The Bully (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  But did I ever actually hate him?

  No. I don’t think so.

  My terror has always been accompanied by a strange fascination with Dean. He intrigues me, like a dark pathway into the woods. I want to see what’s inside.

  No, I definitely can’t regret fucking him. It felt too good. The most pleasurable moments of my life have come in our last several encounters.

  But I am confused about one thing. The thing that makes me feel a squirming sense of guilt and shame when I think what I allowed Dean to do to me. And how much I liked it . . .

  There’s only one person I can ask.

  I call my sister.

  Miles told me where to find his cache of hidden cellphones so I could call Zoe any time I like, not just on Sundays.

  I go to the very furthest point of campus, in the northwest corner of the fortress walls, tucked behind the prison tower and the edge of the ruined cathedral. Here, in a thicket of Hemlocks, no one will see me using a forbidden piece of technology.

  Zoe answers at once, pleased and breathless.

  “Cat! How are you?”

  I don’t have to ask how she’s doing. I can hear the pure joy in Zoe’s voice. That’s how she always sounds since she moved to Los Angeles with Miles.

  “I’m good,” I say. “Or at least, I think I’m good.”

  Zoe laughs. “What does that mean?”

  “Well . . . I, uh, had sex for the first time.”

  “What!?” she shrieks. “With who?”

  “With . . . Dean, actually.”

  There’s a long silence on the other end of the line.

  “What are you doing, conejita,” Zoe murmurs. There’s no judgment in her voice—only concern.

  “I . . . might like him. A little bit,” I admit.

  Another silence. Then Zoe says, “He’s bitter, Cat. Bitter and twisted inside. Do you know what he tried to do to Leo—”

  “Yes,” I interrupt. “I know.”

  “Then how can you like him?”

  I can’t answer her question, because I know I’m in the wrong. You’re not supposed to like someone who tried to kill your friend.

  But after all, he didn’t kill Leo, and I don’t think he’d try again. In fact, in all the time I’ve spent with Dean, he’s never said one thing about Leo Gallo. Or about Anna, either. Maybe he’s keeping his hatred locked inside. I’ve never seen any hint of it.

  “I think . . . he might have changed since then,” I say to Zoe. “Changed a little, at least.”

  Zoe lets out a disbelieving sigh.

  I know I sound ridiculous.

  It doesn’t matter. I didn’t call Zoe so she could waste her time trying to talk me out of a situation in which I’m far too deeply embedded.

  I have a different question to ask.

  “Zo,” I say. “You like sleeping with Miles, don’t you?”

  She laughs and I can almost picture her shaking her head at my change of subject.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Do you ever have sort of, uh, aggressive sex? Violent, even?”

  Zoe hesitates, her irrepressible honesty forcing her to answer.

  “Sometimes,” she says.

  “Why do people like that?” I ask.

  Even though I’m alone and out of sight of anyone, including Zoe, I’m still blushing with all my might.

  People means me, and Zoe knows it.

  “Well.” Zoe considers. “I suppose it’s because it shows a man’s masculinity and strength.”

  “Do you ever . . . let Miles tie you up?”

  I want the earth to swallow me up, but I also need to know.

  “Yes,” Zoe says. “But Cat . . . the reason we can do kinky shit is because I trust Miles. He knows my limits. He pushes me to the edge, but he would never hurt me.”

  “Right,” I say. “I understand.”

  Zoe sighs, and I know she’s probably biting the edge of her lip, just like I’m doing thousands of miles away.

  “I’m not going to tell you what to do, little sister. But please . . . be careful.”

  “I will be,” I promise.

  “I miss you,” Zoe says.

  “I love you,” I reply.

  I end the call.

  Even though Zoe doesn’t approve of me dating Dean—how could she?—she loves me and supports me no matter what.

  And she did answer my question, without entirely meaning to.

  The reason why I’m willing to do all these things with Dean, the reason I let him tie me to that wall . . . is because I do trust him. As much as he scares me, I’ve come to believe that he won’t actually hurt me. Not in any real or lasting way.

  The pain of whipping and spanking is nothing compared to the pleasure that comes after.

  I get up earlier than usual the next morning, so only a dozen other students are scattered throughout the dining hall when I grab a bowl of oatmeal and a pot of mint tea.

  I prop my Extortion and Racketeering textbook up against an earthenware milk jug, intending to study and eat simultaneously. All the time I’ve been spending with Dean is undermining my efforts to improve my grades this year.

  I’ve only read through a single page before Hedeon plops down in the seat next to mine saying, “Who in the hell decided that oatmeal’s an acceptable breakfast food? If the Victorians ate it, that should be reason enough to chuck it off the menu forever.”

  “It’s actually pretty good. It’s got blueberries and cinnamon and—”

  Hedeon shoves away his untouched bowl.

  “It’s still slop,” he says.

  He hasn’t shaved in a week or two, and his thick, dark stubble is halfway to a beard. It makes his eyes look all the more blue.

  I can’t help casting a nervous glance around the dining hall, in case Dean sees us sitting together all alone. He’s obviously touchy about Hedeon, which is laughable because there’s never been the slightest spark of romance between us.

  Hedeon just wanted me to use my access to the computer lab to search through old student records. He never explicitly told me that he was looking for his parents—that was my assumption. I think I’m right though, because Hedeon seems to hate the Grays, despite the fact that they named him heir over his brother Silas.

  I feel guilty that I let that secret slip to Dean. I didn’t mean to. He quite literally tortured it out of me, however pleasant that torture might have been.

  Even though I wasn’t able to access the student records, I did suggest to Hedeon that he might find paper copies amongst the detritus of cast-off filing boxes, broken furniture, and abandoned sports equipment in the old stables.

  He never told me if he found what he was looking for.

  I ponder if I’m brave enough to renew the topic now.

  Hedeon sits sullen and silent, his expression as unwelcoming as I’ve ever seen it. If I wait for him to be in a good mood, I might as well wait for the second coming.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Uh, Hedeon . . . did you ever . . . find that thing you were looking for?”

  “What?” He says, startled out of whatever moody thoughts were swirling around in his head.

  I can feel myself blushing, but I persist, “In the boxes . . . in the stables . . .”

  His jaw clenches, and I think he’s going to tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. Instead he says, in a low, defeated tone, “No. I found a box of records from around the right time, but the files didn’t say anything useful. It was stupid to think they would.”

  “Do you know your parents’ names?” I ask, hesitantly.

  He shakes his head, his dark hair hanging down over his eyes.

  “I don’t know anything about them. I only assumed they came here because a long time ago I found a gray envelope crumpled up in the back of a drawer. It had half a wax seal on it—the Kingmakers seal. At the time both Silas and I were too young for school, so it wasn’t for us. It’s the only clue I have. The Grays won’t tell me anything, not even my mother’s name. I h
ave no pictures. I have nothing at all.”

  I frown, considering that.

  “Did your parents—the Grays, I mean. Did they go to Kingmakers?”

  “Yes, but decades ago. They’re old. They spent a long time trying to have their own children.”

  I’m wondering if the envelope could have been from one of their acceptance letters. People don’t always clean out their drawers.

  Perceiving this, Hedeon says, defensively, “The envelope didn’t look that old.”

  I’m not sure how accurately one can discern the age of paper, but I don’t want to argue with Hedeon. So I only say, “Maybe they know someone who works at the school. Maybe a teacher wrote to them . . .”

  “You don’t think a student could have gotten pregnant?” Hedeon demands, in an undertone so no one around us can possibly overhear. “People sneak off to fuck all the time around here . . .”

  That hits a little too close to home. I have to pretend to be very interested in the blueberries on my oatmeal.

  “Hard to hide something like that,” I say, quietly. “Besides, you know what mafia families are like. They might be mad about an accidental pregnancy, but at the end of the day, if two kids fucked up, the parents would still want the grandchild . . .”

  “You don’t know that,” Hedeon hisses back at me.

  He’s angry and impatient, not wanting to hear any arguments against his only lead.

  I take a breath, mulling it over.

  “You’re right,” I say, after a moment. “I don’t know anything for certain. I’m just making guesses. And that’s not really helpful.”

  Hedeon’s shoulders drop as he lets go of some of his frustration, but also some of his conviction.

  “All I have is guesses,” he says, unhappily. “I want them to have gone here. Because then I’d be where they were. I’d feel like I knew them a little.”

  His hands clench on the table. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and I can see a long, twisted scar running up his forearm. Most mafia children have scars. Hedeon’s aren’t normal—they’re too numerous and too strange. There’s nothing accidental about them.

  “Does Silas know anything?” I ask.

  “No,” Hedeon says. “And he doesn’t care.”

  Silas has never struck me as having much curiosity or much feeling.

  Hedeon, while equally ill-tempered, does have flashes of kindness and humor.

  I don’t blame him for his bitterness. It’s clear that his upbringing among the Grays was far from pleasant.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” I say.

  Hedeon sighs.

  “Just . . . don’t tell anyone,” he says.

  I squirm guiltily in my seat.

  “I won’t,” I lie.

  The universe seeks balance in all things.

  Now that Dean has stopped tormenting me between classes, restricting his dominance to our nightly sessions, it seems that Lola Fischer is determined to fill the void.

  She and Dixie have been steadily ramping up their harassment, so that Rakel and I can barely step foot outside our dorm room door without one of the southern belles slamming us into the wall.

  Rakel wants to poison them, or at bare minimum sneak into their room in the middle of the night and steal all their clothes.

  “No,” I say flatly. “I’m not interested in escalating.”

  I’ve already experienced the sickening dread that comes from breaking the worst rule at Kingmakers. I got away with it once, and I have no interest in tempting fate again.

  “But we’re not doing anything at all!” Rakel cries, infuriated. “We’re acting like weak little bitches!”

  “I don’t care,” I say. “I’ve got enough on my plate with the Quartum Bellum and first term exams.”

  The first challenge of the Quartum Bellum takes place the following Friday.

  Kade Petrov was chosen as Captain for the Freshman team. He’s extremely popular amongst the Freshman students, who of course hope that he’s the second iteration of the record-setting champion Adrik Petrov.

  However, Kade seems to have drawn the ire of several upperclassmen including Bodashka Kushnir and Vanya Antonov. I saw them get into some kind of confrontation in the dining hall, before Dean and Bram intervened.

  I didn’t quite understand what I was seeing. After all, Dean and Bodashka used to be good friends. I have to assume Dean was motivated by his hatred of Vanya, because he’s not usually a defender of younger students. If anything, Dean’s usually the one bullying them.

  It was all very strange, and I’d like to ask Dean about it, but we don’t spend much time talking. As soon as I step foot into the Bell Tower, I become his little pet. My orders are to obey, not to question.

  Our interactions are raw and primal.

  That’s the way I like it.

  When I’m with Dean I don’t have to think, or plan, or worry.

  All I have to do is give in to my natural desires. However unnatural they may be.

  It washes away the confusing complications of how I feel about Dean, or what I did to Rocco, or the highly inconvenient fact that the Sophomore Captain is none other than Lola-fucking-Fischer.

  She looked like the cat that swallowed the canary when her name was posted in the commons. I hoped it would at least put her in a good mood. Unfortunately, it’s only emboldened her and Dixie in their tyranny.

  Leo, of course, will be Junior Captain.

  Claire Turgenev was chosen by the Seniors.

  “They should have picked her last year over that idiot Simon,” Rakel says.

  “Leo says he bribed people to vote for him.”

  “Plus, they’re just plain sexist,” Rakel says. “The Enforcers always vote for the biggest dude.”

  “It’s gonna be stiff competition,” I say nervously. “All the Captains are good.”

  “Don’t call Lola ‘good.’ ” Rakel sniffs. “It’s like calling an atom bomb ‘pretty.’ Just doesn’t sound right.”

  “She’s smart, though.”

  “I think you mean conniving.”

  “Talented.”

  “Obsessive,” Rakel corrects me.

  “Motivated.” I’m trying not to laugh.

  “Unhinged,” Rakel says, and we both give in to giggling.

  We’re less amused when we see the actual challenge.

  The students file out onto the sprawling field outside the stone gates, where we see four large piles of lumber waiting for us. High overhead, a thin wire stretches from the castle wall all the way down to the tree line at the edge of the field. From that wire hangs four flags: white, green, gray, and black. The flags flap in the breeze, suspended fifty feet over our heads.

  “Oh, dammit,” Rakel mutters.

  We already know without Professor Howell’s explanation that this challenge is definitely going to involve retrieving those flags.

  Sure enough, the professor waits until the students have assembled, then uses his theater-level projection skills to shout out, “Welcome to the first round of the Quartum Bellum! As most of you are aware, this is a single-elimination competition. The last team to finish the challenge will be eliminated. Those who finish first and second may win an advantage for the next round, so do your best to finish quickly, even if another team has already achieved the objective!”

  We nod, as these are always the base rules. It’s only new information for the few Freshmen who don’t have older siblings to enlighten them.

  Professor Howell continues his instructions. I wish I weren’t standing so close to him, because even though he’s only a few inches taller than me, his bellow is deafening.

  “The objective today is to retrieve your team’s flag. The tool at your disposal is the lumber you see waiting. You can build any apparatus you like to reach the flag. But you have no hammer or nails—only the wood. There will be no sabotage of the opposing teams in this particular challenge.”

  Lola pouts, clearly disappointed by that rule. Sometimes sabotage i
s allowed, and even encouraged.

  “Gather with your team, and we’ll begin!” Professor Howell shouts, raising his pistol overhead.

  I bunch up with the rest of the Sophomores, all dressed in identical olive-green t-shirts. Lola is hissing instructions to our team before Professor Howell can pull the trigger.

  “The strategy is speed,” she says in an undertone, so the Freshmen and Juniors on either side of us won’t hear. “We need to build a tower as quickly as possible. August, Joss, Carter, take the biggest students and start hauling the wood over. Lyman, Sadie, you’re in charge of engineering—tell the others how to build.”

  Much as I dislike Lola, I have to admit she seems to know exactly what to do. The other Sophomores ready themselves, motivated by her confidence.

  Professor Howell fires into the clear blue sky.

  We all take off running toward the stacks of lumber.

  The pieces of wood are irregular in size, rough and untrimmed. Rakel and I grab a log between us, instantly filling our palms with splinters.

  “Couldn’t give us any gloves, could they!” Rakel complains.

  “At least it’s not raining,” I say.

  The one and only challenge in which I competed last year was a morass of mud. Jogging over the springy turf on a sunny day is positively pleasant by contrast, even if I do have to carry this damn log.

  By the time Rakel and I haul our burden over beneath the flag, August and Joss have already run to the woodpile and back three times.

  “Move your ass!” Dixie David bellows at us on Lola’s behalf.

  “I’d like to shove this log up her ass,” Rakel mutters to me.

  I snort, then wipe the smile off my face as Lola glares at us.

  “You think it’s funny that the two of you are worse than worthless?” she snaps, tossing back her mane of shining caramel-colored hair.

  “Sorry, Great Leader,” I reply, in a tone of utmost politeness. “I didn’t know barking orders required both your hands and your mouth. Why don’t you pick up a log and help us?”

  Lola’s pretty face contorts with so much venom that she barely looks human.

  “You’re a parasite,” she hisses at me. “A worm under my feet. You don’t belong here. And you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

  Rakel pulls me in the direction of the woodpile once more.