I stalked into my room, and came to a halt. Matthew was almost done re-packing his suitcases.
“Going somewhere, Paladin?” Fucker didn’t even have the brains to know that his codename was already taken by an active Cape. He’d be sued to an inch of his life if he tried to use the name after graduation.
Unlike the other first-years, his face didn’t ooze hate, but his blue eyes were opaque. “I asked for and received dispensation to switch rooms.”
“I didn’t know they let cowards become Capes.”
He started to say something, then swallowed it back down, tossing the last stack of perfectly folded clothes into his suitcase and zipping it closed. “You shouldn’t be here. Maybe you’re trying to make some sort of point, but there are twenty-plus other Powers in our class whose careers and lives will depend on what they learn over the next three years. It’s bad enough that you might turn those years into a sideshow, but once we graduate? Whatever sort of distraction you were during our training will get some of us killed.” His voice was matter-of-fact. That almost made it worse.
Before I could respond, he pulled both suitcases off the bed, and was out the door.
Possible upside: I had a huge dorm room to myself.
Unavoidable downside: The only first-year I’d met so far who didn’t hate me was Alan Jackson. And it wasn’t so much that he didn’t hate me but that he seemed to hate everyone else just as much.
If the stew hadn’t been so tasty… I’m pretty sure I’d have quit that very night.
Some people probably still wish I had.
•—•—•
While I heard the occasional first-year walking down the hall as the night went on—presumably coming back to dream their little Cape dreams of purity and perfect tans—nobody bothered me. By midnight, I’d gotten tired of re-reading the Academy handbook—I still hadn’t found any rules against murdering your fellow classmates, so either it wasn’t illegal, or they’d assumed the prohibition went without saying—and decided to go to sleep.
As if that had been a signal, the door opened. One glance told me I should have stolen a chainsaw instead of a steak knife.
He was almost as big as Alan Jackson, his skin so black that it blended into the thick, bushy beard that covered his face from cheeks to mid-chest. What kind of an eighteen-year-old had a full beard?
Maybe he was part bear. Tessa had said there was another Shifter.
Instead of decapitating me with a single paw, he brought in a large suitcase and gave me a level look. “You the Crow?” Even his voice was big, deep enough that I could feel it in my bones.
I nodded.
He tossed the suitcase onto his bed like it weighed nothing at all. “Touch my stuff and I’ll tear your arms off.”
At Mama Rawlins’, I’d made a habit of sticking up for the little guy… but this was the first time in a long while that I was the little guy. I scowled. “You all need to get your stories straight. Either I’m a thief or I’m a murderer. I refuse to be both.”
He shook his head. “Whatever. Warning stands.”
Twenty minutes later, he was asleep.
I thought about stealing his suitcase and burying it somewhere even his bear nose wouldn’t find it. The dumpsters behind the cafeteria, maybe? Instead, I tucked the steak knife under my pillow, wrapped one hand tightly around its fiberglass handle, and waited for sleep or my enemies to come.
Her Majesty would have approved.
CHAPTER 16
I’m not sure what Orientation was like for the regular students. From the brief glimpse I had of the field where it took place, it seemed to involve a lot of singing and laughing.
The twenty-four first-years of the Cape training program got an auditorium.
Those of you who’ve kept your brains functioning better than the rest might remember Bard saying there would be twenty-five of us, including me. Yeah, the school year hadn’t even started yet, and we’d already lost a first-year. My fault, though I didn’t know it at the time.
Anyway, while I’d have preferred the party the normals got, the auditorium we’d been herded into was nice enough; fifteen rows of comfortable, tiered seats like I’d seen in arena vids. There was a wide stage at the bottom with a podium and a row of empty chairs atop it, and the ceiling above us was vaulted and dotted with lights. Our class barely made a dent in a space that could have comfortably seated a hundred or more students—and frequently did during the school year.
Maybe other classes would have neatly filled the first few rows, leaving row upon row of empty seats behind them, but even at the start, our class was fracturing into cliques. There was a clump of students a few rows from the front, another clump in the back, a handful of women in the very first row, and then, all the way to the left, with three rows and multiple chairs between each of us, me, Alan Jackson, and the young woman I quickly identified as our High-Four Pyro, Ishmae Naser.
Whereas most of the students were dressed in normal streetwear, and I had on another set of school sweatpants along with one of the tees I’d brought from Bakersfield, Ishmae was draped in robes; multiple layers of crimson and golden cloth that concealed every inch of her small form. Only her head was bare, her brown skin smooth and hairless, her face dominated by enormous, almond-shaped eyes. Those eyes had examined each of us upon entry, dismissed us almost as quickly, and were now fixed upon the stage below. She looked exotic—like some sort of strange bird from one of the forgotten islands—and driven. She also looked more than a little self-conscious, and very, very young.
I had finished my own examination of the rest of the class—many of whom had arrived after I’d gone to
