The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1)

by Leanne Pearson

  I have an appreciation for life such as I've never experienced before. Maybe I feel as though – like Tia – I've been offered a second chance and must make every moment of it count.

  Theory is fast becoming my favourite lesson. Will's skilful way of stimulating debates, of making his students think about the information rather than simply retaining it, are how I learn best and not a day goes by when I don't leave his class filled with thoughts and further questions.

  My two hours a week with Islwyn are also proving successful; I'm learning to open up and share my thoughts and more and more I find that speaking to Islwyn about my concerns, voicing them and clarifying them with his guidance, makes me realise obvious solutions to dilemmas. It enables me to think more clearly and be at peace in my mind.

  The shock of discovering Malachy Beighley's true power and influence within our world is only just beginning to diffuse for most of us first years; and since that informative Theory lesson, half the class have steered well clear of him, whilst the other half have tried desperately to befriend him.

  I have done neither – though knowing that our future ruler sits within our midst is unnerving – and I continue to harbour a fierce dislike of him – though I'm now much less inclined to voice it.

  Discovering that our world is strictly governed by a group of powerful Immortals – and that a terrible fate awaits anyone who dares to break the laws – has cast an ominous atmosphere within our first year circles. Some find it comforting to know that law and order play a vital role amongst Immortals; they feel more in touch with the human world and the rules they were so accustomed to there. But others find it terrifying that a place such as the Confine even exists and in hushed whispers I've heard the words 'barbaric' and 'medieval' many times over.

  I have to admit that I, myself, do find it an old-fashioned form of punishment more in keeping with the Tudor period than modern times, but I try to always keep in mind that we are not humans and, therefore, can't be bound by the same laws and punishments. The Confine does seem like the only option for law-breakers and I'm hard pressed to think of a more efficient one myself.

  One lesson still hasn't been attended by my class; Practical, scheduled on my timetable for Friday afternoon. We are ordered – by Ms Fall – to attend the class accompanied by our Mentors to help us with our training and act as dummies in demonstrations.

  Tia and I meet at the main entrance before making our way to the Practical hall on the ground floor. A swarm of first and third year students are gathered outside a heavy oak door, the buzz of loud chatter and bursts of screeching laughter can be heard echoing through the long corridors as Mentors and first years socialise, discussing the upcoming lesson.

  Over time I've learned the first year/Mentor pairs and am unsurprised to find Tomos O'Brien paired with none other than Richard Miller; Tia's flirtatious Scottish friend with whom she insists she simply went to fetch drinks with that night. Meredith's first year is the painfully shy Cheryl Berry, whose softly spoken voice often gets ignored in the midst of a brash, argumentative Theory class.

  Tia – as always – is at the centre of the hub, sharing gossip and tid bits she heard through the grape vine; that Camilla Ferera is dating Lance Appleby and that James Lurcher gave the fourth year Head back chat yesterday. It's all mindless garbage but it keeps the crowd happy as we await class.

  At precisely three o clock, the doors lurch open, ceasing the conversations of forty students and enveloping us in expectant silence. Beyond the doors lies a hall the size of an arena and as we traipse across the threshold – coupled tightly in our pairs – I try to shake the feeling of resemblance to a gladiator entering the Coliseum.

  The spacious room is empty – bare of even a splinter of furniture – besides the two figures backed against the huge, stained glass window. The space is circular, with two doors at either end, and our group forms a semi-circle around the right half, facing our tutors. Tia stays closely by my side, flanked by Meredith who looks exasperated as she attempts to shake a clingy Cheryl Berry from her arm.

  The room is cold and breezy and our footsteps echo around the beige stone walls. Directly ahead of us, a man and woman stand side by side; both over six feet in height, arms folded across muscular chests. They're very similar in appearance with pale blond hair and piercing blue eyes. The man looks like an army general; crew cut, green vest, khaki corduroys and black Doc Martins. The woman is dressed almost identically aside from her hair which is swept into a tight knot atop her head.

  They glare at us silently, patiently waiting until each student is settled and the doors have closed behind us. The man steps forward – an imposing figure with a large scar across his right cheekbone – and addresses us, eyeing each student individually, sizing us up.

  'My name is Alexandrov Oblonsky,' He states in a thick Russian accent, flexing his fingers like butcher's sausages. 'And this is my wife,' he indicates the surly looking woman who steps forward to join him. 'Katarzyna Oblonska.'

  A murmur of shocked voices ripples through the crowd as Alexandrov Oblonsky utters the word 'wife.' We have not yet witnessed a marital coupling of two regular Immortals and are almost as surprised at the prospect of marriage as we are that the Oblonsky's aren't twins.

  'Whilst in my class I expect to have your undivided attention; you talk, you leave,' He warns. 'I am here to educate you, prepare you and teach you important skills ready for when you leave the Institute. Refusing to take my class seriously will land you in big trouble when you're out there on your own. I implore you to listen and to try your very best – it is all I ask.' Katarzyna nods fervently as Alexandrov concludes his forewarning.

  'Today we will begin with something very simple. Your bodies are new to you, you do not yet understand their full potential or what they are capable of. You are yet to be given an opportunity to run, jump, experience for the first time your new abilities in a safe, secure environment.

  You must learn to control and harness your power, your agility and above all – your strength. You are dangerous for as long as you remain untrained.' Alexandrov speaks slowly, with long pauses between sentences.

  'You must take the time to get used to your new bodies; the way they move, how they function. You must learn not only your capabilities, but what you are capable of doing well. And so, for your first task: gymnastics.'

  'Gymnastics?' The dark haired boy with the green fire eyes, whose name I now know to be Logan Marshall, wrinkles his nose. 'Is he serious?'

  'Deadly serious, Marshall,' Alexandrov barks, silencing the arrogant student. 'Find a space anywhere you like.' He instructs, taking his own spot near his wife.

  'Touch your toes.' He orders, obeying his own command; bending at the waist, keeping his legs straight until his fingertips brush the laces of his clumpy boots. We imitate him with hesitation, feeling stupid.

  In my past life, I had somewhat lacked flexibility. When I was four, my dad enrolled me in an after school gymnastics class, believing that my long limbs and lithe build would make me a natural gymnast.

  I cried the moment he left me, refusing to participate, not even to swing on the thick hanging ropes. My balance was awful, unable to ride a bicycle without stabilisers, ice skate, or even look up when on a flight of steep stairs for the entirety of my life.

  So I'm amazed at my new-found agility, bending to touch the tips of my toes with ease, feeling not a pinch of the sharp, stretching pain in my thigh muscles as I sweep my abdomen lower and lower.

  I twist my hips with alarming speed, ending up with my head by the backs of my heels, my backside stuck out at an odd angle. I feel like a stretchy doll, able to pull and twist my body to my heart's content.

  A wolf whistle rips through the air and I laugh as Tia sighs loudly, hissing at Richard to 'shut the fuck up' as she keeps her ass stuck out, unfortunate to be planted directly in front of him.

  'I know what you're thinking, Miss Berry, and yes; the flexibility does come in handy.' Richard winks at Cheryl, who buries he
r face in a mane of dark hair.

  'Get used to your bodies,' Alexandrov instructs. 'Get in sync with them, tune into the way they move. Miller, if I hear one more sexual innuendo from you I will personally inform Sir Alec.'

  I stifle a giggle as I twirl on my toes, as agile and adept as a professional ballerina.

  'Now!' Alexandrov shouts, commanding the attention of the class with ease, waiting a beat for everyone to resume their positions. 'If you cast your eyes up, you will notice the metal hoops hanging from the ceiling. Choose one and grab hold of it with one hand, hold your body weight there.'

  The metal hoops hang from leather straps, bolted to wooden beams. They are large enough to fit one hand through the centre and cling to the bar. The task would be an easy one if it weren't for the fact that the hoops hang at least fifty feet above our heads.

  I glance at the faces of my fellow first years, all of whom look as confused as me. The Mentors step confidently beneath their chosen hoops, bending their knees in preparation as I realise we have to jump.

  In one swift movement, they spring in unison from the floor; arching their feet, stretching their long limbs towards the ceiling. Their spines are perfectly poised, their heads held high, focussing on their hoop before their fingers clasp around the metal bars. They hang casually from the ceiling, swinging their legs, grinning down at their first years and encouraging us to join them.

  I watch as Tomos O'Brien shrugs his shoulders, bends his knees and springs up; clasping onto his hoop to dangle beside Richard. They grin at one another and the rest of us first years prepare to jump.

  I imitate O'Brien; bending my knees, keeping my legs flexible and my weight on the balls of my feet. I bounce onto my toes a few times, settling into a rhythm as I count down in my head.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  I launch my body upwards in a flurry of motion, aiming my entire torso at the ceiling above. The weight of my upper body propels me forward as my feet leave the ground. I point my toes and arch my back, stretching my right arm up; my fingertips ready to brush the cool metal of my chosen hoop.

  Everything seems to travel in slow motion, making it easier for me to gauge distance and speed. I slide my fingers through the hoop, curling my hand and clinging, holding my body weight with little effort.

  The whole jump takes less than a second but for me, it feels like five minutes were spent planning and executing it. I glance around as other first years dangle from their hoops. Their faces of shock and disbelief mirror mine as we try to decide whether to laugh or cry.

  Forty students hang in mid air, their arms outstretched toward the ceiling. Some kick and test their strength, pulling their knees up to meet their chins – others twirl and giggle, swinging precariously.

  I feel as comfortable as if I were lying in bed, my arm and muscles show no signs of tiring and I feel perfectly capable of hanging all day.

  'Let yourselves go.' Alexandrov instructs and instantly; the third years release their grips, shooting towards the ground, landing straight on their feet – the balance and agility of cats.

  First years follow with some struggle. Releasing my grip from the hoop doesn't seem natural and as I plummet through the air, I resist the urge to scream and flail.

  'The average Immortal can hold over one hundred times his or her body weight – with training, more,' Alexandrov informs us once we're all safely back on the ground.

  'You, there, what's your name?' Alexandrov singles out the smallest student in the room, a first year I've noticed before but never heard speak. She is not only short but has a petite frame, with small hands and small feet.

  'Becca.' The girl whispers, her face hidden behind a curtain of honey-coloured hair.

  'Step up.' He instructs, beckoning her to him. She glances quickly at her Mentor for moral support, who nods and encourages her to take a shaky step forward.

  'I will lift you, don't be alarmed,' Alexandrov warns as Becca meets him at the front of our huddle. 'Put both arms firmly around the hips, interlock your fingers and use your biceps to lift the entire body weight.' He demonstrates, swooping Becca's feet off the floor and raising her until she is taller than he.

  He holds her there, glaring at us, ensuring we've studied his simple technique, before setting her back down upon her dainty feet.

  'Bend your knees and keep your back straight,' He instructs. 'Now you.' He turns to Becca who stares at him blankly, blinking in the afternoon light.

  'Me?' She squeaks, her eyes wide.

  'Yes, you lift me.' Alexandrov nods. A splutter of giggles erupts around the room. Becca is no more than five feet tall and weighs around eight stone, possibly less. Alexandrov stands at about six feet four inches and weighs around fifteen stone – almost twice Becca's weight.

  'I... I don't think...' The young girl stammers, her face a picture of terror.

  'Don't think, just do – as I showed you.' Alexandrov barks, gripping Becca's wrists and wrapping her arms around his waist.

  She hesitates, scanning the crowd, searching for support and instead, staring into a sea of blank faces. She bends her knees, interlocking her fingers and takes a deep breath, tightening her bicep muscles.

  Once positioned – her feet apart, her shoulders wide – she lifts, straining her muscles and holding her breath. Her arms barely reach around Alexandrov's waist, she is dwarfed by his frame, buried beneath his rippling muscles. But sure enough, his feet begin to hover above the floor.

  She lifts him as high as her own height will allow – which is only around a foot off the ground – and I watch as her expression changes from one of fear and embarrassment to amazement and disbelief.

  'You see? Easy.' Alexandrov nods, patting her shoulder proudly. She sets him down gently and totters back to her Mentor – a third year girl whose name I don't know – who greets her with congratulations.

  Practical gives everybody a sense of new-found strength and we positively marvel at our speed. The fastest student was Logan Marshall who managed to travel at eighty miles per hour within the boundaries of the hall. Tia seems in even higher spirits than usual as we leave the Practical hall and I can't help but think it may have something to do with Richard's presence.

  'Now, I need your opinion,' She whispers secretively as she closes the door to our room and heads to her wardrobe. She reaches inside and pulls out a hanger, draped in a startling, floor length dress. Pale cream silk with a plunging neckline, she holds it up against herself and I try not to laugh. She almost disappears, the cream dress and her pale white skin merging as one.

  'My opinion is to burn it.' I state honestly. Tia considers my suggestion.

  'Yeah, I didn't think so,' She sighs, carelessly throwing the folds of silk onto her bed. 'I got it a year ago and I've been waiting for an occasion to wear it. But it just doesn't suit me.' She admits, staring tragically out of the window to the darkening grounds below.

  'Okay, so what about this?' She chirrups, pulling out another dress – still floor length, still silk – but instead of looking washed out and barely visible in it, she looks vibrant and vivid in the shocking plum purple. She adds a sheer scarf and I nod my approval, watching her twirl, her legs lean and graceful.

  'And what about you?' She asks, hanging the dress back up in her wardrobe and crossing the rug to mine.

  'What about me?' I frown, sensing danger, like a bloodhound on a scent trail.

  'Honestly, Eve, the First Year Ball is a week tomorrow and you still don't know what you're wearing?!' Tia sighs.

  'Tia,' I roll my eyes, bored of the conversation already. 'I'm not going to the stupid ball.'

  'Don't say that!' She hisses, placing a hand over her heart, the other on my dresser to steady herself. 'Don't be stupid, Eve. It's mandatory.'

  'Mandatory?!' I let my voice rise a few octaves. 'How can a ball be mandatory?'

  'It's the First Year Ball, dummy. Of course every first year is required to attend – as well as Mentors.' Tia yanks open my wardro
be doors, rummaging around amidst my shirts and trousers.

  'We must find you something to wear, you've left it so late!' She cries, her voice muffled from inside the cupboard. 'We don't even have time to think of a date for you to go with...'

  'No, no date.' I insist loudly, stamping my foot on the floor.

  'I just said; we don't have time,' She huffs, throwing random garments out of the wardrobe, yacking in distaste. 'I haven't even been asked yet.' She sighs, pulling her head out of the wardrobe to shoot me a morose look before disappearing back inside.

  'You have no dressy dresses in here.' She observes, climbing out of the wardrobe and surveying the scene as a lost cause.

  'Tia, I don't do 'dressy dresses.'' I remind her, to which she scoffs as if the idea isn't even worth contemplating.

  'Nonsense, you can borrow...' She halts as we both sense it; a presence out in the corridor, nearing our bedroom door. We eye one another, waiting until a light, confident rap on the wood assures us the visitor is destined here.

  Tia prances across the floor to answer it, swinging the door open to reveal a smirking Richard leaning up against the door frame.

  'What are you doing here?' Tia frowns, faltering as Richard eyes her mischievously.