Page 15 of Validus Vale Academy 1
“It’s Dharla,” she mutters, an angry flush staining her cheeks.
Ha. Knew it started with a D. “Close the door on your way out.”
As she’s about to make her exit, Manu and Troy come barrelling through the apartment door. Dharla/Darcy plasters on a saccharine, nervous smile and bats her eyelashes some more.
Troy bulldozes past her, but Manu’s hand finds purchase on her ass. Predictably, she giggles, followed by the obligatory lip bite and the hair twirl. The humans here in Havengard are always desperate for a taste of magic. Pathetic. They should stay in their lane.
“Looking for some fun, mama?” Manu slings an arm around her shoulders, his fingers grazing her breast.
“I love fun!” The woman seems eager to be dragged into Manu’s bedroom; more fool her. There is somethingoffabout Manu Hale. The jock façade is paper-thin, revealing a disturbing serial-killer style hollowness in his eyes.
This year, he’d clawed his way to second in the Elite rankings. This meant he and his Neanderthal friend, Troy Farrington, who was ranked third, were now my unwelcome roommates.
Another bedroom door slams open, and the twat himself swaggers back out and over to the liquor cabinet. Troy takes my Irish whiskey, slops a generous amount into a tumbler, thenturns, offering me a drink with a smug tilt of his head. My teeth grind together, not impressed by his attitude. At some point soon, I’m going to have to set some ground rules. i.e.,Irule this school andmyword is law.
Fuck.
The standard of the Elite is plummeting. Last year, as a mere sophomore, I topped the rankings. Now? No one even comes close; certainly not the likes of Manu Hale.
Though I’m surprised Troy Farrington is so feeble, considering his parents are Conclave members. It seems like the only Elites worth keeping an eye are fucking Jordan Singleton-Smith, and a freshman, François de Vaux. Power pulses from them both, though de Vaux is more subtle than Jordan, just quietly observing everything. But, however skilled that young Elite may be, he won’t match Dono and Wes.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.Regret isn’t an emotion I indulge in often, but the twins—that is a wound that refuses to heal, constantly raw. I would fix it, but they’d made their choice. Which was a monumental fuck-up on their side of the equation.
“You scope out any fresh meat yet?” Troy’s tiresome voice drags me back to the here and now. “I saw a couple of eager little sluts I wouldn’t mind breaking in.”
No, I won’t be ‘scoping out’ the freshmen girls. I’m not interested in blushing virgins.
Troy starts shoveling my cacio e pepe into his mouth. “Isn’t there any fucking meat in this?” he grumbles, oblivious.
“Cacio e pepe means cheese and pepper. It’s simple but nearly impossible to perfectly execute,” I say, the words lost on him as he roots around in the refrigerator. He emerges, clutching cold cuts triumphantly. “Better,” he declares, chewing with his mouth open.
“That is jamón ibérico,” I say. “Spanish Iberian ham.”
“Cool.”
A slice of the ($200/lb) meticulously cured meat slips onto the floor. Troy ignores it and turns back to the pasta. Fuck this imbecile. With a flick of my fingers, I send a sharp gust of air across the room, slapping Troy's moronic face.
“Hey!” he snarls, a fork clattering to the polished floor to join the ham. His fists clench, but the fight drains out of him before it has even begun. Pathetic. “Pick up your mess,” I snarl, and he complies. The utter lack of challenge is mind-numbingly boring.
The twins challenged me.
And in the end, they’d won.
A knock echoes at the apartment door. I flick my gaze to Troy and incline my head. He groans but lumbers to answer it. A nervous Communis student stands in the hallway.
“Come in, Simon,” I say, giving Troy a dismissive wave of my hand. “What have you got?” My network of informants is crucial. I have ears and eyes everywhere, gathering information. I loathe being out of the loop.
“Oh, well, Mr. Drakeward, it’s….” Simon tugs at the hem of his hideous gray blazer, his gaze fixed on the parquet.
“Well?” I prompt, my patience wearing thin despite Simon’s past usefulness.
“It’s a new girl,” he mumbles, a sweat breaking out on his upper lip. “I thought you should know.”
New girl?
“Know what, Simon? Spit it out.”
He fidgets, his anxiety radiating off him in waves. “Simon?” I repeat, my tone softening slightly. He knows better than to waste my time.
