Page 12 of Stormbreaker

Dean Withers is giving us a rundown of our class timetables when we’re interrupted again by the tall double doors at the far end of the hall slamming open. The dean’s speech cuts off as everyone looks over to see sunlight pouring into the room, revealing a silhouetted figure.

Someone else has arrived.

Footsteps echo around the space as the stranger enters and then stops a few feet away from where I’m standing. His posture is almost preternaturally still while he stares down the length of the hall. His wavy, chin-length hair is so dark that it almost looks purple as he tips his head.

He wears a fitted black T-shirt and jeans. And a pair of cowboy boots, worn and battered. I’ve never seen cowboy boots except in movies. A silver piercing glints in the arch of his left eyebrow as his intense gaze sweeps over the room.

High cheekbones. A strong jaw. White skin lightly tanned with a dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

I’ve always liked freckles.

He looks capable. Confident. Makes Knox seem like a little boy.

Both of his arms reveal a swirl of black tattoos that do nothing to obscure the power coiled beneath his skin. He’s huge. Towering over us like some kind of vengeful god.

He looks too different to be Society. A cog, perhaps?

I’ve seen photos of how people once inked their bodies and pierced them with bits of metal in the Warming Age, but only one group wears those markings now.

Which can only mean . . .

A Solitude.

But he looks nothing like I’ve ever imagined.

While the storms are the biggest threat to New Manhattan, Solitudes are a close second. A hundred years ago, they organized themselves and invaded the city with rusty, makeshift weapons. They were after our food and supplies and managed to kill thousands of our people before they were finally subdued.

The Solitudes were driven out, except for one concession: they would be allowed to send a handful of children per year to school in New Manhattan so they could escape their old lives and be integrated into our civilized world. It was an attempt to bridge the divide between our people. A show of benevolence from our leaders.

Of course, I’ve never heard of it actually happening before.

No one in the room seems to breathe as the stranger makes his way down the center aisle, one slow step at a time.

He approaches Chancellor Marks and Dean Withers with the loose gait of a predator who’s assured of his kill. I can tell from the stunned looks on their faces that neither of them was expecting him today.

He reaches the front of the room and runs his fingers through his mane of thick hair.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says in a deep voice that I swear causes every person in the room to swallow. “I hear this is where I can join the academy.”

4

It takes a few moments for the dean and chancellor to recover from their shock. The rest of us have the luxury of gawking at the Solitude’s back while he stares ahead, waiting for them to respond.

Marks is the first to nod, grimace, and then share a loaded look with the dean.

“Of course,” Dean Withers says, finally addressing the newcomer. “This is highly . . . We’ll have to . . .” She smooths back several strands of coppery hair and tugs on the hem of her suit jacket, trying to compose herself. I’m guessing she’s the sort of woman who hates revealing any sign of weakness.

“Please step to the side,” she says, waving at the Solitude. “And we’ll get your paperwork in order once we complete the room assignments.”

The Solitude pauses, his shoulders tensing, almost as if he intends to defy the dean’s instructions. From the purse of her lips, I wonder if she’s thinking the same. But then he dips his head and walks over to the side of the room, smoothly spinning around to face everyone again before folding his impressive arms over his chest.

Dean Withers clears her throat and shares another look with Chancellor Marks before she addresses us. “Your room assignments can be found on the screens at the end of the hall,” she says, gesturing toward a bank of monitors. “Your things should already be waiting for you.” After a few last remarks, she dismisses us, and the room breaks into excited chatter.

Through it all, the Solitude stands still, quietly observing. I watch as the dean and chancellor approach him and confer for a moment before they all turn to leave, presumably to complete the “paperwork” the dean mentioned.

Before the Solitude joins them, he glances over a broad shoulder, and our gazes hook ever so briefly. He blinks a pair of hazel eyes as a shiver creeps over my scalp. Will they actually let him stay? Surely he’s a risk to every single person in this room. Maybe the dean will offer him a polite handshake and encourage him to return home . . . wherever that might be.

“Poet!” Trinity is tugging on my hand, dragging me to the other end of the hall to find our roommates. We squeal and hug when we see we’re bunking together, though our enthusiasm wanes after seeing the other two names on the list. Winter and Lacey are filling out our happy little quad. Great. Silver and Hazel have been assigned to a different room, though at least they’ll be together.