Page 30 of Storm of Shadows

“No,” he says simply. “I don’t really belong there. My two elder brothers – they’re these massive, talented jocks – both captains in the army now. My dad’s a major general. My mom an ex-athlete. They belong there. I don’t fit in. Granite would suit me better.”

“You don’t fancy Slate?” I tease.

“Tell me about Slate,” he says, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. I describe it as best as I can. The cold, the misery, the hopelessness. “Yeah,” Fly says. “I’ll give that a miss. Where do you hope to end up?”

“Me?” I scoff. “I’m not delusional. I know where I’m headed. Straight back to Slate.”

“You might–”

“No, I won’t. I know how the system works.”

Fly’s silent for a while after that, watching me eat, then he asks me the dreaded question, one I was hoping I could avoid. “How about your family?”

“What about them?”

“I don’t know. What do your parents do? Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“I have a dad … and a stepmom.”

I don’t tell him about Amelia. It’s too painful. I don’t want him looking at me with sympathy in his eyes. And if I’m honest, as lovely as Fly seems, I don’t know who I can trust. What happened to Amelia is a secret I intend to guard.

After I’ve eaten so much food my belly is actually bulging, we walk back through the campus towards our rooms. Music plays out from somewhere above us and laughter spills out from some of the towers.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go exploring?” I shake my head. Fly glances up at the clock tower. It’s ten minutes to seven. “And you’re really not going to go meet Beaufort?”

“Nope,” I say, reaching the bottom of our staircase. “I’m going straight to bed.”

Chapter Fifteen

Beaufort

The shadow weaver common room at the Firestone Academy is something of legends back in Onyx Quarter and I have to admit the place does live up to the hype. The room sits right at the top of one of the towers and once upon a time was an observatory for stargazing before our kind claimed it as our own. The glass roof and large panoramic windows still exist though, lending views over the entire academy and out over the land beyond. Inside, a large fire roars in a central fireplace, velvet armchairs and chaises are scattered around and golden chandeliers provide flickering candle light. Below our feet, smooth black onyx covers the floor, reflecting back the light.

Nearly all the shadow weavers are here tonight for the inaugural party, all draped in their finest clothes from home with a lot of skin on show. Most of the men wear their shirts unbuttoned nearly to their navels and several of the girls are dressed in skimpy dresses that leave nothing to the imagination.

I search the crowd. Thorne won’t be here. He never comes to events like these. Dray went out running this evening, but hemust be here somewhere. He wouldn’t miss a party if his life depended on it.

In fact, in the next moment, my bond brother is bounding up to me, usual manic smile pinned on his face. He’s always in a good mood after a run. The sulk from the day before is over.

“Want a drink?” he asks me, slapping me on the shoulder and motioning to the bar in the corner, a collection of multicolored bottles set out for us to help ourselves.

“Sure,” I say.

We step that way, and Dray proceeds to unscrew each bottle, sniffing the contents until he finds one he likes and pours a slug into one glass and then another. He hands me his and then clinks his glass against mine.

“Is it me,” he says, bouncing on his toes, eyes scanning hungrily over the small crowd of people, “or did everyone just get a whole lot hotter? Did you see Elaine? Man, her tits. They must have doubled in size since we last saw her.” He shakes his head.

I follow his gaze. He’s right. Everyone did get a lot hotter. Filled out in all the right places. Tightened up in others. However, I’m not interested. Which is damn strange. I’m not like Thorne. I’ve always been as keen as Dray to sample the goods offered up to me on a plate – especially when the goods offered are so damn hot and so fucking tasty.

But tonight, there’s no spark of arousal, no desire to go out and hunt down pussy.

No, none of the women here pique my interest.

Not in the way the Slate girl does.

The Slate girl who failed to turn up at our room as I commanded.

I grip the glass tightly in my fist and take a slug of my drink, the alcohol stinging the back of my throat and warming my gullet.