She’d saved a city at sixteen. I’d lost my cherry to Alicia. As far as I was concerned, I’d gotten the better end of the deal.
“I guess the Defenders sent her as their representative instead of Paladin,” I said, slightly disappointed.
“I think you’re the only straight man I’ve ever met who didn’t get heart palpitations just from being in the same city as Aspen.” Silt frowned.
“I’m not saying she isn’t awesome. Low-Four in three different power classes? That’s hard to beat.” I shrugged. “But I like Tempest best.”
“Whatever floats your boat, Skeletor. Whatever floats your boat.”
“I wonder if the Defenders need an Empath,” mused Vibe. Moments later, she sent me an apologetic look. “Sorry, Damian.”
“It’s okay. I may not end up becoming a Cape, but I’ve had plenty of suggestions for other careers I could try instead.”
I think the worst part of those two months had been pretending that I had a future that measured in years instead of days. Fake optimism is fucking tiring.
“They’ll figure something out, Boneboy,” insisted Silt.
“And if Bard doesn’t, we will,” agreed Vibe.
“Could you all keep it down?” asked Winter, two rows behind us and seated with the normal she’d somehow blackmailed into being her date to the dance. “I’m trying to listen to the announcer.”
Of course she was.
•—•—•
The Graduation Games run for a full week. The first three days are all individual events, while the next three are team-oriented, but it’s the seventh day that everyone loses their minds over. That’s when they hold the finals for every contest from the preceding week. More than eight straight hours of the very best third-years demonstrating their skills. If the Academy sold tickets, they could make a fortune.
I wouldn’t be there to see the finals. The shuttle to the Hole left at noon on the sixth day, one day before the finals, and two days before the Remembrance Day dance. Maybe I should’ve been pissed about that, too, but the allure of the games had faded quickly. Turns out watching an event you know you’ll never get to participate in is its own kind of torture, especially for a first-year, and especially with every one of your classmates watching the field in rapt fascination, their hopes and dreams almost literally painted across their faces.
I blew off day four. Spent some of it rehearsing what I was going to say when I finally saw my asshole dad. Spent the rest of it out on that hill-side bench in the woods, watching the ocean. The ocean doesn’t give a fuck about people. The ocean’s going to be there long after we’re dust. Not sure why, but I found that comforting.
I blew off day five too, but this time I spent it in bed with my Glass. That turned out to be a tactical mistake, as it made it all the easier for Jeremiah to track me down.
“Hey Damian, the second-years are having an end-of-year party over at The Liquid Hero. Feel like coming?”
The shuttle to the Hole was leaving in just over sixteen hours. The absolute last thing I needed to do was go drinking.
On the other hand, it was quite possibly the last time I’d get to go drinking.
“What the hell,” I decided, “I’m in.”
Still eighteen.
Still an idiot.
CHAPTER 64
Parties at The Liquid Hero weren’t all that uncommon, especially with classes over for the semester. What made this one special was that it was Capes-only; adults, first-years, second-years, and the handful of third-years who were either done with the Graduation Games or willing to be hungover for the championship round. For only the second time all year, drinks were on the house.
Hektor was working the bar instead of the door, and as we entered, Jeremiah peeled off to say hello. I nodded to Olympia, out on the dance floor with London, Santi, and an over-muscled second-year, and went looking for my classmates. The second-years who weren’t working the bar had taken over the upstairs tables and the booths along the far wall were occupied by third-years and adults. That left us first-years making do with the tall tables between the booths and the stairs. Poltergeist, Cyclone, and the Viking barely fit around one, and Supersonic, Wormhole, and Paladin crowded around another. The last two tables each had open spaces, but since Winter stood alone at one of them and Orca and Prince were together at the other—holding hands and sharing a beer, for fuck’s sake—neither option was appealing.
I went back to the bar and ordered a screwdriver, a drink I only knew from vids. The vodka was cheap and the orange juice was synthesized, but at least it wasn’t beer. Or whisky. After Amos’ priceless bottle, and Mom’s subsequent visitation, even the thought of the stuff turned my stomach.
I tossed back one glass, ordered another, and waited for a minute or two for salvation to appear. Silt, maybe, or even Vibe, as unlikely as that would be. No luck. Finally, I gave in to the inevitable, and headed to the table with Orca and Prince.
I was still ten feet away when Freddy “Muse” Ficus, our Low-Three Switch, took the final spot.
That should have been my first clue that the night was destined for disaster, but the vodka was already working its magic, warming me from the inside, and I wasn’t looking for portents or signs. With a shrug, I changed direction, and headed for Winter’s table.
If Penelope had ever worn heels, she would have been close to my height, and I was the tallest of the first-year men not named Alan Jackson, Eric Thorsson, or Jeremiah Jones. In flats, she was still a head taller than most of the other women, but tonight, she seemed smaller somehow, gazing wistfully into the depths of the empty wine glass on the table in front of her.
“Winter.” I put my screwdriver on the table next to her glass, already resolved to ignore the obnoxious Weather Witch until space opened up at a different table.
“What do you want, Damian?” Our table was on the far side of the bar, right next to the booths, and some careful trick of architecture or engineering helped reduce the deafening music to background noise. It was one of the few places on the ground floor where conversation didn’t require yelling back and forth. Just my luck.
“Does it matter?”
“No.” She spared me a glance. “Do you ever wear anything other than Academy greys?”
“Not often,” I answered honestly. “I’m pretty sure grey is my color.”
“Grey isn’t anyone’s color.” She rolled her eyes, and raised her wine glass to her lips, grimacing when she realized it was empty. “I can’t believe Kayleigh agreed to go to the dance with you.”
There was a reason Winter had been the only one at her table.
“And old what’s-his-name is going with you.” I shrugged. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
“His name is Benjamin, he’s an asshole, and if I ever see him again, I’m going to shove a lightning bolt up his ass,” she told me bitterly.
What was it with the first-year women and guy’s asses?
“He canceled on me,” she continued, as if I’d asked for further details. “Three days before the dance, and I’m suddenly dateless. Me! A High-Three! How does a Crow have a date to the Remembrance Day dance when I don’t?” Without even looking, she grabbed my screwdriver off the table and drained it in one long gulp.
I shrugged. “It helps that I’m hung like a horse.”
Maybe it was a lie, maybe it wasn’t. It definitely wasn’t the reason Kayleigh wanted me there, but since I was going to be dead or in prison by the time the dance rolled around, I figured some creative storytelling couldn’t hurt.
Also, watching Penelope Von Pell, High-Three Weather Witch and Full-Five pain in the ass, spit vodka and orange juice across the table was entertaining as hell.
•—•—•
When trouble finally came, it wasn’t a first-year who started it, no matter what you might have read about that night. It sure as fuck wasn’t me, though I seem to get the blame in at least a few of the stories. Truth was, it wasn’t a student at all. It was one of the ad
ults I’d barely noticed when we first came in. Most were seated with third-years, making them either parents or over-eager Cape recruiters, but there were two booths that consisted of nothing but adults, all men. They’d gotten noisier as the night dragged on, but I guess that was true for all of us. Free alcohol has that effect.
Anyway, one of the men—short as Prince, wide as the Viking, and clothed in black denim with a red bandana skullcap—was passing our tables, two mugs of beer in each hand, when a visibly drunk Muse, coming back from his sixth trip to the bathroom, stumbled into his path. The man was either Stalwart or Jitterbug, and that was the only thing that allowed him to avoid the otherwise inevitable collision. Even so, he lost about a quarter of the beer in each mug. He threw the Switch a dirty look and kept that glare going all the way back to his booth. After he dropped off the mugs, he came right back at Freddy, one large paw catching the first-year’s shoulder.
“Hey dickhead! How about you look where you’re going before you get your ass beat?”
Muse’s eyes were rolling so hard I wasn’t sure he could see a thing, but I saw him swallow a couple of times, mouth gaping open like a fish trying to breathe air.
“He’s drunk, man. He didn’t mean anything by it.” Caleb was there, as fast as only a Jitterbug could be, to help the drunk Switch back to his seat.
“Of course he didn’t.” Captain Denim shook his head. “Just one more reject from baby school, isn’t he?”
There were only a few tables close enough to hear him, all of them populated by first-years, and that little comment got our attention.
“You have an issue with the Academy?” asked Tessa, her hard voice undercut slightly by the fact that she was clinging onto the table with both one hand and her telekinesis.
“Bunch of failed ex-Capes ruining the next generation? Damn right I do.”
“The Academy has a spotless reputation,” began Winter, in that haughty, instructional voice most of us knew far too well.
“Founded entirely on bullshit.” He eyed Winter from under bushy eyebrows, and snorted. “Surprised you can’t smell it with a beak like yours. What do they call you? The Incredible Nose?”
“We call her Winter.” If you’d have told me I’d be speaking up on Penelope’s behalf, I’d have said you were even crazier than I was, but there I was. I blame the vodka. “She’s an obnoxious pain in the ass, but she’s our obnoxious pain in the ass.”
“Shut up, Damian. I want to hear what this cretin’s problem is with the Academy.”
Guess gratitude was too much to expect.
“I told you, girl. It’s bullshit. All your little classes. All your games on the field. How many of you fuckers even know what death is?” He cut the Weather Witch off angrily. “And I know about the Healer you morons got killed. I’m talking real death, not a dumb-ass accident. How many of you have seen someone die in blood and pain? Raise a fucking hand or shut up and leave the real Capes to their beer.”
I stepped forward, mostly steady even after four screwdrivers. “You want to talk death, I’m your man.”
I saw realization hit. “You’re the Crow kid, aren’t you? Black Hat pretending he can be something else.”
Before I could respond, Paladin was there. Because of course he was. Matthew-fucking-Strich, only person left in the bar who wasn’t at least a little bit drunk. He placed a cautionary hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Sir, I think maybe you’ve had enough. Nobody’s trying to start—”
The other man shrugged off Paladin’s hand. “You don’t get to touch me, kid. You haven’t earned the right to touch me. Do you know who I am?”
“I’m guessing you’re Backstreet, and you and those fine gentlemen over there are members of the Bay Area Brawlers.” Poltergeist paused, and sent the man a smile so sweet even Paladin looked worried. “San Francisco’s junior Cape team.”
One of the other Brawlers pounded a fist into the table and started to rise.
“Tessa!” That was one of the few occasions that year that I saw Matthew lose his calm. Not the best one, mind you… that one was still a few seconds away. “On second thought, I think we’ve all had enough. Why don’t we just call it a night?”
Tessa started to nod, but Backstreet wasn’t done yet. “And you’re Paladin’s kid, aren’t you? Now there’s a real man’s Cape! Not sure if I’m more impressed by his performance on the battlefield or in bedrooms around the country. How does your mom feel about the old man stepping out on her—”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence. They say it’s impossible to surprise a Stalwart, but a full night of drinking proved that story wrong: Backstreet never saw Paladin’s punch coming.
If the older Cape had just gone down, it might still have been the end of things, but he tried to return fire. Problem was, Matthew’s punch had spun Backstreet around. The other man’s drunken swing didn’t come anywhere near Paladin. Instead, it smacked squarely into the face of a Titan seated one booth over. The Titan pushed back—hard—and Backstreet flew through the air to take out a couple of second-years making out on the dance floor.
All three went down, and the next thing we knew, second-years were vaulting over the balcony from upstairs, even as the remaining Brawlers erupted out of their own booth.
They call it the Bar Fight of 74. By the time it was done, there were thirteen concussions, three times as many broken bones, and so many other injuries that Bard had to ask one of the visiting recruiters—a Mid-Two who’d nevertheless earned a spot on a Cape Team by virtue of being a Healer—to pitch in at the Med Ward. In a lot of ways, that fight was the Class of 76’s public introduction to the world.
Wish I remembered any of it.
CHAPTER 65
It says something about my first year of college that when I woke up, I felt the cold metal gurney beneath me, instantly knew where I was, and rolled right over and went back to sleep. Not sure when the med ward had become as much a home as my actual dorm room, but there was something comforting in the loud whir of the industrial fans and Gladys’ grumbling as she moved from patient to patient.
The next time I woke, the fans were as loud as ever, but Gladys was nowhere to be seen. Every gurney in the med ward was occupied, and someone had wheeled in half a dozen more tables, creating a makeshift second row in front of the first. Those tables were also mostly full, although as I watched, a second-year, her party dress spattered with what looked suspiciously like vomit and blood, was helped down by another second-year in pristine Academy greys.
My own greys had been cut off of me, yet again, which was more than a little weird, as I was pretty sure I’d avoided the melee for once. Gladys was taking this whole infatuation thing too far. Tessa was bundled up two gurneys over, still unconscious. Aware that the cold might disprove all my claims of horse-sized appendages, I scanned the room to make sure Winter was nowhere to be seen, then dropped to the tile floor and hurried to grab a fresh set of greys.
A few of the less unconscious patients got an eyeful of bony Crow ass, but embarrassment was a secondary concern at that point. Whatever healing I’d gotten had washed out my hangover, and I had no difficulty seeing the clock above the med ward sink.
10:15 A.M.
I had less than two hours to get dressed, retrieve my weapon, and get my ass over to the shuttle station.
The campus was empty, but I could hear the crackle of the announcer from the Graduation Games field, almost drowned out by the ensuing roar of the crowd. Even on the far side of campus, the crowd’s noise dwarfed that of previous days. Whatever team competition was going on had to be an exciting one.
Ten minutes later, I was in my dorm room, and twenty minutes after that, I was showered and clothed in my ill-fitting suit, my one-shot weapon tucked into the suit coat’s interior pocket. I was hustling down the hallway when the common room dorm opened, and Paladin came in from the other direction. He stopped, took a look at me, and shook his head. “You might as well go back to your room. None of us are allowed at the Graduation
Games today. Bard’s orders.”
That seemed like a shitty thing for Bard to do. Luckily, it didn’t affect me at all. “Fuck the games.”
Matthew looked tired, uncombed hair and dark circles under his eyes ruining the usual vid star prettiness. He shrugged. “Whatever.”
As he started to walk past, it was my turn to stop him. “Hey Paladin.”
“Yeah?”
“That was a pretty sweet punch. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
He shook his head. “It was stupid. I should’ve known better.”
“Sometimes, it's okay to be stupid.”
“Good to know.” He started to move past me again, but my hand on his shoulder stopped him a second time. “What do you want, Damian? It’s been a rough few days, and I’d like to spend some time meditating. Alone.”
I checked the internal clock in my head. Still over an hour to go. I could knock out three miles in as little as twenty-two minutes. That left me time to tie up one last loose end.
No, I didn’t punch him. Fuck knows, I’d already tried—and failed—that plenty in Combat class. Wouldn’t do to get blood all over my only nice set of clothes, especially if that blood was mine. No, this loose end was something else altogether.
“You’re not taking anyone to the dance, are you?”
He frowned. “I’m not going at all. Why?”
I swallowed and reminded myself that it was too late for anyone to stop me. “Because I need you to take Kayleigh.”
See These Bones Page 34
