Page 8 of Stormbreaker

My brows furrow as I attempt to parse out his meaning.

“Poet,” my father says. “You will keep yourself for Knox.”

Keep myself? I almost choke on my tongue as his intentions become clear.

“Excuse me? He’s the one walking around fucking anything wi—”

A loud crash cuts through my words as my father slams his hand on the table so hard, the glasses rattle. I flinch, and my mother jumps as my heart pounds in my chest. A mug falls over and smashes on the tile with an explosion that echoes through the room like the threat it is.

I see those hands in my nightmares.

Hear the sound of his footsteps in the dark.

“Language,” my father bites out with such trembling fury that a lock of his dark hair falls over his eye.

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I slowly nod.

“Are we understood?” he asks.

No, we’re fucking not.

When I was younger, I idolized Knox. I thought he was beautiful and couldn’t believe how lucky I was. But as we grew up, he became arrogant and selfish, and he lost my respect. Maybe it happened when he discovered how much he loves his dick.

But I swallow my indignation and say, “Yes.”

My father’s eyes flash with satisfaction, and a non-zero part of me wants to walk over and punch him in the throat. I glance at my mother, who watches our exchange with wide-eyed worry. I blame her for this, too. If only she would stand up to him.

A knock sounds at the door, and I silently thank Trinity for her impeccable timing.

“Then have a good time,” my father says, sitting back and crossing an ankle over his knee. “But not too good.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer and walk away, reminding myself that soon I’ll enjoy some distance from his constant scrutiny.

Soon, I’ll be out of here.

Soon, I’ll be free of him.

Or so I hope.

Because something in my gut tells me that my father will always find a way to control me, no matter how far I run.

3

I exit Fiama Society Tower A behind Trinity and her parents, Chad and Paris Robins. Mr. Robins works for The Shield, dealing in government security, while Mrs. Robins is a Society wife like my mom.

With them are Edward and his mother, Elena Chu. His dad passed away when we were in middle school, and Mrs. Chu and her son live off what he left behind and the generosity of The Shield and Fiama Society. Once Edward graduates from the academy, he’ll be expected to take care of her.

Everyone talks happily as I hike up the collar of my Amery-issued black wool coat, doing my best to forget that I’m the only one who’s here alone. Not very successfully.

The nearest gondola dock sits at the front entrance of our building. It’s a short ride to our destination at the Central Park Tree Farm’s north end. We could have taken the subway, but the tunnels make me claustrophobic. Tight spaces remind me too much of hiding from my father’s anger.

Only a handful of solar-powered vehicles remain in New Manhattan, used for emergency services such as fire trucks and sweepers. During the Warming Age, they built too many cars, and their exhaust choked the air to the point that it condensed in the sky and wouldn’t clear away. Eventually, it grew so thick and volatile that it morphed into the storm clouds that now plague our world.

Many of the city’s roads were converted into canals, so that people and supplies move over the water and are powered by humans instead of engines. Once we learned how to store the unstable energy from plasma storms, Spark became a new form of clean energy that ensures the atmosphere remains free of toxins.

“Still weird to think all of this used to be streets,” Trinity says, as if reading my mind, and leans over the dock’s railing to peer into the deep channel.

“The canals follow the old glacial low points,” Edward says. “It’s why they hold water without constant pumping.”