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I don’t think I actually see a single wyvern; these are just the sycophants they entertain, the worms.
These guys come every day to party, fuck, take whatever drug’s on offer, and in exchange, they do the wyverns’ bidding when they’re called upon. I think most of them hope to be chosen the following year, but they’re dreaming. The very nature of a worm—to follow, obey—prevents them from ever being wyvern material.
Outside in the garden, there’s a smaller group assembled around a low table. I approach, and finally see my brother, engaged in a game of chess against Keller. Next to them, Beaufort’s checking a timer, as engrossed as the actual players.
They’re the three actual wyverns of the junior year. The administration made some noise about women rarely being chosen, so starting their year, they added an actual fourth, the wyvernette—Dez—but I don’t think she has the same status in the house. Not that I asked. Experience has taught me to stay away from both of my brothers’ business to retain some sanity.
Dez, my soon-to-be sister-in-law, is spread out on a long chaise, doing her best to not pay them any attention because she’s smart. Any game, but chess in particular, is a dick-measuring contest with those three. She’s reading a book on her e-reader. At my arrival, she waves a hand, which is more of a greeting than I get from any of the others.
“Time,” Beaufort announces.
Keller moves a pawn forward. While he took the full minute to choose his action, Markus doesn’t hesitate before moving his knight, so he must be the one defending.
They’ve barely made three moves so far.
“Yes?” my brother says, paying attention to me with his turn out of the way.
My jaw ticks.
“What do you have on the foster brother?”I ask without preamble.
Neither of us are fond of beating around the bush.
My brother’s flat mouth stretches into the grin that has featured in many of my nightmares as a kid. I’d seen him smile just like that while cutting up bones to help our cook once, and I never forgot it.
“You’re accumulating favors like they’re Pokémon, brother. What is it about that chick that makes you lose your caution?”
He’s right. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Sarah. I don’t interact with Markus more than strictly necessary, because I truly know what he is. His friends assume he enjoys appearing cold, detached, even mysterious. They don’t know what I do: it’s not a game. He’s not pretending. He truly revels in violence, and ethics means nothing to him.
When I was seven, and he, six, our nanny took us to a park. I had a blast, but Markus sat on a bench, watching it all from afar, as always. Then some idiot walked past, dragging a young dog hard by the leash, and screaming orders the pup didn’t understand or want to obey. We all saw it, we all hated it.
Then the man kicked that puppy, and all of a sudden, Markus was there—a six-year-old barely as tall as his belt. No one knows where he found the knife, but it was in his hand, and he stabbed the guy through his palm, cutting off the leash in the process.
When the screaming adult drew his hand back to hit Markus, my brother produced another knife—a small Swiss one he’d gotten for his birthday—and plunged that one in his knee. Then he wordlessly grabbed the pup’s shortened leash and started to walk back home, ignoring all attention, all chaos.
He’s still that kid. The one who’ll stab, and stab again, if he sees it as the right thing to do in his mind.
Worse yet: he now has a woman as insane as him, encouraging his craziness. I’m not saying they aren’t efficient when there’s a problem. But what’s wrong with a good talk, some bribery, and coercion? Not everything ought to end in a blood bath, dammit.
“It’s not the girl,” I lie, uncomfortable with him thinking that Sarah’s important to me.
She isn’t—I barely know the chick. She’s likely to feature in all of my wet dreams for the foreseeable future, but I don’tknowher, or care about her much past the way she looks after a good paddling.
“I was the one who found her on Sunday. I was one of the organizers, too. It’s only right I handle the situation.”
It’s a lame-ass excuse, but I’d like to think I’d want to see the end of the situation no matter who was involved. But we both knew I wouldn’t have come here, to their den, tohisterritory, if I didn’t care.
“Time,” Beaufort announces again.
Keller moves his pawn, and my brother glances at the board.
“Kingside castling,” I say, to save us all time.
Every single one of those three assholes snorts.
“Weak,” Damon Keller spits.
“Safe,” Beaufort adds, and it might not have sounded like a bad thing—to me—but the way his nose wrinkles, he might as well have saidtrash.
