by Sophie Lark
Leo practically rockets up out of his seat. “God, I thought that would never end,” he says.
“I liked it,” I say.
“Of course you did.” Leo rolls his eyes. “You like learning.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” I laugh.
“What about you?” Leo demands of Ares. “Were you actually enjoying that?”
Ares shrugs. “I didn’t know barely any of it. I’ll probably have to study a lot.”
Leo laughs. “Nobody cares about grades here. It’s all about who wins the challenges.”
We have to change clothes before our next class. It’s a combat class, so we don on our gym uniforms and sneakers. I make sure to turn into the right changing room, deliberately averting my eyes from the spot where I collided with Dean next to the showers.
The gymnasium is located in what used to be the Armory.
It’s a dim, cool space. The floors are soft with thick mats. Ancient medieval weapons hang from hooks on the walls: battle axes, swords, and morning stars, and then over on the far side of the room a selection of Asian katanas, bo staffs, and throwing stars. I assume these are for decoration and not something we’ll actually learn to use. But I can’t be certain of anything at Kingmakers.
There’s only four girls in the combat class, including me. As soon as we file out of the changing room, I see the boys gaze hungrily at us in our shorts. We’ve only been out of civilization a couple of days, and already they’ve got the look of starved dogs.
I walk past Dean and Bram lounging on a pile of mats. Bram lets out a low wolf-whistle and Dean smirks. I’m sure he told Bram what happened.
Well, fuck them both.
Professor Howell joins us on the mats. He’s medium height, trim and fit, dressed in an olive-green t-shirt and cargo pants. He has close-cropped curly dark hair and smooth brown skin. He faces us, hands clasped behind his back, smiling pleasantly.
“Good morning, students,” he says. “In our combat class, you will be learning a variety of martial arts, self-defense, and weapons techniques. You will have separate classes to learn artillery and explosives. This semester, we will be focusing on Krav Maga. As you may already know, it’s a military self-defense and fighting system used by the Israel Defense Forces. It includes a combination of techniques drawn from aikido, boxing, wrestling, karate, and judo.”
His keen dark eyes scan our group, looking over each student in turn. “You,” he says, pointing to the largest boy, a bull-like behemoth with straw-colored hair and trunk-like thighs stretching the limits of his gym shorts. “Come up here.”
The boy obliges, the gym mats indenting deeply under each of his steps.
“What’s your name?” the professor asks him.
“Bodashka Kushnir,” the boy replies. He’s smiling with an uneasy mixture of bravado and nerves.
“The primary tenet of Krav Maga is acting instinctively under high-stress and unpredictable circumstances,“ the professor says. “We will be learning strikes primarily taken from karate and boxing, take-downs and throws drawn from judo, aikido, and wrestling, and groundwork also from judo and wrestling. Finally we will go over escapes from chokes and holds, along with empty-hand weapons defense.”
He looks at the blond boy with a teasing glint in his eye. He says, “What would you say your current level of combat skill is, my friend?”
Bodashka considers. Goaded on by his friends watching, he grins and replies, “High.”
“Excellent,” the professor replies. “I thought so just by looking at you. Why don’t we give a simple demonstration then? Attack me as best you can, and if I’m able, I’ll formulate a defense.”
Bodashka seems to be gaining confidence by the moment. He lifts his fists, facing the much smaller professor. The sense of anticipation in the room is high. His Bratva peers cheer him on, while the rest of us suspect what’s about to happen.
The boy rushes the professor, throwing two jabs, a hard right cross, and then a surprisingly nimble kick to the face.
The professor barely has to shift his stance to block each one. Even though the blows are thrown with full strength, it’s Bodashka who winces as the professor uses his elbows, forearms, and shoulder to deflect the strikes. As Bodashka throws his last desperate roundhouse kick at the professor’s head, Professor Howell ducks and neatly sweeps the boy’s leg out from under him, sending him crashing down on the mats.
The gym echoes with the force of the boy hitting the ground, the air knocked out of him despite the cushioning mats.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard the expression, ‘the bigger they are, the harder they fall,’ ” the professor says drily. “Beware a smaller opponent with a lower center of mass.”
Without any rancor, he helps Bodashka up from the ground, then uses him again to demonstrate several basic blocks. Once we all seem to understand the lesson, he tells us to split up into pairs to practice.
“You wanna have a go?” Leo asks me.
It’s not the first time we’ve fought. I’ve been wrestling and boxing Leo since we were old enough to stand.
“Why not?” I grin.
We face off against each other, waiting for the professor’s signal to begin.
I know how fast Leo’s reflexes are, so I wait for him to make the first move.
He takes a playful jab at me, and I slip it easily, knowing that’s not even close to his top speed. He’s got those damn long arms, so I have to either dance way outside his reach, or rush inside to hit him before he can get me.
Leo takes another playful swing at me, and as I try to duck it, he goes for my leg exactly like the professor did. Even though I see it coming, he’s so damn fast that he still manages to knock my right leg out from under me. I recover from it by rolling between his legs, jumping up and popping him in the kidney from behind.
“You little asshole,” Leo says, seizing me by the wrist and twisting my arm up behind my back.
I try to wrench my wrist out of his grasp before he can get me in a hold, but it’s impossible. Faster than I can think, he’s got my arm pinned behind my back, and his other arm wrapped around my waist, the weight of his whole body against my back.
“Submit,” he growls in my ear.
“Fucking never,” I hiss back at him.
“Don’t make me break your arm on the first day of school,” he says. I can hear him grinning without seeing his face.
I stomp hard on his foot, making him let go of me, right as the professor calls time. As Leo backs off from me, chuckling, I feel someone else watching us. I glance over to my right where Dean is staring at us, his gleaming eyes the only sign of life in his stiff, pale face.
Leo follows my gaze.
“See something you like?” he says to Dean.
“I already saw it this morning,” Dean says in his low, cold voice.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Leo scoffs.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” Dean smirks. “Your girlfriend and I had an intimate encounter this morning.”
“Oh yeah?” Leo laughs. “How early? Sounds like you were still asleep and dreaming in your bed.”
But when he looks back at me, he can see my cheeks burning.
“What’s he talking about?” Leo says, brows drawing together.
“Nothing.” I shake my head.
“What did—”
We’re interrupted by the professor asking for another volunteer. Scared off by the fate of the last volunteer, nobody raises their hand. Only Dean steps forward.
“I’ll do it,” he says.
“Step on up,” Professor Howell says, gesturing to the empty space in front of him as if he were inviting Dean to take a comfortable seat on a sofa.
Dean approaches, his eyes fixed on the professor. He has neither the bravado nor the nervousness of the first volunteer. He radiates a cool confidence that has all of us watching intently, none more than Leo.
“A simultaneous block and strike can be highly effective,” the professor s
ays, demonstrating an outside block with his right arm and a counter strike with the heel of his palm in the direction of Dean’s face. “I’ll attack. Let’s see if our friend here can both defend and counter strike.”
Professor Howell comes at Dean without warning, firing two quick punches and an elbow to his face. Dean narrowly avoids all three, ducking and weaving in neat, tight movements. As the professor aims a fourth punch at Dean’s face, he knocks it aside and manages to tap the professor in the chest with a short, tight punch. As quick as the blow was, we all hear the impact. The professor is pushed back on his heels.
Dean’s speed and precision are flawless. I can tell by Leo’s silence that even he can’t deny that Dean knows how to fight.
“Well done,” Professor Howell says approvingly.
Dean nods, accepting the praise without comment. But I see a muscle jump in the corner of his jaw. He’s pleased.
“Pair up to practice,” the professor says.
This time Leo isn’t nearly as playful. We spar with each other, practicing counterstrikes, but he’s not really watching me—he keeps glancing across the room at Dean.
Because he’s not paying attention, I hit him hard on the right cheekbone.
“Ow,” he says, rubbing the side of his face.
“Get it together,” I tell him without sympathy.
He looks at me, his eyes searching my face. I’ve seen Leo’s eyes up close enough times to have memorized their exact color. They’re not brown, not really: instead, there’s a dark, smoky outer ring, almost as black as the pupil itself. Then a bright amber iris that makes me think of an animal in the jungle—a tiger or a panther. A predator that can see in the dark.
Those eyes can be warm and laughing. Or they can be ferocious and feral, as they are right now. Studying me. Examining my every move.
“What was he talking about?” Leo demands.
“Who?”
“Dean,” he says impatiently.
“Oh. It’s nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. I saw your face. What was it?”
I sigh, rolling my eyes to buy time because I really don’t want to have to explain this.
“We bumped into each other this morning in the changing room. He’s just trying to give me shit ‘cause he saw me naked.”
“He saw you naked?” Leo hisses.
“Yeah,” I say, “but who cares?” It doesn’t—”
Leo isn’t listening. He’s glaring over at Dean again, fists clenched and jaw rigid. He looks tense and coiled, like he wants to sprint over there and jump on Dean and beat the ever-loving shit out of him.
“Hey!” I say. “We’re supposed to be—”
Leo rounds on me.
“Why didn’t you tell me that this morning?” he says.
“What are you talking about?”
“At breakfast. Why didn’t you tell me that happened?”
He’s glaring at me, cheeks flushed. He looks angry, but I know Leo well enough to see something else in his face. Something more like hurt, or suspicion.
“I don’t know,” I stammer. “The whole thing was stupid . . .”
“If he touches you again—” Leo growls.
“He’s not going to touch me. Leo, you need to chill the fuck out—”
Before I can say anything else, the professor is calling the class to order again.
Leo is still simmering, his eyes returning to Dean on the other side of the room again and again.
And Dean looks back at us—not as often, but with a cold fury that easily matches Leo’s heat.
My stomach is churning. Classes have barely begun and already Leo’s getting into some kind of vendetta with Dean.
This isn’t at all how I wanted to get started at Kingmakers.
7
Leo
After combat class we break for lunch.
Anna’s chatting with Ares about counterstrikes, but I’m still fixated on that fucking asshole Dean. Remembering the way his eyes ran over her body when he said, “I’ve already seen it.” Like he fucking owned her, just because he saw her naked.
Just the fact that he saw her at all fucking pisses me off. I don’t believe it was an accident, not for a second. And I bet Uncle Mikolaj would be furious if he heard about it.
I’m supposed to be watching out for Anna, taking care of her. On the very first day here some asshole is already trying to get his rocks off sneaking a look at her.
Not just any asshole.
Someone who wants to do us harm. Who’s hated us our entire lives.
I’m scowling as we walk along, barely listening to Anna’s conversation with Ares.
Then I see the one thing that could possibly cheer me up.
A familiar figure slouched against the exterior wall of the Armory, hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s wearing the same clothes as everybody else, but somehow on him it doesn’t look like a uniform. Maybe it’s because each piece fits him flawlessly, or because he’s the only person I’ve seen who bought his trousers in sage-green instead of in gray or black, and he’s paired them with a set of limited-edition sneakers that I know sold out in about eight seconds when they hit the market. But of course Miles has always been able to get what he wants.
He’s got a shock of untidy dark curls that hang down over his face, and a bored expression that shows that he’s barely listening to the friend chattering away in his ear.
“Anna,” I say, interrupting her conversation. “Look!”
Anna glances up. Her face breaks into one of her rare full smiles.
“Miles!” she cries, running over to him.
Miles is Anna’s cousin by blood, and mine too. His mom is my dad’s sister, and his dad is Anna’s mom’s brother, if you can try to untangle that chain of connections.
He’s a year older than us, so he’s already in his second year at Kingmakers. That means we won’t have any classes with him, but I was hoping we’d see him on campus pretty often.
He looks up at us, the right side of his mouth quirking up in a slow and lazy smile.
“Hey Tippy Toes,” he says to Anna, allowing her to slip under his arm for a hug, and even give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hey All-Star,” he says, giving me a nod and a fist bump.
“I thought you’d be waiting up on the ramparts with a welcome banner for us,” I say.
Miles chuckles softly. “Sorry to disappoint.”
If there’s one thing I know about my cousin, it’s that he does not give a fuck about disappointing people. In fact, I think his greatest pleasure in life is defying expectations. Or maybe it’s getting in trouble, and then slipping out of it again just as quick.
How Miles managed to graduate from Preston Heights without being expelled is beyond me. He hardly needs Kingmakers for an education in operating outside the bounds of the law. He ran a supply chain of ten different kinds of contraband out of our high school—everything from party drugs to cheat sheets. He probably cleared seven figures of profit by the time he graduated.
Not that he needed the money. His father was mayor of Chicago for eight years, not to mention head of the entire Irish mafia. The Griffins are rolling in cash, and Miles grew up in a lake house that looks like a transparent prism of glass perched up on stilts. No curtains—just trees all around, and then open water all along the lakeside. In certain rooms of the house, you can look down and see fish swimming under your feet.
“This is Ozzy,” Miles says, introducing us to his friend.
Ozzy is on the shorter side, heavily tattooed and pierced through his nose, eyebrow, and every inch of his ears. He’s wearing a sweater vest with no shirt underneath, so I can see the tattoos running down both arms—most of which look like they were done by amateurs at best, and quite possibly by himself with his non-dominant hand.
“The cousins.” He grins, shaking our hands hard. “Why the fuck are you all so tall? What do they put in your milk in Chicago? It’s bad enough standing next to Miles.”
“Don’t blame us
for that one,” Miles says, nodding his head toward Ares. “He’s independently overgrown.”
“This is Ares,” I introduce him. “He’s from Syros.”
“Where the fuck is Syros?” Ozzy asks.
“It’s a Greek island,” Ares says, unoffended. “Close to Mykonos.”
“That’s alright,” Ozzy says sympathetically. “I’m from Tasmania and nobody gives a shit about that place either. Wouldn’t know us at all if not for Looney Toons.”
“I don’t know Looney Toons,” Ares admits.
“Well, shit,” Ozzy laughs. “Never mind, then. Point is, I’d rather nobody knows where I’m from than to have ‘em make the same damn jokes over and over. It’s all stereotypes! Thinkin’ we say ‘cunt’ and ‘mate’ and ‘how ya goin.’ ”
“You say all those things,” Miles points out.
“Not all the time though!” Ozzy cries.
“Literally all the time,” Miles says.
Ozzy ignores him, pressing on with his rant, “The fuckin’ number of times somebody says to me, ‘g’day mate.’ I could tear my own arm off and beat ‘em to death with it.”
“You can do that while it’s still attached, you know,” Miles says drily.
“Wouldn’t be as dramatic, though,” Ozzy says.
“I would never try to stop you being dramatic,” Miles says.
“You couldn’t if you tried.” Ozzy grins.
“Oh, look out,” Miles says under his breath, trying to step behind Ares so he can’t be seen.
Too late—a furious voice cries out, “Nice try, Griffin. I see you over there, and I want my pen back IMMEDIATELY.”
A professor storms toward us, his big belly preceding the rest of his body, and his face suffused with angry color. He’s dressed in a tweed sport coat and highly-polished brogues. Perched on the end of his nose is a pair of silver spectacles almost the exact same color as his beard. He looks like an intelligent man in the process of being driven mad, his hair standing up on end, and his sport coat buttoned through the wrong hole.
Knowing my cousin, I can guess exactly what the impetus to insanity might be.
