Page 49 of Kingmakers, Year Two

I’m good at reading people. I look for micro-expressions—hints of fear, anxiety, desire, deception in their face.

Rocco doesn’t have micro-expressions. His emotions aren’t complex. His intentions are simple: he wants to hurt Zoe for the fun of it. And he wants me to stop inconveniencing him.

“We’re not going to stand by for that,” I tell him flatly.

“That’s your choice,” Rocco says. “This was your warning. There won’t be another.”

Ozzy returns from the supply cupboard, arms laden with baggies and jars. Carefully he sets them down on the table, then slides into his chair once more. He looks over at Rocco, his broad face creased in a scowl, checking to see if we’re still barking back and forth at each other. Rocco smiles at him, his thin lips like a gash in the lower half of his face.

Wade finishes gathering his supplies, his arms even more heavily-laden than Ozzy’s. He walks slowly and deliberately. As he passes Ozzy, he drops an open beaker of clear fluid all over Ozzy’s bare forearm.

Howling, Ozzy leaps up from his seat.

The fluid sizzles on his arm, his flesh instantly lobster red and even bubbling in places. I smell chlorine.

Ozzy tries to run for the door, probably to sprint to the infirmary, but I seize him by the collar of his sweater vest and drag him backward. Yanking the faucet handle, I seize Ozzy’s wrist and thrust his arm under the steady flow of cold water to flush the area clean.

“What’s going on?” Professor Lyons shouts.

“Wade spilled something on Ozzy’s arm,” I say. “I think it’s hydrochloric acid.”

Professor Lyons uses tongs to lift the spilled beaker off the desktop and hold it aloft in front of her safety glasses. She squints at the soaked, blurred label.

“Why was this open?” she demands.

“It was an accident,” Wade says, trying to get in front of the story before we can accuse him. “I thought it was benzene.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” she snaps. “Go to the cabinet. Get me calcium gluconate. Try reading the label this time.” Then, adjusting the faucet slightly, she says to me, “You keep that water running over his arm for twenty minutes. Not too hard—just like this.”

“It wasn’tan accident,” I tell her.

She surveys the scene with eyes no longer sleepy but sharp as a hawk. “How do you know? Wadeisan idiot.”

“He tripped,” Dax says from behind me. “Miles stuck his foot out on purpose. I saw the whole thing.”

“That’s fucking bullshit!” I snarl.

Professor Lyons ignores my profanity. Cursing is common as breathing at Kingmakers.

“Twenty minutes,” she reminds me. “Then we’ll apply the calcium gluconate.”

Ozzy’s face is a rictus of pain, his lips drawn back to show his tightly-clenched teeth, his stocky body rigid and trembling as the acid continues to burn the exposed nerves of his arm. I hope the cool water is soothing him a little.

As soon as Professor Lyons moves away to dispose of the empty beaker of acid, I hiss at Wade, “You’re fucking dead for this.”

He smirks. “They’re not even gonna punish me. It’s four against two that I’m just clumsy.”

“Think twice before you stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” Dax grunts at me, shoving his desk forward so it hits the back of my legs. I’d fucking pop him, but I have to keep holding Ozzy’s arm under the water. Ozzy’s shaking so hard that I don’t think he could do it himself.

I’m ten times angrier that Wade attacked Ozzy than if he’d dropped that shit on me. I’m sure that’s why he did it—failing to protect your soldiers is a grave insult in our world. Ozzy isn’t really my soldier—he’s an Heir himself, the only child of the Duncans, with sole control of criminal activity within Tasmania. But on campus, I make the plans and he helps execute them. As with any set of best friends, one of us has to take the lead.

I feel responsible for this.

The burn is fucking awful, the flesh raw and sure to scar.

“You’re gonna be okay,” I mutter to Ozzy.

“I know,” he grunts, red and sweating with pain. “It’s not that. It’s my Tails.”

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