Page 74 of Kingmakers, Graduation

Fuuuuuck me. When will I learn to do the tiniest bit of research before opening my mouth?

“Sorry,” I say.

“Why? You didn’t know him.”

Aggression radiates out of the two of them, dull and heated from Vlad, sharp and cold from Jasper.

I’m not getting anywhere with chit-chat. It might be time for some old-fashioned flattery.

“Leo told me about the boxing tournament at Kingmakers,” I say to Jasper. “He said you almost won the whole thing. That you might have taken down Dean if you didn’t have to fight Silas first.”

Jasper has his roll-up tucked in the corner of his mouth, keeping his hands free so he can crack his knuckles swiftly and systematically. He runs down the fingers one by one, each pop as crisp as if his hands really were made of nothing but bone. When he’s finished, he pinches the spliff between his thumb and index finger and lets out a vast cloud of smoke, through which his eyes glint, pale and green—an amphibian in murky water.

“I’d like to fight him again,” he says.

That’s how I’d feel, too—I’d want another chance.

Grinning, I say, “Should we go find him? He lives here, doesn’t he?”

Jasper shakes his head. “Dean went back to Kingmakers one more year—to teach.”

“Professor Yenin?” I raise an eyebrow. “I wonder if he knows he’s gonna have to answer questions and maybe say hello to people once in a while.”

Jasper gives a ghost of a smile, crushing his roll-up into the ashtray with his bare thumb. “I doubt that’s in his contract.”

Adrik returns with four shots and four foaming mugs of beer, thumping them down on the table.

“Time to get serious.”

The three guys hold their shots over the steins, counting down:Tri, Dva, Odin!I drop my own shot into the foam and we chug the mess down, warm and frothing because Russians, like Europeans, haven’t committed to chilling their beer.

Jasper finishes first, Adrik next, then me. The three of us pound the table with our fists, bellowing at Vlad as he sputters and spills, trying to get the last of it down the hatch.

“Mocha, blyat,” he grouses.

It doesn’t taste great, but the liquor sends a wave of warmth surging through my body, aided by Jasper’s spliff.

Adrik motions to the bartender for another round.

I know what he’s doing—and it just might work. Vlad is already relaxing in his chair, his big legs sprawled out in front of him, his face flushed and mellow.

“You ever see them live?” I ask, nodding to his t-shirt.

“Once—in Berlin.”

“My dad saw them play at Slane Castle.”

“Oh yeah?” he leans forward, resting his beefy elbows on the table. “Some people say that was their best show.”

“Are you one of those people?”

“No. I think it was Montreal in ’06.”

“How do you know?”

“ ’Cause I’ve watched every show they ever played on YouTube.”

Vlad has a slow and simple way of speaking, but I’m realizing he’s not an idiot. Or at least, not all the time. We get in a mostly good-natured argument over whether you can judge a live show from a recording, while Adrik quizzes Jasper about his new bike.

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