Page 27 of Storm of Shadows
“Well, that, Ma’am, is something I may be able to help with.” He does a fancy little bow and pulls four bread rolls filled with cheese and ham from his blazer pockets and passes them to me. “I risked my neck swiping these for you,” he whispers to me as I grab them from his hands.
“Oh my stars, thank you so much! I owe you big time,” I say, stuffing one into my mouth and the other three into my pockets.
Fly chuckles. “Slow down, Cupcake. You don’t want to choke. You’ve already missed near-death once already today.”
I chew aggressively and roll my eyes at him.
Then we notice the line is moving and we’re being led inside the hall.
Today, the hall is filled with single desks, all laid out in neat rows of tens.
“Take a seat,” a man booms from the raised platform in the recesses of the hall, his form bathed in shadow, no light filtering through the circular window today. “And be quick about it.”
I follow Fly along one of the lines, sliding onto a seat next to his and tucking my knees under the desk.
“We should be safe here,” Fly whispers as the other students grab their desks around us. “Never grab a seat at the front or the back. It’s asking for trouble.”
I grin at him. “They do send us to school back in Slate Quarter, you know.”
He grins back. “I wasn’t sure.”
Furtively, I break off a piece of bread roll in my pocket and smuggle it into my mouth.
The shadow weavers are the last to enter the Hall, strolling in like they have all the time in the world and heading straight for the empty rows of desks at the front.
I try not to, but despite all my protests to Fly about my determination to stay away from the Princes – I’m still curious. I can’t help it. After all, I’m as surprised as everyone else as to why the hell they would want me as their thrall. I mean, you only have to flick your gaze around the Hall and see there are far better candidates. No matter what their preference is, there is someone better suited to meet it. I don’t even come out tops among the scrawny, pathetic girls.
I spot Beaufort right at the back of the shadow weavers and this time I pay attention to who he is with – because I’m assuming they are the magicals he’s bound to.
My eyes linger on Beaufort and then move to the man behind him.
I jolt in my seat.
It’s the shadow weaver I encountered out there on the path yesterday evening.
He’s as tall and broad as Beaufort, but where Beaufort’s skin is fair, the other man’s is dark. His hair, shorn brutally short, is jet black and his eyes are just as dark. The expression he wears on his face is ominous – like one glance your way and he could turn you to stone.
I shiver and is it my imagination, or does that action attract his attention? His head snaps my way and his eyes meet mine. Dark and soulless.
Instead of turning to cold stone, though, my insides seem to heat, a flush creeping up my neck and into my cheeks.
What is it with the men around here? Did they all take lessons on being moody and broody before entering the academy? Or maybe that’s just how shadow weavers are. Maybe the aura of their magic, crackling in the air around them, gives them this sinister persona.
I lower my eyes down to my desk, only daring to raise them again several minutes later, just in time to catch sight of the third man. He couldn’t be more different to the others. A white mop of long locks sprawls from his head and a wild smile stretches across his face. His teeth sparkle white and perfectly straight and there are actual dimples in his cheeks.
However, his baby-faced appearance ends there. Tattoos crawl out from under his shirt and twist up his neck, in ominous patterns. A heavy silver chain hangs around his neck.
I can’t discern the color of his eyes over the distance, but I can see they’re brimming with mischief as he flicks his gaze around the Hall taking everyone in. When his eyes land on me, he doesn’t scowl like his friend did, instead his smile stretches even wider and he winks at me. It’s so damn flirtatious my cheeks burn even hotter.
My insides do something similar. Men were never this hot back in Slate Quarter. And the men in Slate Quarter never looked at me like that. It’s been a long time since a man looked at me with anything but revulsion. I’d forgotten what that felt like.
I bite down hard on my lip.
I don’t want to be admiring shadow weavers. I don’t want them to make my insides spin.
I hate them. I hate them all.
“So kind of you weasels to join us,” the voice of the teacher bathed in shadow booms, his form still hidden. There are several shocked gasps from around the Hall and one or two giggles. Shadow weavers are the elite among us. Sure we may bitch about them in hushed, secretive tones behind their backs, I’ve never known anyone to insult them to their faces. I swallow, expecting there to be some rebuttal – for the shadow weavers to jump to their feet in outrage, to fling magic at the hidden teacher. But most seem unconcerned. They slouch in their chairs, one or two yawning as if being dragged to the academy is one giant inconvenience and bore.
