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Waste of magic if you asked me. They’re fucking dead. What’s a constant reminder of the long-ass list of murdered Gifted going to do other than be a constant reminder we’re not all invincible? But then again, maybe that’s what the council was going for, a way to keep the Gifted in line with a bit of low-key fear, making sure we never forget The Slasher, a Gifted male who slayed his own for sport, or so they claim.
I say someone fucked him over and his wrath knew no bounds. Sounds like some shit I might do if twisted the wrong way.
Bet that would get me out of this mandated bullshit of schooling.
Shaking my head, I look forward.
The sky-high class building materializes from the thick shrubs ahead, and as much as I try to count myself down from ten to calm my shit, I can feel my magic tingling down my spine and spreading through my fingertips. Before I can stop myself, I fling my hands out, the double doors bursting open with the gust of air I threw at them, and I don’t care that they slam against the wall with a loud crack.
Creed’s heavy huff sounds behind me, but I ignore him, as I ignore every person that tries to get in a quick hello as my brothers and I make our way toward our area of the cafeteria. A large round marble table is placed in the center of the room, pushed against the glass wall that overlooks the thick forest hidden behind, a safe spot barricaded within them for the shifters to roam free when feeling amped up. The backdrop of the pastel sky and vivid greenery spreads wide behind us, and every now and then I think about stripping fucking naked and shifting into a Lycan, just to run away from everything and everyone. I don’t want to be here. Usually, my brothers calm any storm that runs rampant inside of me. They’re not fucking strong enough for this one. I’m not even sure I am since I don’t know where the fuck it’s coming from.
My mind is playing games. Sometimes I feel like I’ve reached the tip of the mountain I was meant to climb, but when I get there, I look up, and the top is yet another hundred yards away. But I can’t fucking turn around and go back. I can’t stop and rest.
My body…no, my being demands I keep going. Reaching. Keep fucking searching.
A fucking clue to what I’m looking for would be nice.
No sooner than we sit down, do the servers appear from thin air, our meals of choice being lowered before us.
I give a curt nod, and the little blonde girl who sets mine down flashes me a smirk, her tongue sneaking out to dampen her lower lip suggestively before a small puff of white smoke is left in her place.
I hate how all meals are required to take place in the communal eatery zone, even when we’ve got shit to discuss, others have no business tuning in . We could use our magic to conceal our conversations, since we’re stronger than any other student here, but sometimes that’s about as obvious as dropping breadcrumbs leading to where we are.
The professors can sniff out whenever we use our magic, the heady smell of heavy lead thick in the air anytime we use it. They’d only ask us why, and since we have to be on our best behavior while being here, none of us really want to give any of the professors a reason to check in on us. Or tell the Ministry we’re “breaking the rules.”
Give me a fucking break.
“You need to figure out what the fuck your problem is, Knight, and then you need to wonder if it’s worth getting your dick all hard over it.”
I bite into a leg of roast chicken before sucking the juice off my thumb. “Fuck you. How about that?” I toss it back onto my plate. I don’t want to take it out on them, and I know it’s not their fault, but right now, I don’t care about logic. I care about ripping away the days that led to that moment I saw her, just to see her again. So I can tell her that I hate her.
I hate a lot of things.
Like how we’re required to live on campus with the rest of the Gifted as if our parents don’t sit on the throne back in Stygian. Rathe U, even if it’s our temporary home, sits on its own at the edge of the clearing, protected from the eyes of the other Gifted via whirls of what we’re forced to call “protective smoke,” the true term forbidden here, a thick midnight gray sort of fog that conjures up your worst fears and uses them against you if you dare to approach it without permission.
