Page 76 of Kingmakers, Year One

I look around gleefully, wanting to see the rage in his face when he reads the list. Unfortunately, he’s not around.

That’s fine. I’ll rub it in soon enough.

I wish the competition started today. I’m so fucking ready—I’m gonna be the first ever Freshman to win this thing.

“Looks like most of the team Captains are Heirs,” Anna muses, reading the rest of the list.

I’d barely even glanced at the other names. Now I read them more carefully, considering who I’m up against.

I know who Pippa Portnoy is, because she was Anna’s guide on the first day of school. She’s the least physically intimidating of the Captains, only five feet tall and pixyish. But that doesn’t fool me—Anna told me Pippa’s top of the Senior class in grades, and sly as well as smart. She’s always surrounded by friends, who pay her obvious respect despite her tiny frame.

“Where’s Pippa from, anyway?” I ask Anna, thinking I better do a little research on my competitors.

“She’s the heir to the Liverpudlian Mafia,” Anna says. “And she’s betrothed to the heir to the Real IRA, Liam Murphy. Her family specializes in drug trafficking and contract kills, so don’t think she’s a sweetheart just because she looks like Audrey Hepburn.”

I assure her, “‘Sweetheart’ is not an assumption I make around here.”

“Calvin Caccia’s the one Miles pointed out to us in the dining hall,” Ares says.

“Right,” I nod. “From New York. What about the other one—Kasper Markaj. Anybody know him?”

“He’s the only one who isn’t an Heir,” Anna tells me. “He’s an Enforcer for the Albanians. Big dude, longish hair—the one always playing soccer outside the walls.”

“Right.” I nod.

The competition seems a lot more real all of a sudden. Particularly with the other Freshmen eying me, sizing me up. Hoping that they picked the right person to lead us. Plus a few resentful side-eyes from those who wanted the Captainship themselves.

I’ll have to get them all behind me, one way or another. Or we don’t have a hope of winning.

I look across the commons at Bram Van Der Berg, who’s glaring at me with pure loathing, arms folded stubbornly across his chest.

I have to get them all in line, one way or another. Even the ones who hate me.

11

DEAN

I’m lying on my bed reading a book when Bram comes storming in. Bram is moody as fuck, and he’s always getting riled up about something. They probably ran out of the bread he likes down in the dining hall.

“Fucking bullshit!” he cries, throwing himself down on his own bed. His mass makes the springs creak alarmingly and he doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting his dirty boots on his blanket. He also appears to have a fresh bandage wrapped around his forearm.

“Problem?” I say, turning the page of my book.

Bram glares at me.

“Why are youreading? I thought you finished that project with Wednesday Addams.”

Bram thinks he’s funny. Calling Anna “Wednesday Addams” is low-hanging fruit.

It doesn’t suit her, anyway. She’s not gloomy and sarcastic. If I were going to liken her to someone from a TV show it would be . . . Dark Phoenix fromX-Men. Powerful and otherworldly.

Of course I’m not going to say that to Bram.

I’m not going to say anything to him about Anna.

He’s right that our project is finished. We got a perfect score, including bonus credit for the illustrated chart Anna made to accompany our oral presentation.

I’ve been feeling dull since then. No more trips to the library.

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