Page 99 of Gemini Kings
The deep gong of the church bell comes as a welcome relief. Even though I have been dreading all day the next block of time in my academic schedule.
I push to my feet, but I linger, strategically gathering my books and stowing the leather-backed journal Lucius has given me into my shabby backpack. I am letting the room empty out before me, so I will be the last to depart, with none of these hostile students at my back.
Chattering easily to each other in a way I have never experienced in any interaction with my own peers, my classmates idle out the door in twos and threes, textbooks clutched to their chests, casting wary or sullen looks in my direction.
Still, no one attempts to speak to me.
Once they are all safely gone, even Racetrack abandons me, muttering something about meeting Dez for study hall and something else about me staying out of the boys’ john unless I want to get my dragon ass kicked. Although I am very slightly sorry to see her go, I do not respond. I will surely not thank her for this superfluous companionship I did not request.
No doubt this is why, when she finally leaves, she too looks annoyed.
Well, so be it. I am not here to “make friends” with these young witches and warlocks.
I am not like these others.
I do not have “friends.”
This classroom has now emptied, except for the professor, who is erasing her chalkboard with a vigor that belies her many years. I hoist my backpack over one shoulder and trudge for the door. I do not welcome the class I have next.
I am nearly in the corridor when the professor calls, “A moment, if you please, Mr. Rasputin.”
Despite her courteous phrasing, this is not a request.
I circle warily, so my back is not exposed, and approach the old schoolmistress in her Academy robes with caution.
“I was reviewing your file before class,” she says, in a tone that could be gentle, if not for the steel in her canny eyes. “As I do for all new students. Your academic transcript is missing. Have you a copy I might consult?”
My shoulders rise in a defensive clench. Lucius was supposed to explain my situation to the other faculty, but Lucius has had a great deal on his mind. He is going into heat himself (as an alpha, I know all the signs), and he is worried about Vasili, and he is distracted—as we are all distracted—by Zara and her looming superheat.
Well, there is no help for it.
This formidable old woman expects an answer.
“There is no transcript to show you,” I say shortly. “I have attended no formal institution before this one.”
“You’ve studied with private tutors, in that case?” At my silence, her aristocratic face sharpens. “There is no shame in it, Mr. Rasputin. Your tutors would have provided letters of reference outlining your academic progress to the Dean. Might I review a copy of those?”
“There were no tutors.” My voice is too gruff, but I am self-conscious about the state of my education in this elite establishment. “I am… I have only taught myself. From the books in the family dragonlair.”
“You taught yourself?” Surprise flickers in her elegant face, along with a flash of pity that raises all my hackles. “All the elementary spells and potions? The scientific foundations of witchcraft? The histories of the arcane races?”
“I taught myself to read. I studied the major languages. And I read the clan lore and the dragon histories in our lair.” Despite my effort to rein in my aggression, my voice hardens and my chin juts. “The rest I will learn here. I am a quick study.”
It is rude to speak so curtly to an elder, but I do not want anyone’s pity. Nor do I care to answer her inevitable questions about why I am self-taught, or why even now I am enrolled at this Academy in defiance of my Lady Mother, who never gave me leave to abandon the lair.
Already I am backing away, although the schoolmistress has not dismissed me.
“Mr. Rasputin.” Her tone makes clear that she expects my obedience.
I have tried everyone’s patience enough already, and I do not wish to be sent away from my queen. So I stop (reluctantly) and wait.
“I cannot stay,” I say as politely as I can manage. “I have another class. I will be late.”
“I’m going to recommend a Genetics tutor,” she says, gently but quite firmly, so I know this is no recommendation but more of a command. “The brightest pupil in this school is Neo Mercury, the First Boy on the Dean’s List. A member of your cohort at Villa Augustus, I believe?”
My mind summons up an image of the boy with the soft curls and the scholar’s spectacles and the gentle eyes. The one who calls himself my queen’s fated mate. I am envious of that one, envious of the way she loves him.
She does not flee from that one.
