Page 76 of Taste of Thorns
“Because it’s gross,” Clare says.
“He’s not a real wolf,” Fly points out. “He’s a shifter. It’s different.”
They both turn to look at me.
“Just talk to Damian, Clare,” I say, expertly changing the subject. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Like you’re talking to Beaufort Lincoln and Thorne Cadieux, huh?” Fly points out.
“I am talking to them.”
“I haven’t seen you talking to them recently, though.”
“I was mad at Beaufort–”
“–Well, that’s new,” Fly says sarcastically.
“–and it was best for his safety that I didn’t talk to him. But we’ve made up now.”
“Good, I think that’s wise given everything that’s going on,” Clare says, studying the dragon from a distance – a dragon that is trying his best to wriggle free from my arms and charge at her again.
I narrow my eyes at my skeptical friend.
“So you admit that something ropey is going on?”
“I never said that there wasn’t. Just that I’m not sure Madame is behind it.”
“Seriously, Clare Bear,” Fly says, “who else can it be?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Briony
“You coming round ours tonight?” Dray asks me hopefully the next day as we leave our final lesson, his arm hooked around my neck and his warm body pressed up close to mine.
“Not tonight.”
He pouts. “Why not? I thought you and Beau had made up. Or has the asshole done something else to upset you?”
I shake my head. “Not yet but give him time.” Dray chuckles. “It’s not that though. They’re holding a memorial for Esme Jones out on the field tonight. Then I’m training with Fox again.”
“Esme Jones?” Dray repeats, clearly not recognizing the name.
“The girl who died in the last trial,” I whisper to him. Dray isn’t as heartless as I suspect most people think he is. He cares about the people close to him. Yet, Esme’s death seems to have passed him right by – just like it has all the rest of the shadow weavers. It reminds me that as important as I may beto Dray, Beaufort, and Thorne, to them ordinaries are of little consequence.
“Ahhh,” Dray says and I half expect him to argue with me. He doesn’t. He simply kisses me on my brow and deposits me at the canteen without another word.
After a rather solemn dinner, I walk out across the field with all the other Iron, Granite, and Slate students, one arm linked through Fly’s, his other linked through Clare’s. Dusk is descending and the blanket of snow covering the ground and the trees of the forest has morphed to a muted gray – as if the land is mourning too.
A row of candles twinkle in the snow right where the field meets the first few trees of the forest. Several students are already gathered at the makeshift memorial – not something the academy faculty has arranged – they’ve barely acknowledged Esme’s death – an event her friends have cobbled together as best they could.
When we reach the lights, we stop. The candles have been arranged into letters spelling out the name Esme, and wild winter flowers have been scattered across the snow.
I cast my eyes over the crowd of students. Nearly everyone is here – even Odessa’s old crew and Stanley Chandlers. Although the shadow weavers are all absent. I’m not surprised. Why would they care about one more commoner lost?
Esme’s girlfriend steps forward to address the crowd, flanked by two kids from Granite. She’s dressed in a long black coat and her crimson necklace glints in the candle light.
She opens her mouth to speak, then something catches her attention over our heads. Her mouth makes a little surprised shape and then she’s whispering to her friends.
