Kingmakers, Year Two

6. Cat

6

CAT

M y classes are a nightmare.

Each is worse than the one before.

The professors are harsh and impatient. They expect us to know things that I’ve never even imagined, let alone studied in detail.

The students who come to Kingmakers are the ones raised to the mafia life. They’ve been fighting, shooting, and scheming since they graduated from diapers. They learned the history of their ancestors at their grandparents’ knees. They always knew what role they’d take in their organization.

I’m the only one plucked out of art school and chucked into the den of lions, ignorant as a newborn babe .

I know this is partly my fault. Zoe paid attention to what our father was doing. I preferred to stay in my room, painting and drawing, or sometimes sneaking down to the kitchen to help our cook make paella and crema catalana.

I loved our house staff. Our cook Celia was gruff but a patient teacher, explaining how to add saffron to the paella to give the rice color and flavor. Our maid Lucia was young and gentle. She used to sneak me magazines so I could look at pictures of party dresses, until Daniela caught our father looking at Lucia one too many times and fired her on the spot.

I’m terrified of every adult at Kingmakers, from the burly grounds crew, to the tattooed kitchen staff, to the professors with their wealth of sinister knowledge.

Worst of all is the Chancellor Luther Hugo. I saw him when he called us all to the Grand Hall to announce the terms of this year’s Quartum Bellum . He stood before the roaring fireplace, the wild flames behind his dark, imposing figure making him look like the devil himself risen up from the ground.

He reminded us of our duty to our families, the stakes of our future careers in the criminal world, and the dire consequences if we dared to step one toe out of line at Kingmakers.

I could swear his coal-black eyes were boring into me the entire time. His face looked as wrinkled as old leather, but those eyes were agelessly bright .

“Remember,” he said, staring into my soul. “Every choice sets the table. Sooner or later, we all sit down to a banquet of consequences.”

I think if he ordered me to jump into the fire behind him, I might have done it. That’s how much that man terrifies me.

The information that followed was no more cheering.

The Chancellor explained that the Quartum Bellum , or “War of Four,” is an annual battle between the Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors. It’s an elimination tournament with three separate stages.

Every student participates—mandatory, no excuses.

I was already wondering if I could use the newfound information acquired in my Chemistry class to give myself a convenient case of food poisoning.

I waited until the Chancellor dismissed us before I squeaked to Perry, “How do they expect us to compete against Seniors? Or Juniors or Sophomores, for that matter.”

“They don’t.” Perry shrugged. “You’re just supposed to try. Nobody thinks we’ll win.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Lyman Landry told her. “The Freshmen did win last year, for the very first time.”

“How?” Perry demanded .

“Leo Gallo,” Lyman said, his broad, earnest face shining with admiration. “He was the Captain. He’s a fucking champion. A god, even. He’ll win again this year, you’ll see.”

“A god,” Perry snorted, rolling her eyes.

I could feel myself blushing, because I had met Leo Gallo at breakfast, my very first morning at Kingmakers. He did look like a god. I’ve never seen someone so handsome—tall, deeply-tanned, with amber-colored eyes and a smile brighter than the sun.

Of course I’d never dare have a crush on him. He’s dating Anna Wilk, a moon goddess in her own right, as dark and mysterious as Leo is bright and blinding.

He was kind to me. So was Anna.

I wish I could say the same for my classmates. I haven’t made a single friend, other than Perry, who barely shares any classes with me.

Most of my classes are with Spies and Enforcers. I don’t know which is worse. The Spies are ruthless, sarcastic, and disdainful. The Enforcers are mostly hot-heads and bullies, the type of jocks who don’t just want to win, they want to fucking destroy you.

I hate Combat class most of all. As soon as we face off against our opponents, I can see the change come over my classmates. Their pupils dilate, they crouch down low, their breathing slows. That’s how a predator prepares to attack.

My body chooses flight over fight. My heart rate quadruples in speed and my muscles scream at me to RUN RUN RUN, so all I can do is raise my hands in surrender, to duck and cringe.

I’ve been knocked out twice already.

The first time was by a heavyset Enforcer who looked utterly bewildered when I woke up staring up at him from the mat.

“You didn’t even try to block my punch,” he said, shaking his head in bemusement.

The second time happened today, courtesy of my very own roommate Rakel. It felt a lot more personal. Anytime she and I get left without partners, I can see her boiling fury that anyone might think she’s equally as undesirable as me. She put me in a headlock within five seconds and ignored my hand desperately tapping on her shoulder, begging her to let go.

I woke up face-down on the mats, blood gushing out of my nose.

“A tap-out means you stop,” Professor Howell informs her sternly. He’s only a few inches taller than me, but he’s lean and fit and faster than a jackrabbit. When he’s in a good mood, he’s one of the more pleasant professors. But when you cross him, he fixes you with a black stare that could curdle milk.

“I didn’t feel her tapping,” Rakel says, insolent and unrepentant. Even amongst the Spies, Rakel has a perpetual scowl that has made her barely any more popular than me.

“You’ll feel the consequences if you try it again,” the professor says, scalpel-sharp. “You see that over there?” He jerks his head toward a tall metal cylinder in the corner of the gym. It looks like an Iron Maiden—smooth and featureless on the exterior, with only a glassed-in horizontal slit at eye level.

“Yes,” Rakel says slowly.

“That’s a deoxygenation chamber. Useful for training for high altitudes or increasing stamina by forcing the body to overproduce red blood cells. I can change the oxygen percentage to any level I like. You ignore a tap-out again, and I’ll put you in there for half an hour. You won’t suffocate. But you’ll feel like you’re drowning the entire time. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Rakel says again.

Professor Howell turns away.

Rakel faces me once more, pure hatred in her eyes. No hint of remorse. She looks so murderous that I almost want to apologize for getting her in trouble. But I squash that thought.

“Face off again,” Professor Howell commands .

Fuck me. I was hoping we’d at least swap partners. I need Rakel to cool off a little before we spar again. Like, maybe for the next hundred years.

Professor Howell told us to keep our hands up to protect our faces, and to hold our cores tight. I try to do it, but as soon as someone rushes at me I crumple up in a little ball.

“Ready . . .” the professor says.

No. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.

“Go!”

Rakel comes at me like a bat out of hell, swooping in, popping me with a jab to the left eye that snaps my head back and makes my already bruised brain rattle around in my skull.

She swings again, and I actually manage to duck that one, just barely. I’m so surprised that I don’t see her next blow coming, not even a little bit. She slams me in the right ear, and the whole gym spins around like a merry-go-round. She comes in for a final blow, fist already cocked.

Before I can think, before I can consider what a monumentally bad idea this is, my fist lashes out right at her face.

I hit her in the mouth. Her lips feel horribly squishy and mobile under my knuckles. My fist slides across her teeth, and one of those teeth cuts me. I jump away from her again, saying, “Sorry. Oh my god, you’re bleeding! ”

Rakel touches her bottom lip, which is already beginning to swell. She looks at the bright red blood on her fingertips as if she’s never seen anything like it.

“Time!” Professor Howell calls.

I’m not looking at him. I’m watching Rakel, poised on tiptoe, because if she tries to strangle me, I’m just going to turn and run away.

Strangely, inexplicably, Rakel doesn’t look quite as angry anymore. She wipes her fingers off on her gray gym shorts, leaving a dark smear.

When our eyes meet, she isn’t smiling, but she isn’t scowling either.

“Not bad,” she says.

I head to the dining hall for lunch at the usual time, but I don’t see Zoe anywhere.

I stand by the chafing dishes, craning my neck to find her, until a Junior slams into me and says, “Get your food or get the fuck out of the way.”

Hastily, I fill a plate with pork chops, applesauce, and carrots .

I have no complaint about the food at Kingmakers. Most of it is from the local farms and orchards on the island, so it’s all fresh and well-prepared. I just wish I didn’t have to eat it all alone. Zoe usually meets me here.

I straighten my shoulders and tell myself to stop being such a fucking pussy. Zoe’s eaten every single meal with me so far—it’s not fair to expect her to babysit me.

I look around the dining hall, wishing I paid better attention to where everybody sits.

I see a table of Seniors, so muscular and overgrown that they can barely fit next to each other on the narrow bench seats. I’m definitely not going anywhere near them.

Next to the Seniors are a bunch of Heirs. I recognize a couple of them from my year, and a few who are older. One is that friend of Miles Griffin that I met on my first day—the friendly one with the mohawk and the tattoos and piercings all over his body. I think his name’s Ozzy. But I only met him the one time, so I don’t feel comfortable plopping down next to him.

I spot a group of French students, most of whom are blond. Every one of which looks like they came out of some high-fashion editorial spread. I’ve never been able to understand how some of the Kingmakers students make their uniforms look so damn stylish .

One of the girls has on a gorgeously tailored white blouse with the collar popped and a stunning gold chain lying across her décolletage. Her wavy sun-streaked hair lays over one shoulder like a mermaid, and her dewy skin looks like it’s never been touched by human hands.

The boy on her left resembles her—long surfer hair, high cheekbones, and full lips. He’s got a cross earring dangling from one ear, and he’s picking at his food with an expression of disgust.

The French students only take up half the table—the other side is empty. I recognize the girl sitting on the end, next to the empty seats. She’s the redhead I met on the wagon ride up to the school. Her name is Sadie Grant, I’m pretty sure.

I approach cautiously, ready to be turned away. Sadie gives me a quick smile, saying, “It’s Cat, right?”

“Yes,” I reply, relieved. I slide onto the empty bench, feeling like I accomplished something momentous by finding somewhere to sit.

“What’s your name?” the haughty blond boy scoffs. “ Chatte?”

“Cat,” the glamorous girl corrects him. “It’s probably short for something else. Isn’t it, Cat?”

She smiles at me, showing lovely pearly white teeth.

“Yes,” I say. “Short for Catalina. ”

“Are you from Spain?” she asks.

“Barcelona,” I nod.

“We’re from Paris,” she tells me. “I’m Claire Turgenev. That’s Jules.” She nods toward the boy currently regarding me like a raccoon scavenging at his table.

“You’re all from Paris?” I ask.

“Mostly. Isn’t it funny how we group up at Kingmakers? Sometimes by division, sometimes by year . . . and then some of us came all the way across the world just to sit with the people we knew back home.” She laughs at herself in a way that’s instantly disarming.

“I’d sit with someone else, if there was anyone worth sitting with,” Jules says, his full lip curling up in a sneer.

“You’re such a snob,” Claire says to him. “I meet people I like every day here. I’m just a creature of habit.”

Though Claire’s hands are clean, and her fingernails manicured, I can see a hint of dark staining on the cuticles and in the crevices around her knuckles. The same thing happens to my hands when I’ve been drawing with charcoal or ink. I wonder if she draws. I’m too shy to ask her.

“What’s your last name?” Jules demands of me. I can tell by his tone that he’s going to judge my answer. I wouldn’t be surpri sed if he told me to take my tray somewhere else if my response doesn’t meet his standards.

“Romero,” I reply.

He considers this. “You’re Zoe’s sister?”

I nod.

“She’s an Heir,” he tells Claire. “Zoe is, I mean.”

“Zoe Romero . . .” Claire muses, trying to think if she knows my sister. “Oh, she’s the gorgeous tall one with the dark hair and the green eyes. The one who’s always carrying around an armful of books.”

“Yes,” I say, pleased by the connection. I’m always proud when anyone knows Zoe—proud to be associated with her.

“What a waste,” Claire sighs.

“What do you mean?” I demand, the hairs prickling on the back of my neck. As much as I like Claire Turgenev already, I won’t let anyone criticize my sister.

“No offense to either of you,” Claire says, in her clear, enchanting voice. “It’s just such a shame that a beautiful girl like that has to marry Rocco Prince. I’m sure you agree that he’s repugnant. ”

She looks across the dining hall to the distant table where Rocco sits with his coterie of thugs, including the two that crashed my breakfast with Zoe.

Rocco radiates a dark energy. It simultaneously separates him from the boys around him yet binds them to his side like magnets. No girls sit at his table. In fact, nobody who isn’t part of his gang sits at any of the surrounding tables, creating a vacant halo all around him.

“What do you know about Rocco?” I ask Claire quietly.

Jules gives her a sharp look, like he doesn’t think she should answer. Sadie likewise turns her attention on her food, disengaging herself from the conversation.

But Claire answers, without hesitation, “I know what everyone knows. That he’s not a criminal . . . he’s a killer.”

“What do you mean?” I say, trying to swallow.

“Some of us have murdered when we had to,” Claire says, in her calm, hypnotic voice. “And most of us will kill in the future. Very few mafiosos make it to the grave with lily-white hands. But only a few of us enjoy it.”

I stare across the dining hall at Rocco, at his pale face and his fever-bright eyes. He’s not touching his food, either. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him eat. He seems to prefer to use the time to watch everyone around him .

As if he can feel the scrutiny, he slowly raises his gaze to meet mine.

I drop my eyes at once, face flaming.

“He went to school for a year with my friend Emilia Browning.” Claire picks up her water glass and takes a sip. “He had a group of friends there similar to the one he has here. Les tyrans. ” She searches for the word. “Bullies. Assholes.

“They had a boy who followed them around. A sort of hanger-on. They used him as an errand boy—made him buy cigarettes for them, write their papers, that sort of thing. Then one day the groundskeeper found the boy’s body dumped in the river behind the school. He had been tortured and beaten for hours, the police said. Cigarettes put out on his body. Eardrum punctured with a pencil. Teeth knocked out.”

I feel like I’m going to throw up. With every word Claire speaks, weight settles on my shoulders. Each syllable another brick added to the stack.

“Emilia said that Rocco and his friends bragged of doing it. There was no reason, no provocation. The boy thought they were his friends. There was an investigation, but the boy was no one important, and Rocco and his clique all came from powerful families. Rocco had to switch schools though, because it was so ugly that his parents didn’t want it talked about for long. ”

Jules Turgenev makes a disgusted hissing sound. “Savages,” he says, with a flick of his head toward Rocco’s table. “No taste. No feeling.”

I feel very stupid for not recognizing what was happening right in front of my face.

Since the moment our father signed the marriage contract, Zoe has been sinking deeper and deeper into depression. I knew she didn’t like Rocco. But I had no idea what she was actually being forced into.

I got a hint of it that morning at breakfast when I saw him grab her thigh. He’d always been polite, if a little creepy. That was the first time I saw violence between them.

It’s not the fact that he grabbed her that disturbs me. It’s the way he did it: under the table, secretly, so nobody could see. The way his expression never changed for an instant. There was no hint of rage in his voice. He was calm and collected while he hurt my sister.

All of a sudden, Zoe’s absence takes on a new flavor.

I jump up from the table, my tray of food untouched.

“I’ve got to go,” I mumble.

“I’m sorry ,” Claire says, putting her hand on my arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you should know. If your parents aren’t aware?— ”

“Thank you,” I say numbly. “I appreciate it.”

I don’t know how to tell her that our father wouldn’t care even if I told him that exact story, even if he believed it.

I’ve been such an idiot.

Zoe has known all along about Rocco Prince. She knew he was a full-blown psychopath. She just didn’t tell me. To protect me—because I’m too weak to handle it.

I hurry out of the dining hall, determined to find my sister.