Page 35 of Storm of Shadows

“Jeez, Cupcake, what took you so long?” Fly says as I join him back out on the stairwell. “I was beginning to think you’d been chained to the wall.”

“Huh?” I say, my mind still back there in the classroom.

Fly looks at me funny. “I said, what took you so long?”

“I couldn’t find it,” I say, unsure why I’m lying to my new friend, why I’m not telling him about the strange encounter with our new professor. “Come on then,” I say, pulling Fly up the stairs, “all the good food will be gone if we hang around any longer.”

“You’re very food motivated,” he observes.

“You have no idea,” I tell him.

In the canteen, we join the back of a long line. Fly gives me a knowing look.

“By the time we get to the front, all that’s going to be left is crumbs.”

“Sorry,” I say, fingering my pen in my pocket and reliving that strange encounter in the classroom.

I can’t believe our professor – gruff, powerful, grumpy as hell – is Fox Tudor – Slate’s golden boy, the boy who was always quick with a smile, who could make even the most somber of people laugh, who nearly everyone was in love with – young, old, female and male.

I’m still lost in my thoughts, when Fly nudges me on the arm.

“What?” I say. He jerks his chin towards the seating area of the canteen and I see everyone else has fallen quiet and is staring that way too. “What is it?” I whisper to Fly, unable to see what all the fuss is about.

Fly jerks his chin again and this time I realize everyone is staring at a person. One person in particular. He’s not particularly tall and is as skinny as I am but he has the kind of face you only see in paintings – paintings of angels. I kinda understand why everyone is staring his way, but I also don’t get it. Sure, he is beautiful. But he’s not the only one.

“I don’t get it,” I whisper again to Fly, “did he do something or–”

“His collar,” Fly whispers back.

His collar?

My gaze drops to his neck and sure enough he wears a band around his throat. Although I’d hardly describe it as a collar – more like a choker crafted from golden silk.

“It’s very pretty …” I murmur, although I still don’t understand why that is causing everyone to stare.

The boy walks through the canteen, seemingly oblivious to everyone’s staring, his head held high, a little entourage scuttling along behind him.

Fly watches him exit the building, then drags his eyes back to me. He looks at me.

“You don’t know what that was, do you?” His brow crinkles. “I still don’t get how you’re so clueless about all this.” I shrug. Maybe I would know if my sister had come home. If she’d sentme more letters. All I do know are the bits and pieces I learned from Muriel and most of that focused on the hardship and pain. Two of Muriel’s most favorite subjects. “It’s a thrall collar,” Fly says.

I guess Amelia was selective about the information she did send me.

“A what?” I say, an unease rumbling through my body.

“A collar given to a thrall by their protectors. It symbolizes they are taken and, more importantly,” he says, giving me a knowing look, “protected.”

“That is really sick,” I say, frowning. I knew the realm and the system were messed up. I knew the academy wouldn’t be fair – that it would be biased and corrupted. That the shadow weavers would live in luxury while the rest of us slummed it. I guess I had no idea just how twisted it would be.

“He didn’t seem too unhappy about it,” Fly says longingly. “He seemed to be reaping the benefits.”

“I’m not some possession a group of over-privileged boys gets to own!” I spit out. Fly’s eyes go wide as if I’ve said something truly outrageous. “Just because they grew up somewhere special, just because they can do a few magic tricks, just because they’re quite pretty to look at, they think they can stroll around with sticks up their asses treating everyone else like dirt and acting like giant assholes and obnoxious dicks.” Fly lifts his eyebrows at me and glances over my head. “What?” I say, irritated that my new friend doesn’t seem to agree with me. “They are and I’d rather eat pig shit than have anything to do with them.”

“Erm, Cupcake …” Fly splutters, pointing as inconspicuously as he can behind me.

I peer over my shoulder and right at the broad chest of a shadow weaver. My cheeks burn as I lift my gaze into the pissed-off face of Beaufort Lincoln.

“Cupcake?” he spits in disgust.