Page 35

And I know what is happening now. I know the horror of the University and what they are trying to do.

They do not want us all to graduate. They will only take the best. And everyone else, and every member of their family, will be culled. Culled to make room in the tight and overcrowded city.

“Now, now,” the dean says, in a tone that confirms my musings and his apathy. “You’ve had a long day, Mr Shaw. A long day. And you’ve done well. You’ve passed the first trial. You wouldn’t want to jeopardise that with your anxious ramblings.”

He pats Leo’s shoulder, and Leo reacts slowly; a sad understanding blossoms on his face. His eyes are wide, like he’s scared, but there’s a fury in the quiver of his lip. He won’t bite off the dean’s hand after that threat.

But someone else does. I see a young man break away from the crowd. A xenos, bleeding from a cut on his face, left arm swollen beyond belief. He screams, some primal and sorrowful cry, and launches himself at the dean.

Leo sidesteps. I expect to see the dean run, or sprawl upon impact. But he whistles once, and out from the bend two Blood Hunters move to flank him. One draws a gun. A shot rings out.

Bodily, the boy crumples to the ground.

All of us are silent. The Blood Hunters swoop in and soundlessly pick up the corpse. In my haze, I wonder where the other bodies are, how many of them were lost, whether the teras ate them. I wonder what they tell the families.

Have I ever seen a funeral in London for the victims of the University?

When the Blood Hunters turn a corner, the spell is broken. Everyone is uneasy and quiet.

The dean steps away from Leo as if nothing happened, and goes to hover by the bend in the hall. Leo stands there, staring into space for a moment longer, before he drops his shoulders and collapses his head against the wall.

A few students watch him; Londoners, mostly. But most people seem caught up in their own shocked revelations to pay him any mind. I have one petty moment to reflect on their complete loss of bravado and confidence. For once, I feel all of us are on an equal playing field. But that won’t last.

This was the first trial. Of how many?

I stop before my stomach can sink and go to him. Something about Leo Shaw lures me in. I want to touch his shoulder but stop myself. Leo is bruised. His hair is awry; he had to fight in that room, just like I had. Even with his experience, it wasn’t easy.

“Are you alright?”

“Doing swimmingly, Mr Jones. How are you?” He turns to me with a sad smile and we look at each other, and I know without asking that it is okay to touch him. I do. I put my hand on his shoulder, and I suddenly have no words. I am exhausted.

Maybe it isn’t Leo, but the touch of another human after I’d come so close to death, but when he turns and puts his own hand on my shoulder, I feel alive again.

Then I look at him and turn so my back is against the wall beside him.

“Whoever makes it through will be either very lucky or very skilled,” I say.

Which is the point, of course. Just because most Londoners were raised by graduates, it means nothing until they’ve faced a teras. Until they can prove they’re useful to this place, in defending London itself, why should anyone be given the safety of the wards?

“There is no reverence to death anywhere,” Leo whispers to me. “Do you know how disappointing that is?”

I think about how to reply. I want to tell him I agree, but maybe I am past all that. Maybe I lost the ability to feel the depth of that years ago. London is a political minefield. I shouldn’t have been surprised that the University has teras on campus.

Something catches my eye.

“Oh, Christ,” I say, launching myself away. Leo follows behind. Bellamy emerges from one of the closed doors along the hall. He is bloody and limping, with one arm slung around Victoria’s neck. She is battered, too, with a large cut on her cheek that has been hastily patched. “Bellamy,” I mutter, gingerly touching the other man’s cheek. “Are you—”

“Where is he?” Bellamy growls. He shoves passed me and limps out into the hall, scanning desperately. When he spots the dean, his face twists. “You!”

I run in front, blocking his view with splayed arms. “Don’t. Hey!” I block Bellamy’s next obscene gesture. “Listen. They just killed a man. Shot him down. Don’t. He’ll only be amused, Bellamy, because this is how the University has run for years.”

Bellamy turns his death glare to me and sneers. He opens his mouth—and says nothing. I am right. They all know it. He looks at me, and I see reflected the same pain in Victoria’s eyes.

Our families have sent us knowing how easily we can die.

Bellamy crumples against Victoria, who gives a soft whimper of her own. She seems to be in shock and is staring distantly through one of the stained-glass windows as she leads Bellamy to the long seat beneath it.

It looks like a pew, and when they sit beneath the orangey haze of the coloured light, they are like followers of Christ in mourning. They weep, and in weeping, they mourn the death of the son of God and with him compassion and all things good. I pray when I see it, but I cannot pray earnestly. I have forgiven God for too long for the horror of this world. I thought London was a bastion he orchestrated.