Page 60 of Stormbreaker

“Everyone?” I ask as her accusation slices deep.

“That’s . . . No . . . Poet . . .” She trails off and rubs her face with her hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t think you’re a traitor. What I think is we’ve both fucked up in the most spectacular but different ways, and we both have targets on our backs.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’m heading to the memorial. Are you coming, or are you planning to hide forever? Not sure you want to be seen with a traitor.”

It’s a low blow, but I’m not feeling very charitable after her hurtful words.

“Don’t be like that,” Trinity says. “I’m sorry. You know that’s not how I meant it.”

I exhale a long breath. “We’re both on edge,” I answer, but it feels rather noncommittal.

I’m not ready to forgive her yet.

“I’ll come,” Trinity says, though I can sense her wariness. “I guess I’d better get this over with. Edward is waiting for me.”

At least she has Edward. Sometimes I wonder, if it came down to the two of us, who she would pick. Boyfriends will come and go, but friends are forever, right? Except they’re madly in love and will probably get married, and I really don’t know what it will be like to settle into our lives and attend Society parties, all while knowing she loves her husband, and I’m stuck with Knox.

How long will I be able to pretend before my own unhappiness comes between us?

“Then we should go,” I answer, crossing the room and digging through my closet. I throw on my coat and button it up before we head into the hall and down to the courtyard teeming with people.

Edward finds us immediately. He takes Trinity’s hand and gives her a firm look. He’s with her, too, and she collapses against him as they hug. His gaze meets mine, and he nods quickly in thanks for taking care of her.

No one has noticed us, and by silent agreement, we hang at the back of the crowd to ensure it stays that way. I spot Knox with his friends and duck behind Edward. I’ve been avoiding Knox as much as possible, while he blows up my phone with demands to see him that I ignore.

In the center of the square stands a raised platform with a podium and a microphone, both covered by a tent. A light drizzle falls from the sky as the clouds begin to take on an emerald hue.

Several teachers mill about the front under a canopy protecting them from the weather.

A moment later, a door opens in the side of the building, and two figures emerge.

Dean Withers and . . . and General Sol.

A soft murmur ripples through the crowd as she walks out surrounded by six members of her Circle Guard, the people trained at an elite level as her personal shield and who travel with her everywhere.

They wear sleek white uniforms made of some kind of shiny material that protects against assaults and carry stunners powered by Spark that can be set to incapacitate or kill.

The two women trot up the steps as the general’s Guard spreads out around the stage.

The dean and the general are a study in contrasts. Dean Withers is delicate and small—almost like a bird—with her auburn hair and a fluttery white dress under a swingy white wool coat. General Sol towers a good foot taller, dressed head to toe in black leather that molds to a body that has clearly seen countless hours of training.

As her keen gaze slips over the crowd, I get the sense she’s aware of every single person in the plaza and knows exactly who we all are.

Dean Withers approaches the microphone as a light drizzle coats everyone without the luxury of a tent.

“Welcome,” she says. “I’m sorry we find ourselves together under such . . . tragic circumstances. The loss of a student is one I always take personally, and to lose three so suddenly, so violently, is a knife straight through my heart.”

To illustrate her point, she flattens a hand to her chest and closes her eyes as she inhales a breath so shuddering, it rattles through the speakers. I can’t help but think the entire thing is a performance. After all, people have died from their initiations in this very building, and no one seemed to bat an eye.

She continues speaking for a few more minutes, sharing some nice details about each student who’s gone. Given they were all third-years, I didn’t know much about them.

That Hollow was so young, and I wonder who he was taken from. Is there anyone to mourn him now? Does he get a nice ceremony with a member of The Shield in attendance? What about the other people who died on the tracks? I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

When the dean is finished, the rain is falling harder, pelting us softly while she remains dry under the tent alongside the general. I shiver as a cool breeze seeps through my jacket. Dean Withers gestures to General Sol, who stands with her hands clasped behind her back, her posture straight.

Her long hair tosses in the breeze, but only just enough to make her look impressive but not disheveled. She approaches the microphone, and that renews everyone’s interest. As she clears her throat and begins to speak, I sense how everyone leans forward ever so slightly.

She’s a magnet, and we’re helpless to resist her pull.