Page 57 of Shattered Stars

“Yes,” he says, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“You’re ready to go?”

“Yeah.” He steps towards me, taking no notice of the sobbing that grows suddenly louder.

“Would you like to say some words before you go?” Principal York asks him.

He glances over his shoulder at her and shakes his head.

“Well, let me at least say some on your behalf. You have been a great asset to this academy, one of the best dueling players I’m sure this college will ever see. I know you will make an excellent soldier ….”

The principal’s words fade in my ears. I’m too busy examining the boy; the slight sag to his shoulders. No grin hovering on his face. How did I expect to find him? Jubilant? Excited? Showing off to all his little friends?

But he’s not. He’s quiet, resigned. He doesn’t look like the player who just won the academy the Cross-lantic cup.

The principal finishes her little speech and those around her clap, then his team mates are stepping forward to slap his shoulder and wish him luck, the girls next, flinging their arms around his neck and begging him not to go.

It’s my cousin who steps forward last, after the others have all shuffled away, one girl crying so hard she has to be supported upright by two of her friends.

He rests his hand on his friend’s shoulder and meets his eye. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

The Moreau boy manages a half smile. “I always do, man.”

“I’ll see you, then.”

“Yeah.”

Tristan turns away, catching my eye for a moment, and then I motion with my head for the Moreau boy to follow me.

He settles himself on his bike and I rev the engine, waiting for him to do the same. He lifts his hand in salute to the crowd of farewell wishers and several wave back. Then we’re winding down the drive, the boy riding by my side, several of his team mates and those girls chasing us until we’re well away, lost in the lonely country lanes.

19

Spencer

We ride through mostof the day, the towns we pass through becoming dirtier and more decrepit the further we drive from Los Magicos; the shops on the high streets all boarded up; half-built tower blocks crumbling by the roadside; rusting machinery abandoned in fields. As the sun sets in the distance, the enforcer pulls us up outside a boarding house, no curtains hanging in the windows, the light bulbs bare. It’s more run-down looking than the dorm building the pig girl was staying in.

I look down at my hand as the thought of her enters my mind for at least the one millionth time this afternoon. I can still feel the traces of electricity tingling across my skin where she touched me.

I didn’t expect her to come. I didn’t think she would. But she had. And she’d let me go. Said goodbye and let me walk away.

All my suspicions confirmed.

The man in black talks to an old woman at the door, then hisses to me as she leads us through to a kitchen, spotless despite its meager stores and basic equipment.

“This may not live up to your usual standards but you’re polite, all right, and fucking thankful.”

I give him a stare, not saying a word as I drop into the seat the old woman motions towards, and thanking her for the glass of cloudy water she places in front of me.

She serves us some stew that looks worse than dog food but tastes pretty decent and then she leaves us alone. The enforcer doesn’t speak to me, eating in silence as he scrolls through his phone.

I try not to, but I can’t drag my gaze from his face.

She belongs to him. That’s what she told me. She’s his fated mate and whatever the hell Tristan Kennedy is up to, nothing can change that fact.

I try to imagine them together – the enforcer and the pig girl. His large hands around her tiny waist, her milky thighs open for him, his rough mouth on her tender …

“Is there something you want to ask me?” the enforcer says, not looking up from his phone.