The Unfairfolk (Valenbound Book 1)

by Sara Wolf

  “Right. Von Arx was blathering about that -”

  “She likes to keep tabs on the new people. Via the cameras.”

  He jerks his finger up more. I look up at the gold orb I thought was just part of the decor. “Those -”

  “You should get going, Lilith. She’s watching as we speak.”

  H-He remembered my name! My name! The joy instantly turns to clawing terror. If I’m late on my first day…Von Arx might not kick me out, but she’ll tell Will and Will’d definitely tell Mom and Mom would start worrying on her own honeymoon and -

  I pull out the scrunched schedule from my pocket and flatten it. Sun-guy’s right - the map shows my class on the opposite end of the building. I suck in a banshee-wail and zoom past him at top speed.

  “Thank-you-I-owe-you-at-least-one-Snickers-bar-the-full-size-ones-not-the-disappointing-fun-size-ones-bye!”

  The windows blur as I push my legs to the limit, (shoutout to the heating system in here for keeping my knee in working order) sprinting through a massive hall of gilded mirrors. I can’t be late. It resonates in my head like a struck bell, like the pendulum that won’t stop swinging in the pocket of the white rabbit; can’t be late can’t be late can’t be late can’t be -

  “You! Stop! No running!”

  The remnant joy from the Ciel-encounter gets sucker-punched out of me by that tired, irritated voice. I know exactly who it belongs to, but I can’t stop, so I don’t, and like an insta-punishment I turn the corner of the hall and feel a hard yank on my wrist.

  “New girl,” The voice snaps breathlessly. “No running in the damn halls.”

  I turn to see a heaving chest and loose, lazy tie. Alistair Strickland. Fucking hell. His mess of black hair look like it’s been torn through by a squirrel on a sugar high, and his fingers burn like fire on my wrist. Dangerous, my brain screams. Too dangerous, he could do anything to me at this range -

  “Running?” I wheeze. “I wasn’t running.”

  “Really,” He pants. “What were you doing, then?”

  “Moonwalking. Forwards. Really fast.”

  Alistair narrows his eyes at my shoes. “With those on?”

  “They’re called converse and they’re very fashionable,” I sniff, hoping desperately he doesn’t hear my thundering heartbeat. “A-Also, I’m very skilled.”

  I try to dart away, but he holds me in place and my heart starts jack-hammering. How dare he. How fuckin’ dare he -

  “Nice to meet you, Very Skilled,” He scoffs. “I’m What-Part-Of-You-Can’t-Run-In-The-Halls-Do-You-Not-Understand.”

  “Charmed.” I flash a terse smile. “Did you know holding people against their will is a crime?”

  “Not if you’re doing it for their own good,” Alistair says. “They polish these floors every day - I’ve seen people slip and eat shit hard.”

  “Considering I don’t like the taste of shit, and I’m not a toddler, I think I’ll be okay.”

  Alistair points at my converse again. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  I look down and see my laces totally undone. I rip my wrist from Alistair’s hand with a massive effort, but he gives surprisingly easy this time. Finally. Finally, my heart slows down.

  We stand there, him glowering out from under thundercloud brows and me glowering out from under my own pride. He’s not wearing the bloody shirt anymore - getting orange juice on it was too much for his sensibilities, clearly. He waits expectantly for me to bend down and remedy the whole situation, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of kneeling in front of him. Not even to tie my shoes.

  “You look considerably less pulpy than this morning,” I chime.

  “No thanks to your friend,” He counters.

  “She’s not exactly my friend.”

  “Sure.” He folds his arms over his chest. “That’s why you cheered her little display on at breakfast.”

  I smile aggressively sweet. “Tacit approval and cheering someone on are two very different things, good sir.”

  “You told her to kick me in the nuts.”

  “Little nuts,” I correct automatically. There’s a pause. I briefly consider the pros and cons of leaping out the window to my left. Pros - I wouldn’t feel the immolation of embarrassment anymore. Cons - I wouldn’t feel anything at all. I decide to play it cool. “Heard that, did you?”

  “The whole school heard it.” He exhales laboriously.

  “And I’m sure you’re very embarrassed and want revenge for your wounded male pride and all, but I’ve got a class to get to -”

  “Ah ah ah,” I stumble at the hard tug he gives on the collar of my blazer. “Not so fast.”

  My heart hammers into my throat again - he’s got me by the neck.

  “What is it with you and getting handsy with people? Fuck off!” I duck, freeing myself. Alistair stares at me, deadpan, like he’s done absolutely nothing wrong. Like this is a normal, boring day for him on the job while I’m halfway to Freakout Town. Finally, he exhales.

  “Have it your way, then.”

  With all the sickening advantage of his height (what do they feed ‘em in Belgium that he’s this much taller than me?), he drops a piece of paper onto the top of my head, and I scrabble to catch it before it falls. It’s a bright yellow slip with a mass of intimidating French written on it.

  “In case you can’t read,” he drawls. “It says you have campus beautification duties for breaking in-transit decorum.”

  “Uh, I’ll take Double Translation for 200.”

  He grins for the first time, faintly lopsided and tense, like he hates every second of this. Of speaking to me. Like he’s being forced to. It’s not a real smile in any way shape or form - more like a snake’s idea of one.

  “You, new girl, get the honor of picking up trash for running in the halls. Detention, in layman’s terms.”

  “Is this your idea of revenge?” I squint up at him.

  “No,” he says with mocking patience. “It’s my idea of the rules.”

  “You like ‘em, then? ‘Rules’?”

  He crinkles one eye at me in faint disgust. “I like the way they keep pains-in-the-ass like you in line.”

  I know he’s Von Arx’s grandson. I know he’s part of the disciplinary squad or whatever. Keep my head down, don’t worry Mom. That’s it. That’s all I have to do. But since the very first second I saw this guy, I’ve felt sick to my stomach. People like him - who think violence is a tool to use against the weak - aren’t worth the dog shit on my shoes. And I want him to know it.

  “I think I see a minor problem between us,” I say.

  “Just the one?” He drones.

  “You’re like, into keeping the status quo and shit. And I’m not.”

  “And?”

  “And. Well. You ever seen an alignment chart before? Some real nerd shit. Anyway, you’re a lawful evil and I’m a chaotic good.”

  “Which means?”

  “One of us has to die. And it’s sure as shit not gonna be me.”

  I drop the detention slip into the nearest trash can. The dust particles dance in the sunlight between our still bodies, until I see the slightest vein strain against his throat.

  “Out of curiosity,” He starts, voice casual. “Do you enjoy pissing people off on purpose?”

  I smile. “Not particularly. But my gut tells me to make an exception for you.”

  “Interesting. Does it always talk loud enough for you to hear, or did you just eat a lot of probiotics this morning?”

  “What do you want from me, dude?” I exhale. “I need to get to class.”

  “And I need you to do it safely,” He insists.

  “And if I don’t? What’re you gonna do about it?” I raise my chin. “Beat me up? That’s your style, isn’t it - take your frustrations out on people who’re weaker than you just because you can.”

  Neither of us twitches so much as a single facial muscle. He’s good. I’m better. He won’t give in. And neither will I. What the ever-loving fuck am I doing, test
ing my will against this shithead? He’s built like a truck, if a truck was also a panther. He’s taller than me. Behind that exhausted facade I know he’s violent. I know guys like this. They start fights and hold on to petty grudges and don’t give a shit about anyone else except themselves. He’s a walking timebomb and I’m standing here clicking a lighter on the fuse. If he reaches for me, if he moves for me at all, I’ll run. His first blink in my direction and I’m booking it.

  There’s no closet I can lock myself in anymore, but I’m taller now.

  I can run faster than my devils, now.

  “If you won’t tie them, then -“ Alistair makes a move. Bends forward. Down. For my shoes.

  I instantly jump back.

  Okay, so it’s not quite running, but at least there’s space between us. I watch him straighten back up, expecting that perma-frown, but his whole face is a genuine, blank surprise. Like that was the last thing he expected from me.

  “What?” I snap breathlessly, adjusting my glasses. “I saw what you did to Gabe. Can't be too careful around bloodthirsty fucks like you.”

  He’s frozen for a heartbeat. Another. And then he defrosts. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “Enough to not ‘fall for my bullshit’,” He echoes my words from this morning. “But not enough to stay out of trouble, apparently.”

  His pure, unfiltered arrogance is the final straw. What does he know about trouble? What does he know about what I’m going through in this place? He practically owns the pinball machine I’m getting tossed around in.

  “Fuck you,” I snarl.

  “After dinner. Outside the Knight Augustin building -”

  “That was an insult, perv, not an offer.”

  “ - We’ll be picking up trash there.” He finishes calmly. “There are thorns. Wear something thick you don’t care about. I’m tired of hearing people complain about their couture sweatpants getting ripped.”

  I start to storm away when he calls after me;

  “Oh, and new girl? If you no-show, I’m reporting you to Von Arx.”

  “And I’m reporting you to Beelzebub,” I gnash my teeth. “So he can drag you back with him to hell.”

  9

  The Missing (Or, How you sometimes think death is just God sweeping out the bed crumbs so he can sleep)

  “I offered the hottest guy in the world a Snickers bar!” I groan, slamming my head down on the table just to the left of my lunch of a refined-looking pasta. It’s the loudest sound made in the Institut Le Silvere maybe ever. The lady professor eating next to me grimaces. “That’s THE most American thing I could’ve done!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being American,” Ana says, tidily consuming her polenta.

  I whip my head up. “Have you seen our politics lately? Or, like, ever?”

  She pauses, thinks about it, and then gives a weary nod of agreement, braids clinking together. I shovel pasta into my mouth despairingly. The chef in the open-air kitchen is still whipping up plates of it, his white hat bobbing and his Italian bouncing off the walls as he snipes at his sous chefs. He’s the loudest person in here besides me. People weren’t just tired this morning - lunch is exactly the same volume level, which is to say barely any. The murmurs are kept to a minimum, overlaid with the faint clink of crystal glasses. No one laughs loudly. No one shouts at each other. No one randomly bursts into dance. Nobody even throws a single baby carrot at someone else’s cleavage! The atmosphere might be crushingly polite, but the pasta, at least, is better than anything I’ve ever tasted - even at the fancy restaurants Will took me and Mom to in LA. But I can enjoy exactly none of it.

  “I don’t even know the guy’s name,” I lament.

  “Blonde, you said?” Ana asks. “Tall? Gray eyes?”

  “Silvery eyes,” I sigh. She taps her chin.

  “There’s only one person here like that; Ciel Lautrec.”

  “Where’s he from?” I blurt instantly.

  “I think he’s the son of some famous fashion designer. Sorry, I don’t keep up with the fashion sphere as much as the political sphere.”

  “Not ‘who are his parents’. Where is he from?”

  “Oh.” Ana blinks. “Paris. Ciel models sometimes, too.”

  “Ciel,” I repeat slowly. Even his name is like an elf god’s. I can see it now, carved in stone. In a tombstone, to be exact. Right next to my own tombstone. After living a long and happy life together.

  “Do you like him?” Ana nudges me.

  “Pfft, whaaaat? No way.” She looks doubtful. I clarify; “I just got here yesterday.”

  “Time doesn’t mean anything to matters of the heart,” She chimes.

  “I don’t even like myself! How can I like someone else?”

  Ana looks very impressed around a mouthful of sun-dried tomato. “Beautiful and self-aware! He’ll fall for you in no time.”

  I sniff and sit up with my full height. “I’m way too busy doing important things to be in love right now.”

  “Like what?”

  “Reading this hell book, for instance,” I hold up Von Arx’s rule book she gave me. Ana’s dark eyes widen.

  “What is that?”

  “The Necronomicon.” She stares blankly. I auto-correct. “The rules. Didn’t Von Arx give you one, too?”

  “No. I got ten pages in the mail about etiquette and dress code before fourth year, but that was it.”

  “You didn’t have to read this whole thing?” I slap the book.

  “Nope.”

  I make the executive decision to wail into my pasta. “Why? Why pick on me?! What did I do to her, other than break her Very Important Plant?”

  “Which plant was it?” Ana asks.

  “The purple orchid thingy.”

  “Oooh.” She winces. “She loves that one. I hear her singing to it sometimes when I pass her window.”

  Utterly disheartened, I flick through the pages of the huge book. Boring, boring, more boring, and I have to read it all? This is worse than the time Ruby recommended me that werewolf hot-dude book and I tried - I swear to God I tried - but I somehow ended up sleep-drooling on the first five pages. At least this rulebook is guaranteed not to use the words ‘rippling biceps’ in any way, shape, or form. Halfway through my flicking, a page falls out onto my plate. Ana’s hand shoots out before mine can, and she picks the paper up and unfolds it carefully.

  “Huh. This is strange.” She holds it up. It’s a flyer of some sort, and on it is a photograph. It’s a headshot of a boy - no, a teenager? Late teens, maybe. He’s handsome, in that old-photograph-old-timey way, with perfectly coiffed dark hair and strong brows and cheeks. The colors are all but faded, and the paper is smooth, as if it’s been folded and unfolded a million times.

  “What does it say?” I point at the giant French words across the top.

  “Missing from the Geneva area,” Ana pauses. “Since June, 1977.”

  “Who? This guy?” I point at the picture.

  “His name is…” Ana’s finger glances over a faded sentence smack dab in the middle of one of the paper’s many folds. “It’s been folded so many times, the name is worn completely away.”

  “Why would Von Arx keep something like this in a book?” I whisper.

  “Maybe she knew him,” Ana muses. “Or maybe he was important to her.”

  She and I glance up at each other, the mystery thick in the air. It doesn’t make any sense. It can’t be Von Arx - she of the iron frown doesn’t seem the type to get overly sentimental. Or sentimental at all.

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  Lionel said that to Von Arx. I heard it. But it can’t be about this missing kid, right? I sigh and tuck it back in the book.

  “A weird flyer doesn’t change the fact I have to read this whole damn thing before Friday.”

  Ana resists the tantalizing enigma’s seduction better than me - suddenly plucking the fork out of my hands and replacing it with a bigger one.

 
“Small fork for fish and vegetables,” She instructs. “Big fork for every other meat and starches - potatoes, pasta, bread.”

  “I have to eat bread with a fork?” I hiss.

  “If it’s on the plate -” She nods. “- yes. Oh, unless it’s canapés. Then you use your fingers.”

  I look at her with utter hopelessness. “What’s a canopy and why am I eating it?”

  “Don’t worry - it gets easier.”

  “He said that too,” I mutter down at my plate. “Ciel.”

  I think Ana catches on to my spiral of despair, because she dives headfirst into talking about her classes. She loves her Human Biology class the most - the professor is some hotshot from Oxford, apparently. All I can think about are my fuckups - the Destiny’s Child joke, the way I sat too early before the bell, getting detention from that Strickland prick. Prickland. Just a whole land of pricks. I hold back a snort - dignity and noodles up the nose don’t exactly mix.

  I can’t bring myself to tell Ana about getting detention already. Part of me just doesn't want her to know this early on in our maybe-friendship what a failure I am at boring things like following the rules and showing respect. I guess my Applied Calculus class wasn’t too bad. Even with Prickland running interference, I got there just as the bell rang. I didn’t sit down embarrassingly early or crack any bad goofs, but I still couldn’t answer a question to save my life. Math’s always been the worst, and it’s the worst times two in French.

  “I’m gonna fail,” I decide.

  “You’re not going to fail,” Ana tries to assure me. “I’ll translate all your homework questions. And you won’t even need me to translate the maths. It’s a universal language!”

  “I’m gonna fail and I’m gonna die and at my funeral my Mom’s gonna be wearing Gucci.” I heave a sigh. “That’s one good thing, I guess.”

  “Ana!” A handful of girls call out to her from two tables over. They say something in French, but their hand motions are universal - they’re trying to get her to sit with them. Ana looks surreptitiously over at me, and I flash her a smile.

  “Hey, it’s cool. I’m talking about funerals, they’re probably talking about not-funerals. Plus, you don’t have to teach them how to use their forks, I bet.”