Page 69 of Storm Caller

Again, Henry defends me, assuring The Shield that I’m not a freak.

He continues for the next ten minutes as they try to find a way to get him to accuse me of something. Throughout it all, he remains stoic. Calm. In control. I want to scream, but no one seems to be paying me any attention. It’s probably better that way.

When Henry is taken away, he’s replaced by a few more people from the cadet program, including our other trainers, Brooklyn and Chandler. Everyone’s answers are some version of Henry’s—I was a good cadet, promising, totally normal. While my trial goes on, I shift from foot to foot. It’s not even the storm that’s making me uncomfortable anymore. I’m just getting tired of standing here. Couldn’t they have offered me a chair?

When the last of the trainers is taken away, the door opens again, and my breath condenses in my lungs when I see who’s next.

This was inevitable, and our time has come.

Trinity.

23

At first, she doesn’t look at me.

She keeps her eyes on her feet as she’s marched across the room. She’s free of makeup and dressed in the burgundy shirt and black pants of an E-squad recruit, her red hair tied into a high ponytail that brushes her shoulders.

I wondered what it would feel like to see her again. Would I feel rage? Hurt? Disappointment? I’m not surprised to discover it’s a combination of all three. What I didn’t expect to feel was pity. There’s something small and pathetic about the curve of her shoulders and the swoop of her back.

Finally, she looks up, finding the courage to acknowledge me. Dark circles ring her eyes, and she’s paler than usual, her freckles standing out starkly against her skin. She’s always had such a love-hate relationship with those freckles.

I offer her nothing but a cold glare. She blinks and swallows, her throat bobbing heavily. For a moment, she doesn’t move—just watches me as if preparing for an attack. I tip my head and arch an eyebrow, daring her to say or do something to set me off. I remind myself that if I ever get out of here, the plan is to befriend her. Find out her secrets. I must learn to deal with my anger.

I will never, ever forgive her for what she did. However, I do need to find a way to convince her that I’m over it. Somehow.

“Robins,” comes a sharp voice. Major Birch draws her focus toward him. “You will answer The Shield’s questions.”

I hate that I can’t see her face. I want to look into her eyes when she explains why she betrayed me.

“Recruit Robins,” Chancellor Marks says. “Please tell us how you know the accused.”

“We’ve been best friends since the second grade,” she says slowly. “Were best friends, I guess.”

“And you were both House Fiama? Yes?”

She nods. Of course, everyone in the room already knows this. “We were.”

“And what decisions led you to select a rival house?”

She inhales deeply, then tells an abridged version of the events that led her to this spot. Her failed first test. Her desperation. Her desire to be with me, believing I’d choose to join Aria. I watch my parents’ faces, wondering what they’re thinking. They’ve never heard this part of my story—mostly because they refused to listen. My mother looks at me a lot, while my father studiously avoids my gaze, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

When Trinity is finished, Marks asks, “Can you please tell us what you saw in the Central Park Tree Farm the day of the Storm Guard cadet final exam?”

At this, it feels like everyone in the room tips forward. I do the same, leaning on my toes, every distraction forgotten, even the itching from the gathering storm.

“I was told to keep an eye on everyone,” she says. “Look out for suspicious activity.”

Her voice is small, uncertain. She twists her fingers together, and I wonder if it’s out of guilt or nerves.

“Cadet Graves was clearing an obstacle. It required her to lie on her stomach and shimmy beneath a net of Spark.”

“And then?” Marks prompts. “What happened?”

“The net would discharge every so often. I guess they said it builds up energy or something. Well, I saw it happen. She was under it, and it . . .” She lifts her hands and spreads her fingers. “It hit her. I saw the sparks climb up her leg, and she . . . snuffed them out.”

“I see,” Marks says. “And why was that noteworthy to you?”

“Well, she should’ve been dead, right? Blitzed? It touched her.”