you were during our training will get some of us killed.” His voice was matter-of-fact. That almost made it worse.
Before I could respond, he pulled both suitcases off the bed, and was out the door.
Possible upside: I had a huge dorm room to myself.
Unavoidable downside: The only first-year I’d met so far who didn’t hate me was Alan Jackson. And it wasn’t so much that he didn’t hate me but that he seemed to hate everyone else just as much.
If the stew hadn’t been so tasty… I’m pretty sure I’d have quit that very night.
Some people probably still wish I had.
•—•—•
While I heard the occasional first-year walking down the hall as the night went on—presumably coming back to dream their little Cape dreams of purity and perfect tans—nobody bothered me. By midnight, I’d gotten tired of re-reading the Academy handbook—I still hadn’t found any rules against murdering your fellow classmates, so either it wasn’t illegal, or they’d assumed the prohibition went without saying—and decided to go to sleep.
As if that had been a signal, the door opened. One glance told me I should have stolen a chainsaw instead of a steak knife.
He was almost as big as Alan Jackson, his skin so black that it blended into the thick, bushy beard that covered his face from cheeks to mid-chest. What kind of an eighteen-year-old had a full beard?
Maybe he was part bear. Tessa had said there was another Shifter.
Instead of decapitating me with a single paw, he brought in a large suitcase and gave me a level look. “You the Crow?” Even his voice was big, deep enough that I could feel it in my bones.
I nodded.
He tossed the suitcase onto his bed like it weighed nothing at all. “Touch my stuff and I’ll tear your arms off.”
At Mama Rawlins’, I’d made a habit of sticking up for the little guy… but this was the first time in a long while that I was the little guy. I scowled. “You all need to get your stories straight. Either I’m a thief or I’m a murderer. I refuse to be both.”
He shook his head. “Whatever. Warning stands.”
Twenty minutes later, he was asleep.
I thought about stealing his suitcase and burying it somewhere even his bear nose wouldn’t find it. The dumpsters behind the cafeteria, maybe? Instead, I tucked the steak knife under my pillow, wrapped one hand tightly around its fiberglass handle, and waited for sleep or my enemies to come.
Her Majesty would have approved.
CHAPTER 16
I’m not sure what Orientation was like for the regular students. From the brief glimpse I had of the field where it took place, it seemed to involve a lot of singing and laughing.
The twenty-four first-years of the Cape training program got an auditorium.
Those of you who’ve kept your brains functioning better than the rest might remember Bard saying there would be twenty-five of us, including me. Yeah, the school year hadn’t even started yet, and we’d already lost a first-year. My fault, though I didn’t know it at the time.
Anyway, while I’d have preferred the party the normals got, the auditorium we’d been herded into was nice enough; fifteen rows of
comfortable, tiered seats like I’d seen in arena vids. There was a wide stage at the bottom with a podium and a row of empty chairs atop it, and the ceiling above us was vaulted and dotted with lights. Our class barely made a dent in a space that could have comfortably seated a hundred or more students—and frequently did during the school year.
Maybe other classes would have neatly filled the first few rows, leaving row upon row of empty seats behind them, but even at the start, our class was fracturing into cliques. There was a clump of students a few rows from the front, another clump in the back, a handful of women in the very first row, and then, all the way to the left, with three rows and multiple chairs between each of us, me, Alan Jackson, and the young woman I quickly identified as our High-Four Pyro, Ishmae Naser.
Whereas most of the students were dressed in normal streetwear, and I had on another set of school sweatpants along with one of the tees I’d brought from Bakersfield, Ishmae was draped in robes; multiple layers of crimson and golden cloth that concealed every inch of her small form. Only her head was bare, her brown skin smooth and hairless, her face dominated by enormous, almond-shaped eyes. Those eyes had examined each of us upon entry, dismissed us almost as quickly, and were now fixed upon the stage below. She looked exotic—like some sort of strange bird from one of the forgotten islands—and driven. She also looked more than a little self-conscious, and very, very young.
I had finished my own examination of the rest of the class—many of whom had arrived after I’d gone to bed or sometime between breakfast and Orientation—and was watching Mom’s ghost slowly meander down the stairs, when one of the room’s two doors swung open. Bard was almost unrecognizable; the messy hair now neatly combed and the casual clothing replaced by a sharp three-piece suit and a pair of glasses that added a decade to his appearance. Only his easy smile remained the same.
Ten adults trailed in after him, five men and five women, all of them way too old to be students. They settled into the chairs on stage, as Bard walked to the podium. He adjusted its microphone, cleared his throat once, and turned his smile on the rest of us like it was some kind of energy weapon.
See These Bones Page 7
