Page 109 of Storm of Shadows
“Something tells me that wasn’t what you were here for though.”
I don’t say anything. He remembers my sister. But I don’t know if I can trust him. Really, I don’t know if I can trust anyone, if I should.
“Tell me,” he says, raising his chin, glowering at me. “I think I deserve to know what is more important than my class.”
Is it me or is he taking a personal affront to me missing his class?
“There’s no point in me attending your class, I’m no shadow weaver. I don’t have any powers. None of us do – we all know it’s a waste of time.”
“Do we?” he snaps, dropping his arms and taking a decided step towards me. “Because you seem to keep forgetting that I was like you, Briony Storm. A boy from Slate Quarter and now I can do this.”
He lifts his hand, shadows dancing forth and the books all rising from the shelves to join them, floating in the air like stars in the sky.
I flip my head back to watch them, transfixed by how pretty it looks, and then just as suddenly as they rose, they fall, clattering down onto the bookcases, the shelves and some onto my damn head. I shield my crown with my arm and mutter a curse under my breath.
“Your protectors aren’t the only powerful ones in this school,” he snarls, his shadows hissing in the air, “and just because you are their thrall does not mean you get to skip my lessons.”
“I didn’t say it did,” I snap. “And I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, but I am not their thrall.”
He takes another step towards me, and I can feel his shadows against my skin now. They don’t crackle with electricity like Beaufort’s do. They’re cool and smooth, slipping over me like a caress or a touch.
“Then tell me, Briony Storm, why are you in the library and not in my lesson?”
I frown. Does that mean his lesson isn’t over? Then why is he here, chasing me down?
I stare into those eyes of his and decide to take a gamble.
“To find out what happened to her. You couldn’t tell me, so I decided to find out for myself.”
“You already know what happened to her.”
I snort. “I know what they told us happened.”
“It was an accident, Briony. They happen, far more regularly than you’d suspect. We’re dealing with dangerous and unpredictable forces at the academy. She was one of the unlucky ones; that’s all.”
I shake my head.
“No, she was special.”
“Everyone is special to someone,” he says, dismissively with that bitterness he seems to wear like a crown.
“You remember her – she was–”
“Barely. I barely remember her.”
“She was special!”
“Special how?”
I open my mouth but no words will come out. How can I explain it? How can I even attempt to describe what she was? To capture all that she was in a couple of words – words that seem so feeble and hopelessly inadequate. It’s not possible.
“I know something happened,” I say, stubbornly.
“It did. Your sister was killed in crossfire while a group of shadow weavers were training.”
“She wasn’t stupid,” I snap. “She was intelligent and she was careful. Why would she have been anywhere near a group of shadow weavers training? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“You want her death to have meaning,” he says, “because she was special to you. But death never does. Like everything else in this goddamn life, it’s random and callous and meaningless. Searching for a purpose or a reason in it will drive you to insanity.” There’s that bitterness again and I wonder what he can be so bitter about. He got out, didn’t he? Escaped Slate Quarterand became a professor? His life seems pretty damn good to me, especially compared to all those lives being lived back home – to the life I was living back home.
