Page 121 of Kingmakers, Year Two

I try to tell her that will never happen.

“You know you’ll always be my best friend, and I’ll always take care of you, Cat. No matter what happens with me and Miles, that will never change.”

“I know,” Cat says, looking at me with her huge dark eyes that seem to take up half her face.

“What’s wrong, then? Are you still worried about Rocco? He hasn’t said a word to me. I really think he’s going to drop it. The Princes won’t want to jeopardize all the money they’re making. Miles could still shut down the server if Rocco tries to fuck with us.”

Cat just looks at me, solemn and pale.

“Is it final exams?” I prod her. “Your grades are much better now, I’m sure you?—”

“It’s nothing.” She shakes her head. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long year.”

The last eventof theQuartum Bellumtakes place on a sweltering Friday in May.

The sun beats down on our heads like we’re in the tropics, every member of our team sweating before the challenge has even begun.

The Sophomores face off against the Juniors. Bleachers have been re-erected around the open field so that the rest of the school can watch.

Leo is, of course, hoping to lead us to victory for the second year in a row. If we’re champions four years running, he’ll beat the record previously set by Adrik Petrov, the St. Petersburg Enforcer whose name has gone down in legend as the only Captain to win three years in a row.

Adrik graduated right before I came to Kingmakers, so I never laid eyes on him, but Miles assures me that his exploits are not exaggerated.

“He was the fuckin’ man alright,” Miles says. “I never saw somebody so good at absolutely everything. Some people thought he was an asshole, but I liked him.”

“You like assholes,” Leo says.

“That’s why we’ve always been good friends,” Miles grins.

“I’m gonna beat his record,” Leo says, full of competitive fire. “In theQuartum Bellum,and everything else.”

“Good luck with that,” Miles says. “You’re off to the right start today—I don’t think it’s gonna be that hard to beat the Juniors.”

“That’s your team,” I remind him.

Miles and I are standing across from each other on the field, him in a black shirt, me in white. Technically we’re adversaries and I’m supposed to do my best to defeat him. In practice, I can’t stop staring at his handsome face, and I think I’d hand him a trophy right now if he asked for it nicely.

Miles looks around at the rest of the Juniors, which include the Captain Simon Fowler, Kasper Markaj, Jasper Webb, and Dax Volker, as well as the Bratva Heir Claire Turgenev and her cousin Neve Markov, and my own cousin Martin. That would be their “all-star lineup,” if you wanted to pick out the best. The rest range from mediocre to poor in strength and skill-set.

“My team’s shit,” Miles says, bluntly. “It’s just the way it goes. Some years are stronger than others. I don’t care. I’d rather you beat us quick so I can get out of this heat.”

“Where’s Rocco?” I say suddenly, looking around.

Rocco is a Junior. He’s supposed to be here on the field. Attendance to theQuartum Bellumis mandatory.

“Who cares?” Miles says. “It’s his problem if he gets caught skipping out. Kinda wish I had the same idea. Too late now, though—Professor Howell already saw me.”

Professor Howell strides to the center of the pitch, his favorite silver whistle bouncing against his chest. Sweat already gleams on his lean, tanned face and in his tightly-cropped black hair.

“Ready everyone?” he bellows.

There’s a weak, heat-blasted cheer from the crowd, and an even weaker shout of acknowledgment from the competitors.

Professor Howell raises his starter pistol to the cloudless sky and fires.

23

MILES

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