Kingmakers, Year Two

24. Cat

24

CAT

R occo has to die, and I’m the only one who can do it.

It can’t be Zoe or Miles. They’re the obvious suspects.

If they kill Rocco, the Chancellor will find out, or the Princes. Their new life together will be destroyed before it even starts.

In fact, I have to make sure that when Rocco dies, it’s glaringly obvious that Zoe and Miles had nothing to do with it.

Which is why it has to take place during the final challenge of the Quartum Bellum .

Zoe and Miles will be competing in full view of the entire school. No one can accuse them of attacking Rocco .

I, on the other hand, will need a different alibi.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The first step is to bait the trap.

I start by leaving notes in Rocco’s pockets. This is risky, because it involves sneaking into the Octagon Tower and picking the lock to his room.

Lock-picking is one of the very first things you learn at Kingmakers, at least in the Spy division. We covered it our first week. I’ve gotten quite good at it, as delicate, tricky handwork is something I’ve practiced while making jewelry and paper art.

The more difficult part is dodging all the male Heirs that might wonder why I’ve snuck into their tower. Also, overcoming my creeping disgust at touching anything that belongs to Rocco. His clothes have a sickly-sweet smell that reminds me of rotting fruit.

The notes I leave for Rocco are deliberately vague and tantalizing.

Things like:

I know what you did.

I have evidence.

I’ll expose you .

You’ll have to pay to keep me quiet.

I don’t actually expect Rocco to feel threatened by these notes. Quite the contrary: I think they’ll irritate and enrage him, because he won’t understand them. It will drive him mad not knowing who’s doing it, or why.

He may think I’m referring to the story Claire Turgenev told me: the boy he tortured and murdered at his old boarding school. Or perhaps he’ll connect it to one of the hundred other cruel and disgusting acts that must lurk in his mind like un-exhumed bodies.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks—it only matters that I spark his curiosity.

I leave a dozen notes over three days, hidden in the pockets of his trousers, backpack, and between the pages of his textbooks. Then I stop.

The hiatus is important to throw him off balance. To make him even more paranoid. To ensure that he responds when I leave my final note.

Three days before the Quartum Bellum, I sneak out of the Undercroft late at night. I steal stones from the crumbling Bell Tower on the northwest corner of campus, and I carry them up onto the ramparts. Heavy stones, each one five to ten pounds in weight. I hide them under my shirt and take them up one by one until my legs are shaking from dozens of trips up and down the stairs.

Then I search the stables. I look through the piles of broken furniture, moldy books, worn-out chalk-brushes, and old filing boxes.

I haven’t been in here since I told Hedeon Gray he should check these boxes for old student records. I pause in my search to examine the boxes myself, wondering if he found what he was looking for.

The files have clearly been rifled through, but I don’t see any student records. I never looked at the papers that closely on Halloween—it might have been a stupid suggestion. Either that, or Hedeon found what he was looking for and took it away.

Resuming my own quest, I find a large canvas sack full of old scuba equipment. I dump out the scuba gear and take the sack.

All I need now is rope.

The day before the Quartum Bellum, I leave my final note. I place it right on Rocco’s pillow where he can’t possibly miss it. I tell him the time and place to meet me, and I instruct that he brings $5000 to ensure my silence .

Of course, I don’t expect him to bring any money.

The money is a distraction.

I can’t tell if my plan is reasonably clever or extraordinarily foolish. I’ve been moving through the motions in a kind of daze, doing what I feel must be done, while not actually believing I can go through with it.

I’m not a killer. I never was.

And yet, I have to kill him.

I haven’t told Zoe what I plan. She can’t know, and neither can Miles. It’s the only way to keep them safe. If something goes wrong . . . well, I can’t think about that. My sister was willing to sacrifice her life for mine. She was going to marry Rocco to keep me safe. I have to risk the same for her.

As I hurry down the stairs of the Octagon Tower, I forget to listen for footsteps coming up. It’s a small mistake, but one that proves disastrous when I run directly into Dean Yenin.

He seizes me by the throat, slamming me up against the curved stone wall.

Instantly, I’m back in the bathroom of the Keep, where Dean confronted me with a rageful, tear-streaked face.

He must remember the same thing, because his hand tightens around my throat until I let out a strangled scream and claw at his fingers .

“What are you doing in here?” He snarls, his breath hot on my face.

“Nothing!” I squeak, trying to pull his hand off my neck. I might as well try to bend steel. His fingers only dig in further, until my head is swimming and my legs disappear beneath me.

“Why are you here? Are you looking for me?”

I have done nothing but the exact opposite since that day in the bathroom. I’ve avoided Dean Yenin like he’s Medusa and his very gaze upon me would turn me to stone.

“No!” I gasp, my head starting to loll as the world goes black around me.

Dean loosens his grip enough that I can breathe, but he still keeps me pinned against the wall with his cable-like arms on either side of me.

“Why are you here, then? Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“I was just looking for Miles!” I lie at once, with all the appearance of being too terrified to do so. “I had a message from Zoe.”

“A message?” Dean sneers. “Are you their errand-mouse?”

He lets go of my neck. I massage my throat, trying to swallow.

“She’s my sister,” I say. “They’re dating, you know. ”

“Of course I know ,” Dean says, rolling his eyes at my idiocy. “The whole school knows about your slut sister.”

“Don’t call her that!” I snap. My indignation is undermined by the fact that my voice comes out a raspy little squeak. Still, Dean rounds on me with fresh fury, startling me so badly that I stumble backward and fall on my ass on the steps.

“What the fuck are you gonna do about it?” He hisses, fists clenched at his sides.

Down at ground level, I see my opening—I dart under his arm and sprint off down the stairs. Dean doesn’t bother to try to catch me.

My heart really is racing like a little mouse as I keep running all the way from the Octagon Tower to the Undercroft. It was a narrow escape—and I’m damn lucky that was Dean instead of Rocco.

The morning of the Quartum Bellum, I’m too nervous to eat. I have to go to breakfast, however, as it forms a crucial part of the plan.

I sit at Zoe’s table, along with Miles, Leo and Anna, Ares, Chay, and Hedeon. Chay is looking more cheerful than I’ve seen her in weeks, and she’s started wearing makeup again. Hedeon, by contrast, is as glum as ever. He picks morosely at his fo od, only looking up to glare across the dining hall at his brother, who’s shoveling down a half-dozen eggs and twice as much bacon.

“Eat up,” Leo urges the Sophomores. “I need you all in top shape for the challenge.”

“You’re gonna captain our breakfast now?” Anna teases him.

“Absolutely I am. I will fork-feed you if it helps you perform better.”

“No thank you,” says Ares.

“You sure?” Leo says, picking up a big bite of pancake and pretending to airplane it over to Ares’ mouth.

“Don’t even—” Ares tries to say, and Leo stuffs the pancake in his mouth.

This results in a two-minute scuffle, during which Ares shouts something about non-consensual pancakes and Leo yells at Ares to quit wasting his strength while they both try to wrestle each other out of their seats.

The fight is the perfect distraction. I pick up my knife, which, like all the knives at Kingmakers, is heavy and serrated, with a carved bone handle and a tempered steel blade. It looks a hundred years old. God, I hope it’s not infected with tetanus.

Pathetically, this is the part of the plan I dread the most .

Under the cover of Leo and Ares’ roughhousing, I slash the knife down my own arm in one, quick swipe. The serrated teeth rip my flesh open, and blood pours down on my plaid skirt before I can jerk my arm away.

“Ouch!” I shout.

“Cat!” Zoe cries. “What happened?”

“My knife slipped,” I say, pouting out my lower lip. Said lip trembles. It’s not acting—my arm really does hurt, and I’m nauseated at what I’ve done to myself. I meant to make a nasty cut, but it’s bleeding more than I anticipated, and I’m starting to feel dizzy.

Hedeon is closest. He grabs a linen napkin and clamps it down over my arm.

“You’d better go see Dr. Cross,” he says. “That will need stitches.”

“Good idea,” I say.

I get to my feet, wobbling slightly.

“I’ll take you!” Zoe offers.

“I can do it,” Hedeon says.

“Do you want me to come?” Zoe asks me, eyebrows drawn together in worry .

“No,” I say, quickly. “You guys go ahead, I’ll be fine. The challenge is about to start.”

“Hurry back,” Leo says to Hedeon.

Anna slaps him on the arm for being inconsiderate.

“We need him!” Leo says. “But also, get better Cat. Sorry about your arm.”

“I’ll send him right back,” I promise.

I need Hedeon to leave, and quickly, so I’m only too happy to go along with Leo’s request.

Still, I’m grateful that I can lean on his arm on the way to the infirmary. I really was a little overzealous with that knife. I had to make sure I cut deep enough for stitches, but I overdid it.

“Went a little hard on those pancakes,” Hedeon says, throwing a sideways glance at me.

“I know, I’m clumsy,” I say, in my best sad baby voice.

Hedeon bites the edge of his lower lip, not quite believing me.

I’ve got a few things I’d like to ask him in return, but now’s not the time for sleuthing, or for antagonizing him. I really do need him to carry me along. Hedeon is nowhere near as big as his adopted brother, but he’s still 6’1 and strong. I kinda want to ask him to throw me over his shoulder because, like Leo said, I want to conserve my strength. For different reasons than the Quartum Bellum .

“Guess you’ll miss watching the challenge,” Hedeon says.

“I’ll support you in spirit from here,” I say, nodding toward the long, low building of the infirmary.

“You want me to come in?” Hedeon asks.

“No,” I say. “Thank you, though. For the napkin and the arm.”

I let go of his warm, substantial bicep.

Hedeon squints down at me like he wants to say something else. Instead, he jerks his head in a surly you’re welcome, and heads back toward the dining hall.

Dr. Cross opens the door after one knock.

“The challenge hasn’t even started yet!” He squawks in outrage. “How are you injured already?”

“I cut myself at breakfast,” I say, pulling back the blood-soaked napkin to show him the damage.

“Cut yourself with what? A saber?” He howls.

“The knives are sharp.”

“And the students are idiots, apparently.”

“That can’t be a surprise to you,” I say, giving him a disarming smile. “How long have you worked here? ”

“Since before you were born, and probably your parents, too,” Dr. Cross says, rolling his eyes behind his thick glasses. “Well, it’s not so bad. I can stitch you up. You might have a scar, but better on your arm than on your face.”

He washes his hands at the steel sink, then begins to bustle around, gathering up his supplies.

“Sit on the bed before you fall over,” he barks.

“I am a little dizzy,” I admit. “I didn’t get a chance to eat my breakfast. You don’t think I could have some tea, maybe?”

“This isn’t the Four Seasons!” Dr. Cross barks. But a moment later he softens, saying, “I’ll start the tea and you can drink it once I’ve stitched you up. Keep pressure on the wound while I’m gone.”

He heads back to his apartment to fetch the kettle and cups. I hear him banging around in his little kitchen, and I take the opportunity to retrieve a pair of capsules from my pocket. I made them myself, with a carefully measured dose. One should do it, but I plan to use both just to be sure.

Dr. Cross returns several minutes later bearing a teapot and two mugs. The mugs are chipped and unmatching, but the tea already smells lovely.

“I don’t have cream,” he says, gruffly.

“I like it plain,” I say .

“Let it steep a minute,” he barks, though I hadn’t tried to touch it.

Dr. Cross fills a syringe with lidocaine and injects my arm in several places. The whole arm is so hot and throbbing that I barely feel the needle poking at the edges of the wounded flesh.

“We’ll give that a minute to settle in,” he says. “You can pour the tea now.”

I lift the pot with my uninjured arm, and pour two careful mug-fulls.

“Forgot the sugar,” Dr. Cross grouses, heading back to his kitchen.

I drop both capsules into his mug. The clear coating instantly dissolves in the hot tea, leaving only a fine white powder at the bottom of the mug that he shouldn’t notice unless he looks carefully. I desperately hope I’ve dosed it right—I really don’t want to hurt the doctor.

I lift the other mug, sipping the tea even though it’s scalding.

“It’s so good!” I say to Dr. Cross as he returns.

“You don’t want sugar? Oh that’s right, you said plain. Healthier for you, but I never quite got rid of my sweet tooth.”

He dumps three lumps into his tea and stirs without noticing anything amiss .

“Ah!” He says, after a satisfied slurp. “Let’s get to it, then.”

He sets down his mug so he can pick up his needle and thread. I resolutely turn my face toward the window. I don’t want to watch. Dr. Cross works swiftly, in spite of his arthritis-ridden hands. When he’s done, the line of stitches down my arm is neater than the jagged wound deserved.

“There!” He says, with satisfaction. “I’ll put a bandage on it, too. Keep the wound clean. Come back for fresh wrapping when you need it. The stitches will dissolve on their own in a few weeks. Don’t pick at it, whatever you do.”

“Can I rest a little longer?” I ask him. “I’m still dizzy.”

He glances at the clock. “If you like. You’ll miss the challenge, but that may be for the best. It’s damn hot today. No good sitting out in the sun.”

He tidies up swiftly and efficiently, then washes his hands once more. As he turns to leave, I say, “Dr. Cross! You forgot your tea!”

“So I did,” he says, lifting the mug and taking another swig. “Still warm.”

Thank god for that.

He sits down on the bed next to mine to continue drinking. He slurps with every sip, but it’s not an uncouth sound. In fact, it’s strangely comforting .

“What’s your family name?” he demands, squinting at me through the inch-thick lenses of his glasses.

“Romero,” I tell him.

He makes a dismissive sound. “Never heard of it. I barely know any of the families anymore.”

“Is your family mafia?” I ask him.

“My mother was an Umbra,” he says, proudly. When he perceives that I don’t know what that means, he adds, impatiently, “They were a founding family, girl, good god, what are they teaching you out there?”

I’m relieved to see that he finished his tea. Even more relieved to see that his blinks are becoming longer and slower.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he says morosely, gazing at the washed and sterilized instruments he has yet to put away.

“Why don’t you rest and I’ll put those in the cabinet?” I offer.

“Well . . . go on, then,” he says, leaning back against the pillow with his fingers interlaced over his chest. “I may as well rest a moment. There’s sure to be another injury or two before the day is done.”

He closes his eyes, his breath already slowing.

Quietly, I unlatch the glass-fronted cabinet and put the instruments back in their carefully-labeled places .

I’m trying to move silently, trying not even to breathe.

Soon Dr. Cross’s mouth hangs open and long snores come rasping out.

I wait for five, then ten agonizing minutes. I have to be sure he’s deeply asleep before I leave.

The dose I gave him should knock him out for hours.

Some parts of this plan are well-organized, but others rely on chance. It was dumb luck that I was the only person to require Dr. Cross’ services this morning, and I’d like to keep it that way. The Quartum Bellum is the complicating factor. It’s a rare challenge that doesn’t result in at least a few injuries.

I need to leave and return as quickly as possible.

I also have to beat Rocco to our meeting place.

Creeping around on tiptoe, I lock the door to the infirmary, then crack the back window just wide enough for me to shimmy out. The heavy wooden sash creaks. I cast an anxious glance back at the slumbering Dr. Cross, relieved to see that he hasn’t shifted position whatsoever. His continued snores soothe my fears of an overdose.

I slip out the narrow space, then hurry across the deserted grounds, as outside the castle gates I hear the distant shouts and groans of the Quartum Bellum .

I check my watch. I have to be up on the wall early, in case Rocco tries to get the jump on me.

I scale the staircase inside the wall, coming up on the ramparts where Rocco Prince trapped my sister so many months before. He may know already, simply from our meeting place, that the notes relate to Zoe. I hope that will be all the more incentive for him to come.

The biggest risk at this point is Rocco bringing a friend. He has to come alone. If he doesn’t, all I can do is abandon the plan and run.

I’m early. Rocco is late. The appointed time ticks past, then ten minutes and twenty minutes longer. The sun beats down on my head. I can still hear the ongoing cheers of the challenge, though they seem weaker than before, the audience exhausted by the heat.

If Rocco doesn’t get here soon, I’ll have to leave. I can’t risk anyone coming to the infirmary and finding the door locked. That may have happened already. God, this plan is full of holes. I was desperate, trying to find a time when my sister would be safe from suspicion. All my schemes seem childish and destined to fail as I examine them in the harsh light of reality.

I touch the loose loop of rope resting on the ramparts behind me, then I tap the wooden pin jammed into the wall directly behind my heel. The pin is taught and straining. It could pull free any moment.

I’m no engineer. I barely had the strength to set this up. I don’t know if this will work. I don’t think Rocco will come. God, I’m an idiot. What was I thinking?

I’m about to abandon it all. About to turn and run. Then I hear a distant creak that sounds very like a door.

I pause, frozen in place like a deer, my ears straining for further sound.

I hear a scrape that might be footsteps on the stairs.

Then a long pause.

Then finally, a slim, dark figure ascends to the wall.

With all the time I’ve spent around giants like Miles and Leo and Ares, I sometimes forget that Rocco, while modestly proportioned, is still much taller than me. Faster, too, and infinitely stronger. He strides toward me with eerie speed, jaw lowered and eyes burning right through me.

He doesn’t stop until we’re face to face, mere inches apart.

“What a disappointment,” he says, in a disgusted tone.

“Did you bring my money?” I say. I hoped to muster a semblance of confidence, but my voice always betrays me. It comes out high and weak, with a crack in the middle of the sentence.

“ Money?” Rocco scoffs, and for one of the only times in my remembrance, he laughs. “You thought I’d bring money?”

“If you didn’t—” I begin.

“If I didn’t, then what? ” He hisses, taking a hideously quick step toward me, so I have to back against the wall. I fumble behind me, feeling for the loop of rope that seems to have disappeared.

“I’ll expose you!” I squeak.

“What in the fuck are you talking about?” Rocco cries, confusion the only thing preventing him from throttling me. “I only came up here to see what sneaky suicidal shit was leaving notes in my pockets! I was going to carve my name across their chest. But now that I know that’s it’s you . . .” he pulls his knife from his pocket quicker than a blink and flips open the blade. “Now I think I’ll have to come up with something more creative for Zoe’s little sister . . .”

“Wait!” I cry, desperately grasping for time while my fingers miss the rope, “We can make a deal!”

“As fun as that would be,” Rocco hisses, reaching for me with his slim, pale hand, “ I fucking hate deals . . . ”

My fingers close around the loop and I grab hold, throwing the lasso around Rocco’s wrist. He stares at it, mouth open in amused derision.

“What in the fuck?—”

I kick the pin as hard as I can, knocking it free from the wall.

I only had one chance to do it. Rocco watches the rope hiss over the ramparts, comprehension dawning on his face, right as the loop yanks tight around his wrist, jerking him forward.

He swings at me with his knife, trying to plunge it into my chest. I’m already dropping down to my knees, flinging my arms protectively over my head.

Rocco drops the knife, grasping at me desperately with his free hand as he’s yanked forward. If I were any bigger, this wouldn’t work. He’d grab hold of me and pull me over along with him. But after all, I’m very small. I curl up like a little mouse while Rocco is dragged right over my head, the toes of his shoes skimming my head as he flips over the wall, tumbling down with a blood-curdling scream.

The canvas bag of rocks drags him down. It weighs over two hundred pounds, much more than Rocco himself. Without the pin holding it in place, it plunges straight down and Rocco is dragged along after it, screaming all the while. I don’t hear the impact, but I hear when the scream stops, the silence sudden and abrupt .

I don’t want to look over the edge.

Yet I have to.

I have to be absolutely sure.

With both hands clamped over my mouth, and my legs shaking beneath me, I force myself to stand. I peek over the ramparts.

I see a dark shape broken on the rocks below. The canvas bag has split, spilling its stones all around.

I want to sink back down and hide here, shivering, for as long as it takes.

But I have to get back to the infirmary.

No part of this plan is harder than the journey back. I have to stop three or four times, my stomach heaving. Luckily there’s nothing in there but tea, so I keep the sick down. I can’t leave vomit as evidence.

I’m not worried about prints on the rope. The rough jute shouldn’t hold fingerprints, and the tide is coming in. The waves will beat against the remains of Rocco Prince, washing away fibers and hairs. Maybe even washing away the body.

No, it’s my alibi I’m struggling to protect. I have to get back inside that infirmary before anyone notices I’m gone .

I race across campus, unseen as far as I can tell. I slip around the back of the building, pausing outside the window.

For a moment I think I hear a sound, something almost inaudible, a footstep on sod. I whip my head around wildly, seeing nothing at all. I can certainly hear Dr. Cross snoring.

I shove myself back through the gap in the window, lowering the sash as quietly as I can. Then I slip back under the blankets of my unmade bed.

I don’t think Dr. Cross has moved an inch.

I watch him for several minutes, my heart still jittering in my chest. My brain runs even faster.

You’re a murderer. A murderer. A murderer.

I stuff that thought back down.

I’m so fucking lucky that it worked. I think it worked, I hope it worked . . .

I could still be caught. There’s so many things I might have missed. I’m no criminal. I’m not even a Spy, not really. I don’t know what delusion gripped me, thinking I could pull this off. It was pure luck if I did.

I check the clock.

Then I clear my throat, loudly. When that doesn’t work, I get out of the bed and shake Dr. Cross .

“What is it?” he grumbles, coming to abruptly.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Cross. I just thought you wouldn’t want to sleep too long. It’s been fifteen minutes.”

A lie. Over an hour passed. I can only hope he wasn’t watching the time.

He glances at the clock, blearily.

“Yes, right,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t want to sleep too long. Is the challenge still going?”

“I have no idea,” I say

“How’s the arm feeling?”

“Good as new, almost,” I say, showing him the unmarked bandages.

“Good. Help me change these sheets, then,” he says, indicating the two despoiled beds.

“I’d be glad to.”

We strip the sheets, and Dr. Cross carries them to his laundry. While he’s gone, I hear an aggressive banging on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth. I run to the door, realizing I forgot to unlock it. I quickly turn the bolt, opening the door to see Dean Yenin’s angry, sweat-soaked face. He’s holding his left arm pinned against his body, the shoulder at an awful angle.

“Get the doctor!” he barks .

I run to oblige.

Dr. Cross hurries back into the room, assessing Dean at a glance.

“We’ll have to pop that back in,” he says. “Girl—what was your name?”

“Cat,” I stammer.

“Hold him steady.”

I do not want to touch Dean Yenin. But I jump to action, by long habits of obedience. Gingerly, I take hold of Dean’s good arm, the muscle iron-hard beneath the skin. He turns to look at me, eyes narrowed, a strange expression on his face.

“Bite on this,” the doctor says, stuffing a strip of leather in Dean’s mouth.

Dean bites down hard as Dr. Cross swings his injured arm upward. Dean lets out a strangled scream, his good hand clutching convulsively at my skirt. He grabs my thigh, and I don’t even feel the pressure of his hand, because I’m distracted by how vulnerable Dean looks when he’s in pain.

He lets go of me abruptly. I do the same.

Dr. Cross manipulates Dean’s arm gingerly, ensuring that his shoulder joint is back in the socket.

“Better?” he says .

“Yes,” Dean replies, his face still pale and sweating.

“I’d better go,” I say. “I’d like to catch the end of the Quartum Bellum . Is it still going on?”

“It is,” Dean says, his eyes fixed on mine.

“Well . . . thank you Dr. Cross,” I say, edging to the door.

“I’ll follow you out,” Dean says.

I don’t like that one bit, but I can’t exactly stop him.

As soon as we’re outside the infirmary, I say, “I’m going to run to catch the end!” and I sprint away from him, with the paranoid sense that I’ll hear his footsteps chasing after me.

He lets me go.

Still, I’m too unnerved to even look over my shoulder as I run through the gates to the makeshift bleachers, hiding myself in the crowd.