Kingmakers, Year Two

5. Miles

5

MILES

I ’m making the long and tedious walk from the library back to my dorm when someone says, “Stop!”

That’s strange, because there’s no one around to say “Stop.” There’s no one around me at all. It’s the middle of second period, and all the students are safely ensconced in their classes.

I’m supposed to be annotating a territory contract with Ozzy. We had all our legal textbooks spread out on the table all around us, ready to hunt down every last consideration and clause, until Ozzy realized he forgot the actual fucking document in our dorm.

I volunteered to retrieve it because Ozzy is highly distractible. If I waited for him to do it, I doubt he’d ever return. I’d find him fo ur hours later vaping behind the ice house or lurking around the Solar to chat up some girl.

And now here I am distracted myself by the inexplicable sound of someone saying “Stop.”

After glancing in all directions, there’s nowhere to look but up.

I see a flutter of movement high on the ramparts—something dark that could be a scrap of fabric or the wing of a bird.

But birds don’t say “Stop.”

So I find myself pushing through the orange trees, finding the hidden staircase that leads up through the wall.

I’m nosy as fuck, I always have been.

In my line of work, information is currency. I have to know everything that’s going on around me at all times. What people need. Why they need it. And how I can get it for them.

I climb to the top of the wall with a sense of curiosity and helpfulness. I’m always helpful, for the right price.

When I peek my head up, I find an unpleasant tableau.

A girl, held in place by three boys.

Not willingly .

It’s difficult to see from this angle, but the one closest to me has to be Wade Dyer. Nobody else has that college quarterback build and that Boy Scout haircut. He shifts slightly. Then I see that the dark-haired guy—the one holding the knife—is Rocco Prince.

Which means the girl can only be Zoe Romero.

I’d call Zoe more of an acquaintance than a friend. She’s a little too serious for my taste. Not that I can blame her—it’s hard to be cheerful when you’re engaged to a psychopath.

A psychopath who apparently likes to drag her up on a wall and cut her shirt open.

I watch as Rocco slashes the shirt apart with four quick cuts of his knife. Then he cuts her bra off, too.

My muscles tense and the little hairs stand up on my arms. I really don’t like this shit. There’s nothing bold about three guys ganging up on a girl to cut her clothes off. It’s weak and gutless. It disgusts me.

On the other hand, I’m not the hero type and Zoe isn’t my responsibility. Yes, she’s friends with Anna. But Anna can’t get Zoe out of the bear trap of her engagement, and neither can I. Whether Rocco does this today, tomorrow, or on their wedding night, it’s pretty much inevitable.

I consider turning around and descending the stairs again. That would be the smart thing to do. But something holds me in pla ce, transfixed despite the queasy churning in my stomach.

Maybe it’s the way Zoe stares them down, standing as tall as she can with her arms pinned at her sides. Ignoring the blood running down the side of her face.

She’s tough, I’ll give her that.

Apparently with Rocco’s permission, Wade starts groping Zoe’s tits.

Well, that’s surprising. Looks like Rocco is both kinky and fucked in the head. If I were getting married, which I’m not, I’d break every bone in Wade’s hands before I’d let him touch my fiancée.

The rational part of my brain makes that observation, while the irrational part feels a surging, boiling rage.

Zoe’s not my fiancée. She’s nobody to me. All I should feel is pity for her.

And yet anger bubbles up inside of me, hot and insistent, telling me I should break Wade’s hands regardless, and shatter his arms for good measure.

I watch him touch Zoe and it’s like watching a gorilla manhandle the Venus de Milo. It’s obscene for a fucking animal like that to touch what is, objectively speaking, a perfectly sculpted body. Have some fucking respect .

Wade lets go of Zoe and I tell myself to calm the fuck down. This has nothing to do with me.

Jasper Webb stands on the other side of Zoe, not touching her but definitely helping to hold her down. I can’t see his face as clearly as the other three because his long hair is hanging over his eyes. He doesn’t seem to be enjoying this quite as much as that shit-stain Wade.

Wade, Rocco, and Jasper are not people I want as enemies. Each of them is connected, well-liked—in Rocco’s case mostly by fellow sadists, but the point still stands—and from a powerful family. I’m not scared of conflict, but in my own family I’ve seen the disastrous consequences of starting a feud. The endless cycle of reprisals can trickle down for generations.

I should walk away.

I think it’s over anyway. Wade stopped groping Zoe. Jasper doesn’t seem interested. They’ll probably let her go.

That’s what I think until Rocco lunges at Zoe, and she turns and leaps over the wall.

I watch it happen in slow motion. She whirls around, lifting her foot and planting it firmly in the indent between the crenellations. She pushes off with all her might, intending to swan dive off the cliff, to plummet some five hundred feet to the rock-strewn water below .

Her dark hair streams behind her like a banner, and there’s a look of reckless abandon on her face, a wild determination that is instantly, painfully familiar to me.

It reminds me of my mother.

My mother would jump off a cliff if she had to. And she’d probably drag Rocco over with her.

I’m in motion before I’ve even registered what’s happening. I’m running without thought or decision.

I’m too far away to help Zoe, yet I sprint toward her, desperately reaching out though I know it’s too late.

It’s Jasper who saves her. He grabs her ankle in both hands. The force of Zoe’s fall yanks him forward so he almost tumbles over the wall too, until I grab him around the waist and drag him backward.

Now we’re a jumbled mass of hands and arms, Wade Dyer joining in, grabbing Zoe’s other leg and helping to haul her back over the ramparts.

Not Rocco, though. He stands watching.

Zoe is limp and pale, whether from shock or because she hit her head against the wall. Blood streams from her nose as well as the right side of her face. She can’t stand—her legs collapse beneath her. I try to hold her up, while simultaneously pulling her shirt closed in the front .

Jasper steps back, looking pale and sick himself.

Wade’s eyes dart between me and Rocco as he waits for instructions.

Rocco steps forward, lifting his slim, white hands like he intends to take Zoe from me.

I tighten my arms around her shoulders and pull her back out of reach.

“Don’t,” I growl. “Don’t touch her.”

“What do you mean?” Rocco says, smiling at me. “That’s my fiancée, you know.”

While the rest of us are sweating and breathing hard, Rocco looks as fresh as a daisy. You’d never know he’d witnessed a near-suicide, let alone driven a girl to do it.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” I say again, keeping my eyes fixed on his so he knows I mean it. “I’m taking her to the infirmary.”

Rocco’s smile is fading, his expression hardening like concrete. His eyes dart between me and the dazed, bloody girl lolling against me.

He looks like a child who’s had his lollipop snatched away.

“Be careful, Miles,” he says.

He’s not talking about Zoe. He’s warning me not to fuck with him .

I don’t care. Right now all I can think about is Zoe’s rope of dark hair laying over my shoulder, and her heart beating so hard against my arm that I’m afraid it might burst.

I start backing away slowly. I’m taking Zoe back down through the door closest to the Library Tower, because it’s near to the infirmary and I don’t think Jasper will stop me, whereas Wade is blocking the path to the orange grove stairs, arms folded over his chest. Wade looks almost as irritated as Rocco, his handsome face sulky and spoiling for a fight.

The space between us feels like a fragile pane of ice.

The slightest tap will shatter it.

I keep backing up, step by step.

Rocco stays exactly where he is.

He’s not trying to stop me. But I can tell from the look on his face that he’s very, very angry.

The infirmary is a long, low building close to the library. Dr. Cross has his apartment at one end, and then there’s an open area with several beds, an industrial sink, and glass-fronted cabinets full of medical supplies.

Right now the only other patient is a skinny Sophomore who apparently sprained his wrist in Combat class. Dr. Cross has just f inished wrapping up the wrist. When he spots me carrying Zoe through the door, he unceremoniously tells the kid to get back to class.

“Can’t I rest a while?” the kid says, looking none too eager to leave the peace and quiet of the spotless infirmary.

“Rest in your dorm,” Dr. Cross croaks at him. “This isn’t a lounge.”

“Can I get some kind of a doctor’s note?” the kid says. “How am I supposed to write papers? I’m left-handed.”

He holds up his bandaged left arm awkwardly, as if it’s been turned to wood.

“It’s quite possible to become ambidextrous with practice,” Dr. Cross says unsympathetically. “Now get out.”

The kid scoots off the bed, scowling.

“What’s going on here?” Dr. Cross frowns, peering at Zoe with her bloodied face and torn shirt.

I took off my sweater vest and covered her up as best I could, but it’s still obvious that the blouse beneath has been slashed to ribbons.

“She fell on the ramparts,” I tell him. “I think she hit her head. ”

I’m not about to tell Dr. Cross what really happened. It’s up to Zoe if she wants to make a formal complaint to the Chancellor.

In response to the rigid rules of Kingmakers, the students keep a code of silence. We don’t rat each other out except in the most extreme circumstances.

Dr. Cross glares at me suspiciously. Doubtless he’s heard a thousand excuses from injured students. Mine is especially weak.

“Lay her down here.” He points to a fresh bed. “You can leave her with me.”

That’s what I’d planned to do. I was going to drop her off and get back to the library. But as I carefully set Zoe down on the narrow mattress and lay her head on the pillow, I find myself not wanting to abandon her so quickly.

“I don’t think she should be alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Dr. Cross regards me from under shaggy gray brows as thick as caterpillars.

“No offense, Doc,” I say, giving him a wink, “But would you want to wake up to yourself? I think she should see a friendly face.”

Dr. Cross snorts .

“Keep out of the way, and you can stay,” he says, re-washing his gnarled hands at the sink.

With surprising gentleness, he washes the blood off Zoe’s face and examines the cut next to her eye.

“Puncture wound,” he mutters, as if to himself. “Clean, at least.”

Apparently deciding it doesn’t require stitches, he disinfects the cut, then covers it with surgical tape.

He carefully feels her skull all over, as if he’s a phrenologist. Finding a lump above her right ear, he checks her pupils for signs of concussion.

By this point, Zoe is coming around. She still looks dazed, but she doesn’t cry or try to speak. She lays quiet until Dr. Cross is satisfied.

“Here.” He takes a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge, and handing it to me along with a straw. “Give her this if she wants it.” Then to Zoe he says, “Is this delinquent a friend of yours?”

Zoe turns her gaze on me, still hazy and unfocused. After a long moment, she nods.

“You can stay for ten minutes,” Dr. Cross tells me. “Then get out of here so she ca n take a nap.”

He shuffles back to his apartment, closing the door behind him.

I sit next to Zoe’s bed, feeling awkward and out of place. We’ve never been alone together under normal circumstances, let alone in a moment like this.

I’m not even sure why I stayed. To check in with her? To comfort her? Both ideas seem ridiculous.

Zoe watches me silently. The sharpness has come back to her stare. She has green eyes, unusual for someone with such black hair. She has a lot of unusual features. Eyebrows and lashes so dark that they looked painted in ink. A straight, imperious nose, like an empress. A wide, full mouth. There’s an elegance to her face that makes her look older than her age, but also timeless and eternal.

“You don’t have to stay,” she says.

Her voice is clear and steady. No quivering, no sobs.

“I don’t know about that.”

She frowns slightly, a single vertical line appearing between her dark brows. “What does that mean?”

“I saw you jump…I guess I’m worried you might do something like that aga in.”

Those green eyes go cloudy once more, this time with anger instead of confusion.

“It’s none of your business whether I do or don’t,” she says coldly.

“Maybe not.” I shrug. “Still, I feel invested.”

“Ah,” she says, mockingly. “I know how much your investments mean to you. But I’m afraid this one won’t pay off.”

She surprised me with that one. I laugh a little. “What do you know about my investments?”

“That’s why you’re always passing little packets back and forth all over campus, isn’t it,” Zoe says, steady and unblinking. “You don’t work for the hell of it—I’ve seen your grades. You must be saving for something.”

I don’t know if I’ve ever been speechless before.

“Zoe . . .” A smile tugs at my lips. “Are you stalking me?”

Now she can’t help smiling back just a little, though she doesn’t want to.

“You’re the one that followed me up on the wall. What were you doing up there?”

“Just passing by.”

Coolly she says, “I’m not going to thank you.”

“I wouldn’t really deserve it—it was Jasper who caught you.”

Her upper lip draws up in a snarl, showing sharp white teeth. She gives an impatient shake of her head.

“I won’t be thanking him either.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence while the unspoken weight of Rocco Prince hangs over us.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

It’s simultaneously a pathetic, meaningless statement, but also the only thing I can say to her. The only way to express my sympathy for her tragic situation.

“Don’t pity me.”

Again I see that fire in her eyes. That spark of rebellion that drove her to leap off a cliff rather than let Rocco put his hands on her.

“You know,” I say, “I always thought you were a Mozart kinda girl. That was pretty fuckin’ metal.”

“That impresses you?” Zoe raises a soot-black eyebrow. “Jumping off a cliff?”

“I mean . . . yeah. Assuming you survive.” I swallow hard, looking at her closely. “You are gonna survive, aren’t you, Zoe?”

She’s silent for a moment, then she lets out a sigh .

“Yeah,” she says. “For now.”

It’s the closest thing to a promise I’m going to get out of her.

And besides, who am I to make her swear she won’t try to kill herself again?

I might do the same if I had to marry that walking corpse Rocco Prince.