by Everly Frost
I remind myself that he’s an asshole and a danger to me, but for now, all I want is truth. “Why are you doing this?”
He’s silent. Fixated on a spot on the door. A photo is taped there that is only visible once the door is closed. It looks like a young Striker—maybe only ten years old—standing with an older girl with black hair. She could be an older sister, but other than the color of her hair, I don’t see much resemblance to Striker in her face or eyes, so maybe she’s a nanny.
I try again. “Why are you suddenly helping me?”
His gaze snaps to mine, anger making his tone sharp. “Suddenly? I’ve been helping you since you got here.”
I stare at him, wishing I had the strength to push up on the bed so I could see him better. “Are you kidding me? You’ve shoved me, grabbed me, stolen my food, and knocked me out. You call that helping?”
His jaw clenches so hard, I can see the muscles in his face shift in the lamplight. “Okay, first of all, nobody walks toward a flicker fit and walks away again unscathed—”
He’s referring to the way I stepped toward Joseph last night, right before he shoved me out of the way. Interrupting him, I argue, “You did! You ran straight toward him.”
“Because I’m the only one who can.”
Without giving me time to think about that, he plows on. “Second, if I hadn’t knocked you out this morning, you would have ended up with a broken arm.”
My retort is scathing. “You wouldn’t have gotten close enough to break my arm if you hadn’t pretended to teach me—”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Ms. Hawk. Nobody walks away from the ring on their first day without her breaking a bone. If you’re lucky, it’s just a finger. If you’re unlucky, it’s your leg.”
My stomach sinks. “She does that? Lucinda warned me about her, but—”
“Third, they poison your food for the first twenty-four hours.”
“What?” A shudder runs through me. He destroyed my dinner last night by smooshing it all over my shirt. He stole the coffee Mr. Mallard offered me this morning and then he decorated the floor with my morning tea.
He leans forward, his hands gripping the armrest. “The first twenty-four hours determine whether you live or die. They break you, beat you, and make you puke your guts up. It’s a perfect trifecta of pain, dehydration, and fear that works every time. All newcomers reveal their power.”
I stare at the ceiling. “Not every time. Nothing works for me.”
“You would have died.” He turns away, quiet again, resting back in his chair. He’s quiet for so long, I wish I could read his thoughts.
I dare to ask, “Did they do it to you?”
He breathes out an exhale. “The Headmistress made an exception for me.”
I consider his room and all its extras. Leather desk chair, metal workout bar attached to the ceiling, large desk, lots of books, sound system. My gaze narrows on the electronics and the insignia: Draven Industries. Of course, that’s why his name is familiar. His family owns and runs an electronics company. Sound systems aren’t anywhere near their biggest game. They’re the largest military contractor for weapons production: guns, ammunition, bombs, whatever humans want so they can kill each other.
I can’t keep the scathing tone from my voice. “I take it Daddy made a sizeable donation to the Academy.”
He shakes his head. “Not money. Weapons.”
A confused frown spreads across my face. “Why does the Academy want weapons when they have wands?”
“Not the Academy. The Founder. They call her Lady Tirelli. She runs the underground mob in multiple cities. A lot of humans work for her, so she wants weapons for them. This academy is a blip in her life. She’s never here.”
That would explain why Headmistress Osprey is so drunk on her own power.
My voice sounds too small. “If you weren’t trying to hurt me… why didn’t you just tell me? Give me a warning, you know. I could have played along—”
He’s up and out of his chair in a flash, dragging the line with him. I grab hold of my arm, pressing on the needle’s entry point in case he rips it out.
He leans down over me, one fist on either side of my head, his eyes blazing into mine. “Let’s get something straight, Price. We are not friends. We will never be friends. I might kick you a favor every now and then so I can stick it to this institution, but don’t think for one second I won’t kill you myself if I’m in the mood.”
His gaze is cold and hard, not a flicker of a lie in it.
He means it. He will kill me. There isn’t a shred of doubt in my mind.
My pulse is suddenly hammering, fear striking through me, my chest rising and falling as I suck in air. It has the unwanted effect of shooting his blood around my body far too rapidly and the burning tingles intensify so fast that I jolt. He’s leaning down so close, my chest presses against his for the tiny second that I arch up and the brief contact sends all the wrong signals to my nether regions.
Holy hell, what is his power? Is he some kind of sex god?
I need him gone, away from me, or I’ll do something stupid like kiss him after he threatened to hurt me. I am not that girl. I don’t care that his magic is practically orgasmic. When… if… the day comes that I sleep with someone, it will not be with an aggressive brute like Striker Draven. I shove him away from me, both palms pressed to his broad chest as I sit up, a movement that forces him to step backward.
The fact that I can move again is a good sign. I grab the line in my fist, my teeth clenched as I command him: “Get this out of me. Right now.”
“Glady,” he snarls. His gaze flashes over me and then quickly returns to the line as he works to remove the needle from his arm.
Damn. My bra. Unclasped, it may as well be flapping in the breeze. I don’t have the largest bust in the world, but I’m busty enough that I need coverage. In this case, survival trumps decorum, so I ignore the fact that he’s getting an eyeful right now. Well, he would be if he looked. He’s violent and unpredictable, but he seems to draw the line at out-and-out disrespect of my body.
When he reaches for my arm, I give him all of two seconds to remove the line and tape over the wound. As fast as I can, I grab his blanket and drag it with me, awkwardly clambering down his bed while I wrap it around myself. I only pause when I spy a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors wedged at the end of the bed. I snatch them both before he can stop me, trying not to trip on the blanket while I grab the door handle and wrench it open.
Cold air rushes into the room, making me realize how hot it is in here. A brief glance back reveals a first-aid kit sitting on the floor and an open panel in the far wall where he must hide the kit in the wall cavity—that would have been the clunk I heard when he retrieved it. I want to ask him where he got it, but the sooner I leave, the better.
Striker himself stands with his arms folded across his broad chest, watching me go. “One more thing, Price.”
“What?”
“They’ve been known to enroll fake students.”
I frown at him, poised in the doorway. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. He presses his lips together and steps back into the shadows of his room.
“You can have your blanket back in the morning,” I call as I fully exit the room. “Mine’s not warm enough.” I don’t know it for a fact since I haven’t slept in my bed yet, but the blanket they left me looked far too thin for what I need tonight.
I’m still shaky. I need to rest.
I hurry to my room and close the door, leaning back against it while I rub my eyes. Despite his deadly intent, he didn’t let me die tonight. His motives are confusing in the extreme. What I do know, though, is that when he targets me, there could be a secondary purpose. Poisoned food. Teachers who break arms. Even when he grabbed my shoulder after I killed the harpy…
His comment about fake students is alarming. Did his fingertips move along my wound this morning as if checking that it was real
? Did he suspect that the blood and the story about the harpy was all fake? But for what purpose? To get him—everyone—to trust me? Or feel sorry for me?
It would certainly explain why the other students gave me a cold welcome if they think I’m here to spy on them. Maybe the idea of another Unknown is too farfetched to be believed.
I shake my head as I cross the floor to my bed. Trying to decipher Striker’s intentions is going to drive me to the brink of despair. I have to keep him firmly in the enemy box. I have to keep everyone in the enemy box. They all left me out there in the rain tonight.
My room is much brighter than Striker’s because there aren’t any curtains. Faint flickers of lightning pulse in the distance as I towel dry my hair and pull on clean underwear and pajamas. I hide the duct tape and scissors in the bottom of the closet under my books. The storm is passing and soon the moonlight will stream across my bed.
A sickening, drawing sensation pulls at me as soon as I lie down in it. My stomach squirms as I stare up at the ceiling directly above my bed. A rune has been painted on it in ink that lights up with every lightning strike.
It’s another poultice. A fixed one.
I tip my head over the side of the bed, attempting to see the floor beneath it.
Dammit. A second rune is painted on the floor, directly below the one on the ceiling. It’s supposed to work while I sleep, drawing my power out, but there’s no way I can sleep under it with the crawling sensation it causes under my skin. A quick scan tells me the bed is bolted to the floor so I can’t shift it away from the runes.
I drag myself, both blankets, and my pillow to the far corner of the room where I curl up on the floor beneath the window. Striker’s blanket smells like him—a mix of cedarwood and balsam, oddly calming. He might be dangerous, but the thick blanket is a lifesaver on the hard floor.
I fall asleep, resolving that I’m not giving it back after all.
10. Striker Draven
As soon as Peyton leaves, wrapped up in my blanket clutched across her nearly naked chest, I pace my room like a caged animal. The beast inside me—the one I keep hidden—thrums and claws at my insides, wanting to be released. Growls hum at the back of my throat, my basic instincts nearly overcoming rational thought.
Peyton doesn’t know what her power is. I don’t either, but I know she’s like a flame drawing me closer. Except I won’t be the one who gets burned.
I make it as far as my door before I stop myself.
What am I thinking?
I drop my forehead against the doorframe. I’m thinking about the way she arched her back beneath my palm, the way she didn’t care that her bra was all over the place, the way she planted her hands against my chest and gave me orders. She was so angry with me.
A sudden smile curves my lips. Nobody’s ever dared to be that righteously angry with me before. I’ve experienced aggression, abuse, cruelty, sure, but nobody has ever been so justified in their feelings as she is.
I’ve only known her for two days and already I’ve run the gambit of emotions around her: hate, distrust, apathy, empathy, fear, worry, lust.
The burn behind my eyes tells me that my beast likes her. A little too much. I’m going to have to be careful. The last time I got close to someone, it ended in bloodshed.
The beast’s feelings are expressed as a deep growl in the back of my mind. A smug thought on its part: That situation in your past was different than this. That other girl was not your equal.
That other girl. I stop myself before I think her name—the girl who ripped everything apart and shredded what was left of my heart. The one who proved that loving someone is never worth it. Never.
My fingers curl into fists.
I can’t sleep now.
Throwing on a shirt, I exit my room. I fight the urge to turn in Peyton’s direction, to find an excuse to argue with her again, make her hate me a little more so I can see the fire in her eyes one more time before I fall asleep.
Prowling down the corridor in the opposite direction, I take the stairs quietly in my bare feet. My intention is to roam the perimeter. Now that the storm has abated, the air outside will be fresh and cool; the wild scent of the forest will reach the enclosed space around us and remind me what freedom smells like.
I make it as far as the bottom step on the ground floor before I jolt to a stop.
Quiet voices float from the room directly around the corner—the Founder’s room—which is unusual in itself. That room is always empty.
An all-too familiar female voice reaches me through the partially open door. Her voice is soft and gentle—too gentle—in the way that a predator coaxes its prey into a trap.
Lady Tirelli says, “You nearly killed Peyton today, Isadora.”
Headmistress Osprey’s response is a strained appeasement. “We wouldn’t have let her die, I promise. We were just about to bring her in from the rain—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Lady Tirelli snaps, the anger in her voice like a whiplash. “Or it will be the last thing you do.”
There’s silence inside the room and I picture Headmistress Osprey’s alarmed expression, the flutter of her gaudy fingertips as she folds her arms across her chest, pretending that she’s still in control of this situation. She clears her throat a couple of times, but her voice wobbles when she speaks. “Peyton Price is Unknown. There’s no telling whether she’s even worth our time—”
“The Unknowns are the strongest. Do not underestimate the power they can control.”
Osprey’s response is incredulous. “How do you know that? We don’t even know what they are.”
Lady Tirelli’s voice lowers, soft and deadly now. “Because I sense their power, Isadora. They are as dangerous as I am. You would do well to remember that.”
I’ve never been sure whether Lady Tirelli was human or supernatural. It doesn’t seem to matter. Both races are terrified of her and for good reasons. Anyone who stands in her way—in fact anyone who dares to bother her at all—ends up dead. Usually in a gruesome way.
Headmistress Osprey gulps so loudly that I hear it even from this distance. I picture the nervous sweat breaking across her brow. She’s wise to be afraid.
Lady Tirelli’s voice becomes gentler, but again, she’s like a predator soothing her startled prey. “I can’t afford to lose any more students. Especially not to flicker fits.”
Osprey’s voice is strained. “We do everything we can to make sure they don’t flicker: strenuous daily exercise, continuous spikes in adrenaline, poultices above their beds to absorb sudden power surges while they sleep. We make sure they’re in a constant state of fear. We lost many in the beginning because we were still figuring out what would work. We won’t lose any more.”
“Keeping them alive is only the first half of the equation. They need to control their power.” Lady Tirelli’s response holds hints of frustration. “I want them at their peak, Isadora. They were meant to be my soldiers. I want my army!”
Osprey is quiet for a moment. “Why them? You have hundreds of humans and supernaturals at your beck and call.”
“Because they’re dangerous, but more importantly, they’re expendable. Nobody cares if they die. What’s more, they’ll do anything to survive.”
The Headmistress’s voice is a hoarse whisper. “What do you want me to do?”
“Focus on Striker. I want to know his power.”
I sense the slow shake of Osprey’s head. “We’ve tried everything with Striker.”
“You haven’t.”
Now Osprey sounds confused. “But… we’ve beaten him, hurt him, crowded him, left him alone, given him something to fight for, ripped it away again. Nothing works.”
“Are you sure it hasn’t?”
I fight my flight instinct, jolting with shock. My beast suddenly whispers warnings inside my mind: She knows about me. She knows what we are.
No. I shake my head, trying to convince myself and my beast. She’s asking, not saying.
“He hasn’t f
lickered,” Osprey says. “We’ve seen no signs. Except…”
“Except what?”
“He likes the electric fence.”
Again, I tense. My daily dose of electricity is the only way I control the beast and keep him from revealing himself. They think I’m just batshit aggressive. I’m in trouble if they figure it out.
“Interesting,” Lady Tirelli murmurs. “He doesn’t black out?”
“No.”
“Then it’s a compulsion. A clue to his power. Get Mallard onto it. Find out which powers could be connected to a hunger for electricity. Storm power, maybe. And watch Striker more carefully. The moment you see a hint that might reveal his power, I want to be informed.”
“What about Peyton?”
“As I said, you haven’t tried everything. I’ll be sending The Specialist as soon as he’s finished his current work for me.”
I’ve heard of The Specialist. He’s particularly violent, but I don’t know much about him other than that.
Osprey’s tone of voice tells me she’s cautious. “Are you sure? His methods are extreme. Dangerous… even for us. If you want Peyton alive—”
“Are you afraid?” Lady Tirelli’s response is scathing. “If you’re too afraid to do your job, I’ll replace you with Hadrix.”
“No!” Osprey is indignant. “My work here is far superior to anything Hadrix could have achieved.”
Hadrix is a new name to me. I filter through my memories, trying to remember if my father ever mentioned him, but I come up blank.
“Then you won’t object to enhancing your options,” Lady Tirelli replies smoothly. “The Specialist will arrive as soon as he is available. In the meantime, continue with your current methods.” There’s a pause and I sense a shift in the room, hear the swish of a skirt as if Lady Tirelli just stepped up into Osprey’s face. “Don’t. Kill. Peyton Price.”
“I-I won’t. I promise.”
“Good. I don’t need to tell you how important it is that I have my army. I want their powers, Isadora.”
