Page 42 of Storm of Shadows
“If you’re talking about the girl–”
“No, I’m talking about teaching someone who deserves it a lesson.”
I sit up straight on my bed. “Who?”
“The scum who gave her the black eye.”
I swing my feet to the ground and curl up, flexing my fingers inside my gloves, and pulling a shirt over my head.
“Lead the way.”
He nods and I follow him down the staircase. “Where’s Dray?” I ask. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to miss this.
“Out with his little buddies somewhere,” Beaufort says.
“Shouldn’t we wait–”
“Can’t,” Beaufort says, grinding his teeth. “It has to be now.”
I sense his magic in the air – fierce and angry and close to boiling over – and I understand.
“Who is he?” I ask, as we step out of our tower and into the night.
“Some piece of scum from Slate Quarter.”
We make our way along the weaving pathways, the clouded night sky blocked from our view by the towers above, the wind whipping after us. It’s late and there’s no one else out, most of the windows we pass, dark. We walk to the east of the academy, to the tower blocks where most of the commoners have their rooms.
It’s noisier here. Someone playing music. A few people shouting. A couple of peals of laughter.
“It’s this one,” Beaufort says, pointing to a plain-looking tower. We push back the heavy wooden door and find a group of boys, lounging about in the entranceway, passing around a joint.
Their conversation cuts short and they turn to stare at us, the spliff hanging limply from a short boy’s mouth.
“Any of you Stanley from Slate?” Beaufort booms.
They all glance at each other and shake their heads.
Beaufort takes a menacing step forward. “Are you sure about that?”
“He’s up in his room with some girl,” the boy with the joint says.
“Number?” Beaufort asks, although I’m sure he already knows it.
“Seven.”
Beaufort nods, then holds out his hand.
The boy hesitates, then passes him the joint hurriedly.
Beaufort twists it in his fingers, examining it and sniffing the smoke. Then he brings it to his lips, clamps it in his mouth, andinhales deeply, eyes open and not leaving the group of boys in front of us. The spliff crackles, the end glowing.
Holding the smoke in his lungs, he removes the spliff, then lets the smoke curl like a snake from his lips as he passes me the joint.
I look at it. It’s barely a butt. I take a couple of puffs on it, the weed making my head buzz – a buzz that matches the anticipation in my veins.
When I’m done, I drop it to the floor and crush it into the stone floor with the heel of my boot.
Then I’m following Beaufort up the stairs, the boys still silent below us as if they daren’t speak.
