Page 85 of Storm of Shadows
“I’m going to sit next to my friend.”
“Perfect,” Dray says, taking my bag of books from me and swinging it up onto his shoulder, “he’ll sit on one side and I’ll sit on the other. It’s a good idea, right?” he says to Fly, who nods his head mutely, way too scared to disagree. I jab Fly in the ribs.
He coughs, then says, “Wouldn’t you prefer to be in the front row with all the other shadow weavers?”
“Nah,” he says, spitting his gum into the trash can as we walk into the classroom. “I’d rather be where I can smell her wet-pussy scent.”
My cheeks burn so aggressively, I’m surprised I don’t set the classroom on fire, and the little old teacher fumbles with his chalk and blushes too.
“Do you have to?” I hiss as we take our seats, Dray dragging his right up next to mine so there is only an inch of space between us.
“Yeah, I do.” He drops down, his right thigh pressing against my left.
“Why are you even in this class? You’re not meant to be in this group.”
“Wanted to spend some quality time with you.”
I shuffle around on my chair and try to ignore him. It’s not easy. I can feel the heat of his body; I can see how broad his shoulders are; I can appreciate how sculpted his chest is.
I don’t want to be distracted by him. I want to concentrate on the lesson. This is important.
But pretty soon, I realize the lesson is a lost cause. The professor drops his piece of chalk five times in the first two minutes, forgets what day of the week it is and spells his own name wrong on the blackboard.
Nobody can understand a word he’s going on about because he keeps hopping from one timeline to the next and in the end nearly everyone gives up, either drawing books out of their bags and reading, or talking quietly among themselves.
I try to listen anyway, even if most of what he’s droning on about appears to be ancient history – it’s the best option available to me to ignore Dray.
“Some believe it was the firestones themselves that provided those original shadow weavers with their powers. Although other sources … erm, Peters and Hadrian for example … or was it Andreas … indicate that from firestones came dragons. The sources disagree on these points and, of course, many were written centuries after the events – around the time of Empress Leah – a keen historical scholar. Oh … no … perhaps it was actually her granddaughter, Leah the Third.” He pauses for a coughing fit that makes several dozing students jerk awake. “Firestones continue to crop up in sources right up until about four hundred years ago. They disappear from the records around the same time it appears dragons died out. Dragon pox – not to be confused with the less harmful chicken, spider and pig poxes – a deadly plague that caused many deaths amonghumans – and by some accounts dogs too – as well as killing almost all the breeding dragons. The last known dragon was owned by Emperor Gilead and the skeleton is kept in the palace crypt. There are no known remains – partial or complete – of firestones.”
“You following any of this, little one?” Dray whispers, leaning towards me, his hand resting on the back of my chair. I shrug. “I didn’t see you at the field yesterday.”
“Can you be quiet please?” I say as stiffly as I can. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” he yawns, “he’s getting his facts and his dates all confused.”
“It could be important.”
“You a history nerd, little thrall? I can give you your own private history tuition if you’d like. In fact,” he leans even closer, his mouth right by my ear, his breath whistling all over my neck and making me shiver, “I could teach you all sorts of things if you like.”
I consider stabbing him with my pen just to get him away from me. As I suspect it’s a possibility he could stab me right back, I stick to ignoring him. I don’t answer any more of his comments and do not respond to the way he’s sniffing at my neck.
It’s not easy, partly because his presence is disorientating, but also because most of the other students in the classroom are stealing furtive glances our way.
I have never wanted the floor to disappear and the ground to swallow me up more than I have done in this moment and am relieved beyond belief when the bell finally clangs for the end of the lesson. I grab my belongings and dart out of my seat as quickly as my legs carry me. I’m not quick enough though, because I’m only halfway across the classroom when Dray calls out, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Little thrall, be at our rooms Wednesday night, 8pm. And bring that sweet-smelling pussy with you.”
I keep my head down for the rest of the day, but it makes no difference. After that little display in history class, everyone is talking about me again. I can hear them whispering as I walk past in the corridors and along the pathways. I even spy one or two girls pointing me out to their friends.
By the time dinner is over, I’m feeling utterly dejected. I leave Fly and Clare chattering away in the canteen and stomp back up to my room.
Amelia’s old room turned up nothing. The history teacher is next to useless. And the Princes still want me as their thrall.
Nothing is going to plan.
I go to unlock my bedroom door ready to crash straight into bed and sink into a pit of misery, but as I reach for the door, it pushes open.
My heart leaps into my throat.
