Page 6 of Stormbreaker

There are a few from Knox, wondering where I disappeared to last night and if I want to head to Amery with him soon. I don’t bother replying.

Instead, I head into the bathroom and shower quickly before pulling on my dress uniform for the first day of school—fitted black silk pants, high black boots with small buttons running down the sides, and a tailored black jacket with a high collar and flared waist. On the breast is a small crest depicting a flame, marking me as a member of House Fiama. I grab the wide silver ribbon from the hanger and cinch it around my midsection, then tuck my small knife into my boot. Both for protection and the reminder of my brother, who taught me how to use it.

I approach the mirror over the sink, inspecting my light-brown complexion and my midnight-purple hair with its brighter streaks. I was sixteen when my natural black waves began to give way to this puzzling shift. Some instinct told me I had to hide it then, and I’ve kept this secret from everyone else in my life, too. The fact that so many people dye their hair has made it easy to get away with.

I’m sure it relates to my other secret, but I don’t entirely understand how.

Gently, I touch the thin, barely visible scar slicing across my cheekbone, courtesy of my father. He has a temper, especially when he’s drunk. I was seven years old when he lost a leadership vote to Delta Aziz, and he was dousing his failures in whiskey when I got in his way.

It would be three more years before my father finally won his coveted role as scion, and while the physical scars were healed and mostly erased by a team of doctors, I still wear them like fresh wounds on the inside. He never hit my face again, but that still left the rest of me as fair game.

I swipe on some makeup, covering the evidence of my past, and then some black liner and mascara to highlight the green eyes also inherited from my father. Most of my clothing has already been sent to my dorm room at Amery, and the only thing left to pack is a box with my personal effects.

I toss in my favorite blanket, a few more bits of clothing, skin care, shampoo, other hair stuff, and photos of me with Trinity and my family. I stare at Teddy sitting on my dresser. I can’t stand the thought of leaving him behind.

Quickly, I snatch him up and bury him under a sweater, and the tight knot in my chest immediately eases. The last thing I do is put on my necklace that sits on my nightstand. Besides Teddy, it’s my most precious possession. A delicate chain dangles with a tiny gold mask encrusted with amethysts. It was an offering from my mom after my father nearly killed me, as if jewelry was supposed to make it better. Nevertheless, I’ve worn it every day since.

I pick up my box and carry it into the living room, planning to join my parents for breakfast and, more importantly, to make one last-ditch effort to appeal to my father about my future.

My boots squeak on the slick azure tiles as I approach the front door and set my box down for one of our staff to pick up and deliver to Amery soon. I can’t believe this is my last day in this place. The entire apartment, decorated in royal blue and silver, with blue silk walls and silver decor, hasn’t always felt like a home . . . but still.

I head toward the living room, which is furnished with velvet sofas and marble tables adorned with handwoven blankets crafted by my mother from bits of colorful scrap. The organic designs are entirely at odds with the grandness of the decor, but her art makes her happy. When I round the corner, my parents look up from the long glass table at the far end of the penthouse.

“Poet,” my father says, eyeing me up and down as I approach. I can’t tell if it’s with pride or suspicion. Maybe a little of both. “It’s nice to see you in Amery black and silver.”

My chin dips in acknowledgment, a silent question sitting on the tip of my tongue. For years, we’ve argued about my desire to become a Storm Breaker until he shut down the entire conversation with a whispered threat that plagued my thoughts for weeks.

So, I gave up. Temporarily.

I take my usual place next to my mother, settling into the white upholstered chair before our cook-slash-maid bustles out of the kitchen. Cara sets a plate of cheese, cured meat, and a small bowl of fruit in front of me.

Our multistory greenhouses and barns are located at the island’s south end in an area once known as Wall Street. Food production and distribution are carefully monitored and controlled by House Tera, another of New Manhattan’s four Houses that constitute the upper echelons of Society. Thanks to careful temperature and humidity control, they provide us with animal products, fruits, and vegetables once native to places that no longer exist.

These were things they enjoyed in abundance during the Warming Age, the one where humanity treated their planet like it was there only to serve them, until violent weather and flooding wiped almost every person off the earth.

After Cara pours me a cup of coffee, she hustles back into the kitchen, and I eat in silence alongside my parents.

My father scrolls on his tablet, undoubtedly catching up on the morning news. “Bloody Hollows caused a riot last night,” he mumbles to himself. “Third time this month. Might need to recruit some additional Patrols.”

House Fiama is responsible for the safety and security of New Manhattan within our borders and manages the city’s internal police force, known simply as the Patrol. My father believes that the greatest enemy to Society is “fear.” Fear of those who refuse to obey our laws, thinking only of themselves rather than the greater good.

Before my father took over as scion nine years ago, constant rioting and looting nearly turned the city into a boiling pot. But he triumphed where his predecessor failed by implementing dozens of security measures, including strict curfews, increased foot patrols, and security cameras on every corner.

As my father continues reading the news, the groove between his brows deepens. He mutters something about Cameron Jenkins being on his ass while he aggressively sips his coffee.

“Are you all ready? Excited?” my mother, Sariah Graves, asks. Her black hair is pulled into a high half-knot and adorned with a single thick band of indigo, with the rest falling in a tumble of curls. Black kohl rings her eyes, burgundy blush warms her medium-brown skin, and the loose orange dress and gold sandals look effortless on her. As usual, she’s stunning.

“Sure,” I say as I sip my black coffee. I am excited. And nervous. And scared. Toss a dart at a list of emotions, and I’d probably be feeling anything it hits. I can’t wait for the parties and the friendships. The fun and even the hard work.

At that, my father looks up from his screen, and I resist the urge to flinch. Grady Graves is a formidable man, whose single look makes my insides turn liquid with apprehension.

“How about a little more enthusiasm?” he asks. His wavy black hair is slicked back from his pale, angular face, offering a clear view of his bright green eyes. He doesn’t go in for nonsense like hair trends. His words, not mine.

He wears a crisp white button-up and pressed gray slacks. His role as scion is an endless series of duties and tasks that keeps him busy and stressed at least ninety percent of the time.

Maybe if I were allowed to become a Storm Breaker . . .

I think it. I can’t bring myself to say it.