Page 78 of An Academy for Liars

“I’ll call the names of two individuals in this circle. Upon doing so, each will strive to persuade the other to pick up the object in front of them. The first to do so wins the exercise. I would caution you to spend as much time fortifying the walls of your minds as you dopersuading your peers. Both skills are integral parts of your success in this exercise. Now, all of you will have had some experience in the realm of fortification. If you’ve been diligent about your meditational practice—as I’m sure all of you have—then you will have fortified a room within the confines of your mind, a safehold. The walls of this mental space should, if bolstered correctly, defend you against the persuasive will of your opponent. But whilst maintaining that shield, you will still need to find a way to reach and persuade your partner. This is the central paradox of this task.”

The hours that followed were brutal. Lennon watched as her classmates contended, one round after the other. The first pitted Nadine and Adan against each other. Nadine gritted her teeth with the effort of forcing Adan to lift her acorn off the ground. Adan staggered to his feet, took two large steps, and emptied his stomach at the base of a magnolia tree just a half yard outside their circle. He returned moments later, wiping his mouth.

In the rounds that followed, other students suffered similar, crushing defeats at the hands of their fellow classmates. One boy’s nose began bleeding so profusely in the aftermath of his swift defeat, Professor Alec dismissed him to the infirmary. Another student, a girl, suffered a panic attack a mere thirty seconds into her round and snatched the magnolia pod in front of her of her own volition.

By the time it was Lennon’s turn to contend, she had seen almost half of her classmates cow to their opponents. Most of the Pyrrhic victors—who seemed about as spent and sick as those they’d beaten—were visibly uneasy with their hard-won wins. Those who were unfazed, Lennon noticed, had been so efficient, so brutal and competent in their persuasion, that they seemed entirely impervious to, or unbothered by, the pain that they had inflicted upon their opponents.

Alec clapped his hands. “Lennon and Ian. You’re up next.”

Lennon’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t a coincidence. Ian had been waiting for a chance to humble her since that gruesome night at Logos when she’d put the blade through his hand. And tonight, Alec was giving him just that.

Ian cast his gaze on Lennon and smiled widely—like he’d already won—and Lennon saw clearly that any affection he’d once had for her had rotted into hatred.

Ian’s assault was quick and brutal, with a force that reminded Lennon of being pinned to her plane seat, amid a particularly punishing takeoff. Only it was much heavier than that. Lennon might’ve picked up the pebble in front of her immediately—if his intention had been only a bit more clear, more specific.

But Lennon resisted, refusing to pick up the pebble.

This frustrated Ian, who perhaps recognized the limits of his ability. He was strong, yes, but he lacked a kind of artistry, the gentle touch of technique. It was all brute force and no precision. So he forced harder, pushing her to the brink. Lennon realized then that his intent was not to make her to lift the pebble. He simply wanted her to collapse under the force of his will. His aim was not to control her, but tobreakher. And Ian wanted her to know it. He leered at her, his lips tearing into a hideous grin.

The pressure behind her eyes built. Lennon felt something pop high up in her sinuses. She caught the metallic stench of blood and felt it trickling hot and thick down the back of her throat moments later. She tried to search Ian’s face for something she could use against him, some weakness to manipulate, but her vision blurred so badly she could barely see him.

She realized she was crying.

Alec might’ve said something, but she couldn’t hear it over the ringing in her ears. The pressure built within her head until it becamepain. Ian’s assault was relentless. He’d only grown stronger over the winter break. His was a frightening power, a kind of contained and channeled chaos. It made her feel as though she was going insane, as though Ian could bleach every memory from her mind, suck out the color and the meaning of every significant event that had ever happened to her and make it all null. A fate worse than death.

She panicked, lashed out with everything she had. Which, as it turned out, was quite a lot.

Ian froze, stunned by the viciousness of her attack. His fingertips skimmed the rock on the ground, Lennon pushed harder, and he grabbed it.

Ian’s eyes went wide, first with shock, then rage. “Fuckingwhore—”

Lennon didn’t make the decision to break his nose. Or even to strike him. It just…happened. Her body, for the briefest moment, severing from his will, animated and sprang to action. Her hand locked into a painful fist, her arm drew back, and she punched Ian so hard the force of the blow shunted the knuckle of her middle finger out of its socket.

Ian reeled backward and clutched his nose, blood streaming through the cage of his fingers. He looked up at her and lunged before anyone could drag him back. Lennon caught a blow to the face that might’ve been a backhanded slap, but in the chaos of the oncoming assault she couldn’t be certain. Ian, who had no preoccupations with valor or chivalry, fought with a viciousness that Lennon, in her anger, matched. And the two abandoned any psychic exchanges in lieu of blows and biting and pulling hair. They scrapped like children, like starved dogs.

And Alec allowed this to continue for some time before he stood up, fixed his cuff links, and—with a toothy smile and the flourish of his fingers—paralyzed both of them so thoroughly they froze wherethey stood, as though their muscles had, in the span of an instant, calcified and turned to bone, Ian with a fistful of Lennon’s hair and Lennon with her fingernails a half centimeter shy of his open eye.

Alec clapped his hands. He was grinning. “That will be quite enough.”

Lennon walked, bythe force of Alec’s will, to Dante’s office. The hold of her persuasion professor slackened only when the door snapped shut behind her. Weak in the knees, Lennon stumbled forward and caught herself, sloppily, on a nearby bookshelf, clearing half of its contents with the violence of her near fall. A set of brass bookends, a picture frame, and a tin of cigars clattered to the floor.

“I’m going to let you start,” said Dante from behind his desk.

Lennon, stepping tersely over the mess she’d made, recovered herself enough to make her way to the empty seat in front of Dante. “Ian is a dick.”

“And you were sloppy.”

To this charge, Lennon—slumped low in her seat—said nothing. She pushed at a molar with the tip of her tongue. It was loose, so she opened her mouth wide and pried it free. It looked small and jewel-like in the flat of her palm, a malformed pearl slick with blood and spit.

Dante got up and went to the cocktail cart beside the fireplace. Hepoured her a glass of something dark and set it down on the desk in front of her. “Rinse.”

Lennon didn’t touch it. She dropped the tooth into the drink with a small splash. It sank down to the bottom of the tumbler, a few tendrils of blood ribboning from its root.

“How did it start?” Dante asked.

Lennon wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. “You want a blow-by-blow?”

“No,” he said, looking bored. “I want to know how and why it started.”

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