Page 6 of Beta Lies and Cursed Lives
Several people wander around the interior, all with glowing collars around their necks, but only a few pay any attention to us. It’s as if they all have better things to do with their time than worry about the new arrival.
“Ah! Major Tomlin,” an accented voice calls from above us. My head snaps upward at the sound to find a man, an obvious Alpha by his energy, maybe a decade older than me, descending the stairs. His hair is medium brown, and as he approaches, I see that his eyes are a deep green that pops against his pale skin. He’s tall and slender and quite handsome. But the thing that stands out the most is the fact that he, too, is collared. “I wasn’t expecting you for another few hours,” the man tells the major. His accent is British, but not like the news broadcasters I’ve seen on TV.
“The weather was on our side,” is his chilled response. He pulls on my arm. “This is the newest recruit. Ensure everyone is aware that she’s tactile and uncontrolled.”
The man with the accent narrows his eyes at my bound form andtsksat the major. “Release her,” he demands. “Is she the only one?”
“Yes,” the major says before there’s a click and a loud scraping noise as the binds retract from my wrists. I involuntarily take a deep breath and shake out my limbs a bit to try and bring them back to life.
The Alpha with the accent smiles at me with a kindness that doesn’t feel fake. “I’m Andrew Laurant, the Headmaster here. I coordinate the Cursed recruits, sort of like a mediator between us and the Betas in charge.”
Us,as in Cursed.
“Laurant has proven useful to the Council and the Academy. You will listen to him and obey, as you would any Beta. Is that understood?” Major Tomlin’s tone is brash, and I give an affirmative nod in response. “Good,” he continues. Then, his posture changes as he steps away. “Well,” the major goes on with forced congeniality, “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
Laurant’s head snaps back to the major. “You’re staying?”
That vacant smile remains on his face. “I wouldn’t miss this one’s assessment for anything.”
With that, the major strides past us and around the stairway, out of sight. A moment later, a door slams, and I’m alone with the headmaster in the entryway, not another soul in sight.
Laurant takes a moment to compose himself and clears his throat. “Allow me to give you a brief tour, hm? Then I’ll show you where you’ll be staying. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
He turns on his heel and heads toward the stairs, and I trail behind him. The wood is solid beneath my feet as we curve upward, climbing until we reach the third floor and stop on the landing.
The Headmaster turns back to me, his smile equal parts sad and understanding. “Miranda, is it?”
I swallow hard against the roughness in my throat. “Mira.” My reply is airy and scratchy.
“Mira,” he repeats. “It’s nice to meet you. I wish it were under different circumstances.” A small frown. “Let’s get you something to drink.”
He leads me along a corridor, the floor lined with an ornate runner of deep red, gold, and black. There are solid wooden doors along the walls, most of them closed, all of them with some kind of electronic lock above the handles. The few that stand ajar reveal beds and desks and even some people inside chatting.
“This is the first floor of our living quarters,” the Headmaster explains, sweeping his arm about the hallway. “The fourth floor is also living quarters, and where the faculty resides, along with the youngest attendees who transition here from our sister campus.” He stops in front of a large archway carved into the layered stone wall and lined with a wood border. “This is the third-floor kitchen.”
I inch closer to peer inside to find a vast open-concept floor plan. The main part of the room is filled with tables and chairs, enough to seat at least one hundred people, I’m sure. To the far right is a counter that separates all the kitchen appliances from the main room, a door on the back wall.
It’s completely empty, making me wonder where everyone is.
“Over here,” Laurant says as he walks into the room, his shoes making dull thuds against the tiled floor, the first location I’ve seen without stone floors. He approaches the counter and pulls a card from his pocket, waving it in front of a device. A little beep echoes off the walls, and part of the countertop rises up as the cabinet below it swings inward.
I follow him to the counter but no further.
“Are you hungry?” he calls from inside an enormous refrigerator while grabbing a bottle of water and then placing it on the counter in front of me.
Am I hungry? After everything I’ve just endured?
The answer surprises me. “A little,” I whisper.
Those understanding green eyes meet my gaze. “How about a sandwich? I make a mighty fine grilled cheese.”
At his words, my eyes fill with tears, a few rogues slipping from them and dropping to my cheeks.
Grilled cheese was what my father would always make me when I was sad. It was my favorite.
The Headmaster looks alarmed at my reaction, but I utter a “Please,” and he stands up straight, gives me a single nod, and gets to work.
Grabbing the bottle he’d given me with gloved fingers, I twist the cap open and take a long drink. The liquid is cold in my mouth and down my throat, and this soothes me, not just due to my scratchy throat but it also lowers my body temperature.
