by James Tate
When I was dressed, I stared forlornly at my curls. As predicted, they were everywhere. Fixing them without a ton of product was impossible, but thankfully they were long enough to pull into a messy bun. I left a few tendrils falling around my face to hopefully give it an “I meant to look like this” vibe. I lined my blue-green eyes with kohl and then added some mascara, grateful that, for the most part, I looked well-rested and alert.
As cliché as it was, today was the beginning of my new life. This was my best chance to change my circumstances, and whether it was god or fate driven, I was taking it with both hands and wringing every single opportunity from it.
Game face on.
No one bothered me as I got ready, but somehow I already knew Mr. Wainwright was waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, probably staring at that expensive watch. With that in mind, I hurried through the rest of my preparations, threw everything into the duffle bag that held all my worldly possessions, and rushed through the cabin and down the stairs.
I’d been so busy trying to get down the stairs—and stop the chattering of my teeth that had started the moment I left the warmth of the plane—that I hadn’t noticed there was someone waiting at the bottom. Not until I almost bowled him over.
As I stumbled on the last few steps, the guy I’d almost knocked into reached out a hand to steady me.
“Oh, whoa. Sorry,” I said, shifting back with a visible shiver.
He chuckled a deep rumbling sound as he straightened me. “No problem, milady.”
Accent. Got me every time, and this guy had it in spades.
Pulling back even farther, I took in the guy before me. He was a few inches taller than my five-foot-seven height, with light brown eyes, light brown locks, and a lot of facial hair he was clearly trying to tame into a beard. I guessed he was a few years older than me, and he had an easygoing smile and twinkling eyes.
“The name is Brandon Morgan, and I’m here to get you safely to Arbon Academy.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it quickly, noting how warm his leather gloves were against my frozen skin and wondering why his name was familiar.
“My father is the dean,” he added, and it all clicked into place. The letter. This was Dean Morgan’s son.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, pulling my hand back feeling more than a little out of place.
Brandon was dressed impeccably—like a dark charcoal custom suit, matching overcoat, shiny black dress shoes, open-collared dress shirt, and a watch that made Mr. Wainwright’s look like a child’s piece.
“Come on, Violet,” he said cheerfully, “you don’t have to be nervous. I’m going to take very good care of you.”
I blanched at his use of those particular words, especially when he followed that up by taking a slow visual sweep of my body. My shudder this time was only partly from the cold seeping into my bones.
Ugh. He was one of those. “Listen, Mr. Morgan”—fuck using his first name and letting him get any more familiar—“I don’t know what you think about me, but I’m not interested in whatever you want to take care of. I’m here to get an education and get the hell out of my crappy life.”
He watched me closely, almost like I was a science experiment he was trying to decipher, before another one of those charming, perfect-white-teeth smiles crossed his face.
“It pays to remember that you’re the charity case of our school,” he said, and his voice was so pleasant that for a beat the derision in his words didn’t quite register. “I’m offering you this advice as a courtesy. It would be safest for you if you’re seen and not heard. Sneak in and out of class, sit in the back corner, and don’t leave your dorm otherwise. That is how you survive.”
His tone was not at all threatening, but somehow it still felt like he’d attacked me. Gritting my teeth, some of the euphoria I’d been feeling faded as my actual reality emerged.
This was a school filled with rich, entitled assholes. People who’d never had a rough day, never gone to bed hungry, and never had to fight off men in the middle of the night because they thought their ward would be an easy mark.
Arbon was a school that almost never took in charity cases. Once every five years…
And that meant just one thing: I was going to be a sitting duck.
“Why would any of you even care enough to notice me?” I murmured, my eyes locked on him the way you would stare down a predator.
I sensed that if I looked away, he’d attack. So swelled up with confidence and swagger. Little did he know, I was no ordinary orphan to be pushed around. He should be worried about pissing me off, because I would take great pleasure in using the few skills I possessed to destroy him.
Brandon chuckled in his creepy, serial-killer way. “Oh, love. You’ve got no idea. Arbon Academy is nothing like the brochure. It’s brutal and cutthroat. We’re bred to scent blood and destroy the wounded. Frankly, you don’t stand a chance.” He crossed his arms and smirked. “I’m in the betting pool wagering you don’t last the first month.” He ran his gaze down my body before returning to my face again. “Although, now that I’ve seen you in your trashy American flesh, I wouldn't mind if you stuck around a little longer. If you want to suck my dick, right here, like the good little American whore you are, I might even keep you safe from the vultures.”
Oh my god. This guy had me grinding my teeth together. Not only were they betting on me before I’d even arrived, but the mere thought of sucking his dick was enough to have me dry retching.
Fucker.
This was a test though, this moment with Brandon, and however I handled it would probably set the tone for the rest of my time at the academy. I could not let them win. Not now. This school was my ticket out.
“Okay,” I said casually, dropping my bag. I saw the surprise in his eyes. I took a step closer. “Whip this little dick out, and I’ll spare you the half a minute I’m sure it’ll take.”
He blinked at me.
“Come on,” I pushed, my breath fogging in the frosty air, “chop-chop. Dicks don’t suck themselves, you know.”
Red was rising from his neck into his cheeks—he was pissed—but before I could find out if he was going to call my bluff—
“Mr. Morgan, your father wants us back before the morning assembly,” Mr. Wainwright said from behind the asshole, interrupting us.
I refused to take my gaze off Brandon Morgan, but I sensed the older man was very close. Brandon suddenly spun, and I glimpsed the generous and warm smile back on his face. Dude was well-versed at faking his humanity. “Oh, George, old man. Thanks so much for retrieving the lovely Violet for us. But I can take it from here.”
“No,” I said. Both men turned to me. “I’d prefer to ride with Mr. Wainwright. He’s been very thorough in updating me about this new world.”
If Brandon pushed, I’d push back. I wasn’t completely defenseless, even though the secret hidden in the bottom of my luggage was enough to get me incarcerated. Or worse. Good thing security screening in airports was a thing of an older, more violent time.
Brandon opened his mouth, but Mr. Wainwright cut him off. “As Dean Morgan’s personal assistant, I can assure you that I am capable of escorting Ms. Violet to the academy. Your father did not tell me to hand this over to you, Brandon.”
Brandon sneered. “I’ve told you more than once to call me Mr. Morgan. My authority is not much below my father’s. I will graduate next year, and from then on I will help him control the academy.”
Mr. Wainwright didn’t say much, but I could have sworn he murmured, “We’ll see about that,” under his breath.
“Why exactly are you here?” I asked Brandon bluntly. “If your father expected Mr. Wainwright to escort me, it seems a little odd that you’re here.”
I had no idea why I continued to poke at this asshole. He’d already proven that there was a sinister, evil streak running through him, and instead of taking his advice about blending, I was doing the opposite.
His grin was long gone now
. “At my school nothing happens without me knowing about it. You are a situation I plan on being in control of.”
Throwing back my shoulders, I grabbed my bag and checked him out of the way.
“Take care, Violet,” Brandon said as I moved past him, and only an idiot would miss the threat there. He strolled off then, sliding into a low-slung red car, the engine powerful and loud when it roared to life.
Cars had disappeared for a while after the Monarch War—all technology and computers had faded away. When everything was rebuilt from the ashes, cars were one of the first things to get an overhaul. Now they ran solely from sun energy and water power. Well, a salty water with multiple other properties that I didn’t understand.
Suffice it to say, only the mega-rich—the royals and equally wealthy—got cars.
Swallowing hard, I finally made my way off the stairs, joining Mr. Wainwright as we strolled toward another car, this one black and larger than Brandon’s with very dark tinted windows. It was a Mercondor, formerly known as Mercedes; that company had risen up to be the premier provider of cars in the new age.
“Is Mr. Morgan a royal?” I asked Mr. Wainwright.
The older man let out a low sigh, rubbing a hand across tired eyes. “No. His family has no royal blood at all. But there is a certain prestige from running Arbon Academy, a legacy he will inherit from his father. It’s given him an inflated sense of self-worth.”
Understatement of the year. “So he answers to the royals?”
The older man chuckled humorlessly. “Don’t we all?”
So true.
There were fifty royal families, each ruling large sections of the world. Country boundaries were not the same as they had been before the last world war. A lot of the world had been destroyed, rendered totally uninhabitable by heavy chemical warfare, resulting in just fifty distinct kingdoms, all varying in size and power—power being the control of technology, clean drinking water, food, and fossil fuels.
All the former democracies crashed when the world did, ushering in an age of monarchs. Two of the most powerful were the province of Switzerland and New America. They were allies, which gave them a strong ruling power, but close behind was Australasia and Denmark. Our enemies.
“How many crown heirs are at Arbon Academy right now?” Because although there were many, many royals, each monarch only had one crown heir, successor to the throne.
We were in the car, the driver smoothly leaving the airport, and I tried to remember the last time I’d been in a vehicle. I’d been a small child.
“We have twelve heirs at the school right now,” Mr. Wainwright told me. “New America, Switzerland, Australasia, Britains, Mongolia, Russia, Denmark, the Africas, and a few other less influential families.”
Twelve! Well, fuck.
“How is there not a war every day?”
I got a side-eye then, his face almost comical as his eyebrows lifted to his hairline. “Who said there wasn’t?”
I gulped, and at the no doubt concerned look on my face, he shook his head, dark brown eyes almost twinkling. “Calm yourself, Ms. Spencer. The war we fight now is psychological.”
In some ways, that scared me more than physical violence. Especially after meeting Brandon Morgan and learning there were twelve crown heirs attending.
I’d known my time here was not going to be easy, but right now, I was wondering if I’d make it out alive.
Chapter 3
Turned out that Arbon Academy was in the Switzerlands, which now incorporated multiple countries that were formerly part of Europe. It was ruled by King Felipe and Queen Jacinta. They had three children: Rafael, their heir, and the younger twins, Jean-luc and Lacy-liun. The twins were too young for Arbon, but Rafael was one of the twelve currently attending.
There were no pictures of the heirs anywhere—for their safety. But I’d seen the Swiss king and queen on television before, with their dark hair, eyes, and bronze skin, and I could only assume their children had the same coloring.
Guess I was going to find out.
I knew a lot about the royals from school, but I’d never come close to meeting one. Hopefully I didn’t faint or embarrass myself. Or punch one in the face. Violence against a royal, especially a crown prince or princess, was potentially punishable by death. They could beat each other up no worries, though. Gotta love those double standards.
The car we were in slowed, and I refocused on where we were. For the past half hour or so, while I’d been daydreaming, we'd been steadily climbing in altitude, and when I peered out the window, I gasped.
We were high, really fucking high up, with a massive snow-covered valley falling away from the road. Across the chasm, the white-coated mountains rose up higher than the cloud line, and I couldn't stop my jaw from falling completely open.
I'd recognized that my whole life would change after winning the Princess Ballot—ahem, sorry, the Arbon Lottery—but I just hadn't even considered that I'd be seeing the world.
Growing up, I'd thrived on stories of faraway places—books written in a time before the Monarch War, when it was commonplace to jet all over the world. I craved that kind of freedom like it was a missing piece of my soul.
Mr. Wainwright made a small sound, pulling my attention from the awe-inspiring, snow-covered landscape to the other side of the car. Or rather to the front, as our driver had just turned off the mountainside road to crawl through an intimidating set of gates.
"Holy shit," I whispered, staring up at the structure in the distance. It was like something out of a fairytale, all delicate spires and elegant masonry. The grounds were covered in snow, but I had no doubt they'd be just as awe-inspiring. "It's like a castle."
I hadn't really meant to say it aloud, but Mr. Wainwright heard me anyway.
"It is a castle," he informed me. "Or it used to be, a long time ago. Since then it has spent several hundred years as a private residence, then it was a hotel for about eighty years or so until the first Lord Morgan purchased the property just prior to the Monarch War and started Arbon Academy."
I gaped at him, but he didn't even seem to register my head exploding. The car stopped in front of the impressive front entrance, and the car door clicked open via a button that the driver pressed. He didn't even need to get out into the cold to open it himself.
"Come along, Ms. Spencer." Mr. Wainwright indicated for me to exit the vehicle before him. Manners and all that crap. "Dean Morgan wanted you here before the morning assembly, which starts in five minutes. You'd better hurry."
I stood beside the luxurious car, looking up at the legitimate castle that was to be my home for the next four years, and just... trembled.
"Oh for goodness sake," Mr. Wainwright grumbled, dropping his own woolen coat over my shaking shoulders. "Honestly, Ms. Spencer, you didn't think to pack a coat?" He retrieved my pathetic bag of belongings from the trunk and propped it up in the snow beside us.
I rolled my eyes, but slipped my arms into the sleeves, pulling it tight around my frozen body. "I don't own a coat, Mr. Wainwright." I arched a brow at him. "Or did you forget I'm the school's latest charity case?"
The old gentleman gave me a long look. "I doubt it's that easy to forget anything about you, Ms. Spencer." The way he assessed me was bordering on uncomfortable, but not in a leery, sexual way. More just that he was taking my measure, committing it to memory. "Hurry along. You'll find plenty of coats in your new room, but for now you can keep mine. Last thing I need is to be reprimanded for delivering a new student with hypothermia."
He didn't wait for my response before sliding back into the warmth of the car and leaving me standing there with nothing but my ratty duffel bag at my feet.
Trembles still ran through me and I wasn't getting any warmer just standing there, so I hoisted my bag in my freezing hands and made my way up the impressive stairs to the huge, carved wooden doors.
"You're late," a woman snapped as I let myself through the grand entrance. "Quickly now."
I barely eve
n got a glance at her face before her heels were click-clicking away down the marble hallway. What I could see of her was a tight, professional French twist in her mouse-grey hair, hair sprayed within an inch of its life. Her skirt suit was dowdy, but expensive. Some kind of checked fabric. Was that what they called tweed?
"Uh, I'm sorry," I offered, hurrying to keep up with her while managing my bag of shit. "Mr. Wainwright just dropped me off and—"
"Stop talking," she ordered, stopping abruptly outside a closed door and spinning to face me. On second look, she wasn't as old as I'd initially placed her. Maybe in her late thirties? The scowl on her face was doing nothing for her skin, though. It was marred with plenty of frown lines across her forehead and around her eyes. "Dean Morgan wanted to introduce you during morning assembly, but that's certainly not happening now." The way she looked me over told me the reason it wasn't happening—not because I was late, but because I looked like a pile of crap
"Sorry," I muttered again, frowning. I sort of wanted to call her out on being a bitch, but I probably shouldn't land myself in trouble before even seeing my room.
She rolled her eyes, not even pretending to be polite. "In here you'll find your enrollment pack. Most of it has been filled in by your, uh, guardians. The rest you're required to complete. You'll also find an introductory packet with maps of the grounds, details of your accommodations, and your class schedule. All the important stuff. I suggest you familiarize yourself with it." She paused a moment, her mouth pursed like she'd eaten a lemon. "A senior student will be by after the assembly to show you around."
She unlocked the door with an old-fashioned key—a metal one that actually needed to be inserted in the lock and turned—before standing aside to let me enter. Inside was just a small room with a desk, a couple of chairs, and a potted plant in the corner.
