The Freshman (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

Anna is an encyclopedia of hidden skills. I’ve long since learned not to compete with her on random tasks. At least, not with any confidence of whether or not I’ll win.

  I’m heading to the shower when Anna shouts, “We don’t have time for that!”

  “Okay, okay,” I grumble, rifling through my duffle bag. I stare stupidly at the clothes, realizing that it’s almost all white dress shirts, gray or black trousers, charcoal sweater vests, and sage-green pullovers.

  Fucking uniforms. I forgot about that.

  Grabbing items at random, I put on a white button-up and a pair of gray slacks, both horribly wrinkled from being stuffed in my bag without proper folding. I rake my fingers through my hair, give my teeth a five-second brush, rub on some deodorant and a spritz of cologne, and in less than two minutes I’m ready to go.

  “With time to spare,” I say to Anna.

  She rolls her eyes at me, marching toward the door, her green plaid skirt swishing behind her. She already has a run up the back of her stockings, and she’s wearing the same big, clunky vintage Docs that she’s owned since Junior high.

  “You’re looking very kawaii,” I say, grinning at the sight of her in a skirt.

  Anna whips around, narrowing her ice-blue eyes at me in their ring of heavy black liner.

  “Don’t start with me,” she hisses.

  “I’m just saying—“

  “Don’t say anything. Not a fucking word.”

  I’m guessing she’s sensitive because Anna’s ability to express herself through her clothing matters to her. Even though it looks like she wears the same depressing shit every day, I know her well enough to differentiate between her fetish-wear ensembles, her Victorian vampire look, and her punk-rock goth. It’s a good indication of her mood. For instance, the more chains she’s wearing, the more I know I better not fuck with her that day.

  “My lips are sealed,” I promise, throwing my duffle bag over my shoulder and following her out of the room.

  We have to run to make it down to the dock in the remaining seven minutes. Thank god we picked a hotel so close to the water.

  Our boat is leaving from the very last berth. They’ve only just started loading, and the dock is still crowded with students from all over the globe.

  I can guess where some of them are from: one boy has a traditional dragon tattoo extending down his arm from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his dress shirt, the scaly, curling tip of the tail wrapping around the base of his thumb. His friend is probably Yakuza too, though not a very obedient one. He’s missing the tip of his right pinky, which means he’s had to commit yubitsume, the apology ritual where the offender has to amputate his own finger.

  Next to those two, I see a girl with flaming red curls who wipes the sweat from her face, saying loudly, “Jaysis, it’s quare warm today, isn’t it?”

  The dark-haired girl she’s speaking to stares back at her blankly. “What?” she says, in an accent I can’t quite place—it might be Galician.

  “It’s fierce hot!” the Irish girl reiterates. “Anybody got a mineral?”

  “I thought we were all supposed to speak English,” the dark-haired girl says, tartly.

  “I bloody well am!” the Irish girl cries.

  I glance over at Anna to see if she’s enjoying this exchange, seeing as she’s half Irish herself. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of it—she’s gazing up at the ship instead. It’s bigger than I expected, and not at all the bus-like ferry I was imagining. Instead, I see a four-masted barquentine with a navy and gold hull, and crisp white sails.

  “Why’s it so big?” I say out loud. There can’t be more than two hundred Freshmen, and the trip isn’t that long.

  “The water around Dvorca is rough as hell,” a boy with close-cropped dark hair answers me. “If you tried to sail over in some fishing boat you’d get tossed around like corn in a popper. Some parts of the year you can’t come and go from the island at all.”

  “How do you know?” another kid demands.

  “I’ve had five siblings go through Kingmakers,” the boy replies, shrugging. “I’ve got a pretty good idea how it all works.”

  “Where’re you from?” I ask him.

  “Palermo,” he says. “I’m Matteo Ragusa.”

  “Catholic?” I ask.

  “You know it.” He grins.

  “I’m half-Italian too.” I put out a hand to shake. “Leo Gallo.”

  “Chicago, right?” he says.

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Two of my brothers live in New York. There’s plenty of Italians at Kingmakers. More Russians, though.”

  “I’m also half-Russian,” I tell him.

  He laughs. “I won’t hold it against you. Can’t say the same for the rest of them.” He jerks his head toward our fellow students.

  “What’s wrong with Russians?” Anna demands.

  “Everything,” Matteo says, laughing. “They’re blunt and rude. Mean as hell, though not as mean as the Albanians. Then you’ve got the Italians, you know we’re all hot-headed and a little bit lazy, then you’ve got the Irish—”

  He breaks off, seeing Anna raise one darkly-penciled eyebrow.

  “Just kidding around,” he says, raising his hands in defense. “You’ve got twenty different kinds of mafia families, with a hundred kinds of prejudices and grudges. And yet somehow we’re all supposed to get along for four years. Until we go out in the real world and get to battling again.”

  “I’m not worried,” I say, mostly to annoy Anna. “I get along with everybody.”

  Anna snorts, tossing her head.

  People who don’t know me very well are always impressed by me. Anna knows me best of anyone, and she’s never impressed. I’ve done the craziest things to try to force her to admit that I’m funny, or skilled, or just a fucking badass. But she’ll never admit it.

  I don’t know what kind of guy would turn her head. While I’ve gone through a dozen girlfriends, she never seems to fall for anybody.

  A whistle blows and one of the deckhands motions for the students to start boarding.

  “Here we go,” Matteo says nervously.

  I spot Ares joining the queue, carrying one small and battered backpack in place of a suitcase.

  “Morning,” I say, looking him over for signs of a hangover.

  Like Anna, Ares looks a hell of a lot better rested than me. Fuck, am I the only lightweight?

  “You made it.” He grins.

  “Just barely.”

  “Come on,” he says. “We better get on board if we want a good spot up at the bow.”

  Anna and I join Ares in the line, and we all scale the gangplank up onto the ship.

  Those with bigger suitcases left them in a pile on the dock for the deckhands to load below. I see a French girl arguing furiously with one of the crew, because she brought at least three matching Tumi suitcases, while our acceptance letters stated we were only allowed one bag each.

  “How am I supposed to fit everything I need in one suitcase?” she demands, as if the idea is obscene.

  “I’m only puttin’ one on the ship, so you better tell me which one, or I ain’t taking any of ‘em,” the deckhand says sourly.

  I don’t see how that drama plays out, because I’m stepping up onto the deck of the ship already swarming with uniformed students. Plenty of them have already ditched their vests or jackets, since the sun is blazing. At least there’s a sea breeze.

  “Why do we have to wear wool?” I complain to Anna.

  “It’ll be cooler on the island,” Ares says. “Out in the ocean, it gets chilly in the winter. Not freezing, but close to it.”

  Ares spots a piece of netting strung between two masts like a giant hammock.

  “Come on,” he says, chucking his backpack up into the net. “Let’s sit up here.”

  Anna and I follow him up. Even though we’re only five feet in the air, we have a much better view of the activity on the deck as the sailors get ready to cast off. We can see
more of the port, and the wide, dark expanse of the water leading out of the bay.

  Once all the students are on board, the sailors cast off the ropes tethering us to the dock and start unfurling the sails. The huge white sails immediately fill with wind, and the booms swing around to form the right angle to carry us out onto the open water.

  We all look back at the dock, but there’s nobody waiting to wave us off. Parents are instructed to say their farewells from their home country. We’re already on our own. Leaving Dubrovnik is only symbolic.

  The city looks foreign to my eyes, and the place we’re going is only more so. There’s nowhere on earth like Kingmakers. A secret school only known to a few dozen families. I won’t get any degree or diploma from this place. Just the accumulation of knowledge passed down through generations of criminals. How to operate in shadow. How to find loopholes in the law. How to outwit and outplay governments and police forces. And how to barter, negotiate, and battle with each other.

  The wind fills the sails with surprising force. The wooden planks groan as the ship is shoved hard across the water. Despite its size, the ship picks up speed rapidly. The planks aren’t groaning anymore—they’ve adjusted to the pressure and the temperature change. Now the boat seems to transform, to become as light as a bird skimming over the water.

  Soon we’re passing out of the port, out into open ocean. The red-roofed medieval buildings of Old Town are disappearing behind us. We’re cutting through the fishing boats, moving out where there’s no one else around. Seagulls rise up from the fishing nets, circling round our ship briefly in case we have something better to offer. When they see how quickly we’re moving, they abandon our masts and head back where they came from.

  “Look!” Anna cries, pointing down to the water. “Dolphins.”

  Swift gray bullets race alongside the ship, leaping in and out of the frothy wake.

  “That’s good luck,” Ares says.

  “Do you know how to sail?” Anna asks him.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I had a little skiff in Syros.”

  At first I’m loving the cool breeze and the waves and the view of the dolphins. But soon Anna pulls out a book and starts reading, and Ares lays back against the mast, using his backpack as a pillow and laying a spare t-shirt over his eyes so he can take a nap.

  What was exciting and stimulating becomes repetitive and boring. I’m tired of the view. I want to see what everyone is doing down on the deck.

  I swing down from our makeshift hammock. Matteo was right—the water only gets rougher the further out we get, and I have to use all my balance to cross the rolling deck.

  Some of the other students are seasick, with several kids lined up to puke over the railing. I can’t say my stomach is totally steady, especially not with the lingering effects of my hangover, but at least I’m not that far gone.

  Up at the front of the bow, I spot a group of boys playing some kind of dice game. I wander over for a closer look.

  Bram Van Der Berg is there, along with two of his friends from the night before. Also a couple of boys who look Armenian and one Asian girl.

  After watching for a minute, I can tell the game is just a variation of Street Craps. I can’t be sure, but I think one of the Armenians is using a loaded die. He certainly seems to be rolling an eleven more often than would be statistically probable.

  Bram and I eye each other warily across the circle. He hasn’t shaved and his face is rough with stubble. I probably look scruffy too, but hopefully in less of a just-got-off-a-ten-year-stretch-in-solitary kind of way. I can tell he’s watching to see if I plan to resume the hostilities from the night before.

  I assume there’s going to be a whole lot of jockeying for position in the first few weeks at Kingmakers. Every kid here thinks they’re the alpha—and they probably were, wherever they came from. But we can’t all be alphas at the school. There’s going to be a new hierarchy. I intend to be at the top, like always.

  Bram probably thinks the same thing. He narrows his eyes at me, tossing back his longish hair and muttering something to his friends. The other Penose give me venomous looks.

  Bram’s the next shooter. He rolls the point number three times before hitting a seven, ending the round. He scoops up his winnings, grinning.

  “Hey, Dmitry,” he calls. “Why don’t you come join?”

  He’s calling to a tall blond boy who’s standing at the railing looking down at the water. The boy took his shirt off because of the heat. A Siberian tiger is tattooed to the right of his spine, done in the classic style as if it were crawling up his back. Because the boy is so pale, the tiger looks snow white with black stripes.

  Dmitry turns around slowly, facing our group.

  He looks right at me and seems to recognize me immediately.

  I get a similar jolt.

  He’s strangely familiar, even though I know we’ve never met.

  His eyes narrow, his jaw tightens, and his lip curls up in a sneer.

  “No thanks,” he says coldly. “I don’t like the company.”

  “What?” Bram says, glancing back and forth between us. “The Amerikanets?”

  “What’s wrong with Americans?” I say. I keep my voice level, but I’m looking the blond boy right in the eye.

  Bram and I sized each other up last night, and it was clear that we both thought we were hot shit. Who’s shit is hotter remains to be determined. With Dmitry it’s something else. He’s doesn’t view me as a rival. He’s looking at me like an enemy.

  “It’s not Americans,” he says to me. “It’s you.” His voice drips with disdain.

  Something in his tone, coupled with his coloring and the familiarity of his features makes it all click at once.

  I’m talking to my cousin. He’s calling himself Dmitry, but this is Dean Yenin, I’m sure of it.

  Not that Dean considers us family.

  His father and my mother are twins. They were best friends growing up. Until my mom chose my dad over her own family.

  Dean’s grandfather tried to kill everyone I know and love at my parents’ wedding: my uncle Nero, my aunt Camille, Uncle Dante, my godmother Greta, even my father. He succeeded in murdering my grandpa Enzo, so that I’ve only ever known him from a portrait that hangs in my father’s office.

  And in return, my father rained down bloody retribution on Dean’s family. Dean’s grandfather is dead, strangled to death by my dad. And his father Adrian is burned up worse than Vader from what I’ve heard.

  So we are enemies, maybe more than anyone else on this boat.

  I knew that Dean was coming to Kingmakers.

  I knew this was coming.

  But it’s something different to meet him face to face, after never even having seen a photo of him.

  He’s the main reason my mother didn’t want me coming here. She’s tried to reach out to her brother over the years—tried to repair their relationship so they could at least have a measure of forgiveness, even if they could never be close again.

  He never responded to her, not a single word.

  It’s clear from the expression on Dean’s face that my mom was right. The Yenins weren’t just avoiding us. They fucking hate us still.

  “Is that any way to talk to your cousin?” I say to Dean.

  I won’t give him the satisfaction of glaring back at him. Instead I paste a grin on my face, like I don’t take him seriously. I know that’s the best way to really piss him off.

  Sure enough, he takes another couple steps toward me, closing the space between us. Instinctively, everyone else steps back. They all know the feeling of a fight about to happen. That anticipation in the air, the electricity between two people itching to do each other harm.

  “Don’t call me that,” Dean says.

  It’s funny how even the simplest words can cut if they’re said sharply enough.

  Dean hasn’t raised his voice, but he makes it perfectly clear that he isn’t fucking around. His fists tighten at his sides, and his shoulders swell
as his body shifts into a more aggressive stance. He’s got the look of a fighter, as if he’s most natural in that position. If I were anybody else, I’d probably take a step back, cringing like a little bitch.

  But I’m not somebody else.

  I’m me. And I don’t back away from anybody.

  “Don’t call you what?” I say. “Cuz?”

  Dean takes another step forward until we’re within arm’s reach of each other. I’m taller than him by two inches, but he’s got a decent amount of muscle packed on his frame. I’m watching him carefully, though I don’t let it show. I stand there as relaxed and casual as ever.

  “We’re not family,” Dean hisses. “Because your whore of a mother betrayed her family. She’s not a Yenin anymore. She’s just a piece of treacherous trash.”

  I want to hit him so bad my fists are throbbing. I can’t let that go unanswered.

  “The Yenins broke a blood oath,” I spit back at him. “I don’t know how the fuck you’re even here. You should be excommunicated. Whose cock did your father have to suck to get you back in?”

  We rush each other at the same moment. I throw the first punch, right at his stupid fucking face. But to my surprise, he slips the hit so my fist barely glances off his jaw. I’ve never missed like that before.

  At the same time, he hits me with a left hook that fucking rocks me. Dean may not be quite as big as me, but he’s fast as fuck and strong, too. My head is ringing, and my hangover headache comes roaring back.

  I swing back at him, and this time he can’t quite duck it—at 6’5 I’ve got a fuck of a longer reach than he’s used to. I pop him in the cheek, raising an instant red welt under his eye.

  In retaliation he slugs me back in the gut, and that fucking hurts, too. Jesus he’s got a sledgehammer for an arm.

  The howls of Bram and the other students draw the attention of the sailors. Two of the deckhands tear us apart before we can finish the fight. They’re big, burly men, and they fling us down on the deck, shouting for us to knock it off.

  The bigger of the two, a man with a glass eye and two sensuously entwined mermaids on his forearm, points a sausage-like finger at me and growls, “Raise your fists again, and I’ll chuck you in the fuckin’ ocean. No fighting on board.”