Page 87 of The Pawn

I'm probably in for some kind ofCarriemoment at the prom. The note I got the night in the enclosure made it clear that I'm supposed to leave or face the consequences.

Let them do their worse.

I have no farther to fall from grace.

* * *

The Blind Ball

My pale pink dress flatters my skin, its gems glimmering subtly in the light. It cinches tight at my waist and pushes up in a flattering way.

I've got my black pleather clutch in one hand, the token for the dance slipped inside. I have no doubt that my date will be some kind of catch or trick. Maybe, unlike all the other girls, I'll have no date. Or maybe they'll trick me, setting me up with someone just to get me alone and mess with me.

I won't be fooled. I'm strong enough to see through them. I've slept with the wolves and been marked by the snake in the grass. They can try to tempt me into falling for their tricks, but I refuse. Whoever my date is, I'm ready for them, and I've got just the plan to deal with them: if Hector and I both hate our dates, we'll switch and have a friends night together.

Justa friends night. Nothing else. After all my fateful encounters with the Elites, I don't want another complicated make-out session.

My phone buzzes with a text from Hector himself.How fashionably late do we want to be?

Not too late. I want to get out of there before the rich kids start humping in the dark corners.I shudder at the memory of what I saw Tanner and Chrissy up to.Maybe 30 after?

Got it. See you soon. I'll pick you up in my Benz.

I laugh at his joke, knowing he's going to be showing up on foot to lead me across campus to the ballroom. Thankfully it's not unusual for students to switch dates on Blind Ball night; after one dance with your chosen partner, it's somewhat expected. Apparently the gay and lesbian student body made a fuss a few years back, and now the ball is only blind dates on paper, supposedly to encourage new friendships with students we don't share a dorm with. No doubt in a few years they'll figure out some other way to reinvent the tradition so it fits in more with the 21st century.

I'm outside,Hector texts.

Stowing my phone in my clutch and double-checking my hair one last time, the bouncy curls I put in it reminding me painfully of the time Holly did my hair for the ice cream social, I head out the door and slowly walk towards the front gates. I picked shoes with a kitten heel for tonight, afraid that I'll make a fool of myself otherwise. I've never been very good at balancing on high heels.

Hector is waiting for me by the gate, wearing a dark blue suit that cuts across his figure handsomely, his tattoos covered up. He smells faintly of spicy cologne and gives me a friendly smile.

"You look fabulous," he says, eyeing me just for a moment, his eyes skimming rather than lingering. "Whoever you've been paired off with, he's one lucky guy."

"Thank you. You too, Hector."

I put my arm on his elbow, and he sighs forlornly. "Why did you have to quit the Rosalinds? You could've paired me off with Victoria Ruiz. Or Toni Brown. I wouldn't say no to either."

I dodge the real answer to his question. "It just wasn't right for me. And I'm so behind in my schoolwork that I didn't have time to plan parties and social events."

"Hmmm." Hector cuts his eyes at me, brows raised, mouth quirked upwards on one end. "One of these days, Brenna Cooke, you'll get better at lying."

I don't tell him that one of my biggest lies just fell out of his mouth, with him none of the wiser. Cole has kept my secret—for now—and so has anyone else he's told. But I don't believe that can last for long, even if he's still busy licking his wounds from the Legacies exposé on him. He's been disappearing every weekend for trips up to Albany to speak to law enforcement and stand by his father's side in exhaustive interviews. He still maintains his innocence, even as the story closes down around him, and no one truly believes he had nothing to do with that girl's death.

No doubt he'll be gone again this weekend, especially since the governor finally resigned under immense pressure. His father is already working his strings, getting his patsies to call for a special election so they can put someone else favorable to them in the office. Whispers claim he's hoping for a pardon for his son if heisbrought up on any charges concerning the two deaths, whether for manslaughter or the cover up.

If nothing else, Legacies got that post right, I'm sure of it. And the furor has died down over the post I made on Lukas DuPont, who everyone seems to agree was falsely smeared—even if no one seems to have figured out who really did it. Apparently that tattoo on his ankle was a common flash, given out in a tattoo parlor in New York City that was shut down for not carding its customers properly. Any number of boys could have it, but my gut tells me the truth: that Ferdinand Von Hassell drugged and raped Mariana. One day he'll see justice, even though the camera never captured his face.

"You're quiet," Hector comments, drawing me out of my thoughts. "What are you thinking about?"

I dare to admit the truth. "Murder. Cover ups. Sexual assault."

"Coleridge," he says, easily filing in the details. "If he had his wits about him, my dad would pull me out of this damned school. But he still insists that it's an opportunity I shouldn't pass up. Despite everything he's still loyal to the Masterson family. They even invited us to their winter ski trip, and he's dragging me along with him." He makes a disgusted noise. "Can you imagine volunteering to be around those people?"

"Sorry." The thought of spending a vacation with Cole's harsh green eyes on me sends shudders up and down my spine and tingles running up my arms. "At least he won't bully you in front of your parents."

"Oh, in front of them, sure he's a little lamb. But they turn their backs plenty." He sighs and shakes his head. "But let's not let talk of the devil incarnate ruin tonight. It's the last social night before finals take over and we have to leave for winter break, after all. Gotta have fun while we still came."

I murmur my assent, even as my eyes travel to the ballroom. Technically, during the day it's the dining hall, but the tables and chairs have been cleared, and the dish washing station is enclosed behind a wooden panel. What remains are the historic pieces of architecture it's impossible to imagine high school students ignore every day: painted decorative tiles, the swooping beams of the ceiling, stained glass windows set high in the walls, and a carved wooden relief of philosophers lecturing on the double doors we walk through. There are bits of Greek and Roman influence throughout the room, something I know not because of Lukas DuPont's lecturing but because of my own studying of the history of this place.

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