Kingmakers, Year One

29. Dean

29

DEAN

T he last two months at Kingmakers are a living nightmare.

Every day I watch Leo and Anna fall more and more in love.

They go everywhere together, side by side, hand in hand. The whole school could be crumbling down around them, and they wouldn’t notice—they only have eyes for each other.

Anna doesn’t feel when I’m watching her anymore, even when I’m staring at her. She’s lost all sense of anything that isn’t Leo.

And Leo himself is even more insufferable. I hear his laughter echoing across campus, his stupid jokes and the sycophantic response of the friends that cluster around him.

My hatred for him is a living thing that I feed every day.

Every day it grows stronger and more powerful.

I don’t really believe that I can get Anna back. I never really had her to begin with. But there’s one thing I’m determined to do: cut the fucking cancer that is Leo Gallo out of my life.

My grandfather deserves his revenge. So does my father.

Three weeks before the end of term, I call my father on the phone, using the bank of student phones that are only accessible on Saturdays and Sundays.

The phone rings and rings for a long time without answer. He could be meeting with the Pakhan —the Bratva certainly don’t respect the Sabbath. Or he could simply be holed up in his room, refusing to answer.

Just as I’m about to hang up the receiver, I hear him rasp, “What is it?”

“Hello, Father.”

“Dmitry.”

A shiver runs over my skin.

That’s what he always called me. When I came to Kingmakers, I used the name my mother gave me. Perhaps that was a mistake.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” my father says.

I need a reason to call him. There’s no such thing as “chat” between us, no such thing as “checking in.” Certainly not “missing you” or “wanting to hear your voice.” Those are ridiculous Western concepts.

My father is still waiting on the other end of the line.

I take a deep breath and ask him, “What matters more? Honor or revenge?”

There’s a long silence in which I can only hear my father’s breath, which has a hollow, echoing tone. He was an athlete once—a swimmer, a polo player, a runner. Now he gets winded on the stairs.

At last he says, “There is no honor. And there is no revenge.”

I grip the receiver tight in my hand, pressing it against my ear as if that will force him to explain, to give me some sense of direction.

“What, then?” I say desperately. “What am I supposed to be doing?”

Another long silence, and then a sound that I can’t quite believe.

. . . Is my father actually laughing?

His strange, breathy chuckle turns into a cough. “Do you think I know, Dmitry?” he says with deep disdain.

I slam the receiver back down, my face burning.

FUCK my father. He’s weak, I’ve always known that. Weak, broken, and lost.

I won’t be like him.

I won’t look to him any longer.

Only my grandfather had the right idea. What would he do if he were here?

He would do whatever it took to achieve his goal. No matter the risk, no matter the cost.

I can’t plan anything until I know what we’ll be facing in the third challenge. It’s a secret, of course—none of us are supposed to know ahead of time. No one is supposed to have an advantage.

But I can assume that Professor Howell will be organizing it, as he did with the first two challenges.

So for the final weeks of the term, Valon, Bram, and I shadow Professor Howell everywhere he goes. We watch and we wait.

Finally, three days before the competition, I see him begin to make preparations. I follow him as he leaves campus, scouting out locations. And then I trail him again as he goes down below the Armory and begins to fill the scuba tanks.