Page 5 of The Teras Trials

“Yes, sir,” I mutter, standing straight. If I had any fire in me, I might have talked back. But all I can think about is my family. A shared name, a shared fate. Ruining my reputation means ruining theirs, and I cannot do that to them. I give a little bow of my head and hope the dean can see the real depth in it, the deference, the defeat. “Sorry, sir.”

“We shall see you next week. Prepare for enrolment, Cassius—once you’ve read that letter.”

* * *

Thaddeus slams the letter down on the table. I jump harder than I mean to, body reacting to memories of anger and preparing early for a strike that doesn’t come. Sweat prickles at the back of my neck. I try to settle myself like I don’t care. But there is anger in the air so thick I can feel my hands start to shake with it.

Thad had been a storm blazing through the streets of London as he walked home. I’d exited the dean’s office to find him fuming, letter half-crumpled in his hand. And without uttering a word he’d burst from the University’s grounds and stomped through the near empty streets, sidestepping other graduates and sneering at the Working Class with far more venom than usual.

“Christ’s sake,” Thaddeus says. Now at home, he runs his hands down his face. Despair is new to Thaddeus, as well as that frightening hint of desperation. I haven’t heard this kind of tone from his mouth for a long while. “They can’t do this.”

“Well, they’re the University, brother. Pretty sure they can do whatever they damn well please.” I try to keep my hands steady as I light a cigarette, body turned away from my brother’s scorn. Thad doesn’t even try to rip it from my grasp, and that says plenty about his state of mind. He just stands there, catatonic like our father.

“Will you let me read the bloody thing now?” I mutter, exhaling smoke. Thaddeus doesn’t move, though it seems the fight has left him. I seize the opportunity and edge the letter closer to read it.

At first it reads like a plain invitation, willing me to apply for the University and take part in admissions. But it’s more than that.

It contains a threat.

Thaddeus throws his fist on the table. I jerk away again, picking the letter up to save the crumpled thing from my brother’s rage. I read it over again, holding the smoke in my lungs until they burn. The cig is good but not enough to stop the dread. It creeps up my back, prickly tingles edging up my spine.

I let the cig burn away. I’m barely smoking it now.

I don’t know what I’m going to do.

“What is it?”

I flinch again because I recognise the voice, and more than anything, I don’t want her to know. But my mother edges into the room. She’s been out in London, and she closes the door behind her, smoothing down a hoop skirt. God, she looks awful. She looks exhausted, melancholic. I’m not sure what’s done it. The state of my father always makes her sad, but so does half the people who claim to be her friend. Londoners know we aren’t really one of them—even if Thaddeus’ graduation earned us a place here. We are new money.

I exhale, knowing that whether I tell her or not, her day is only going to get worse. I still can’t bring myself to say it, so I lie and say, “It’s fine.”

My mother is too smart. The exhaustion leaves her, and she perks up, purses her lips. She sees the look on Thaddeus’ face, the sheer anger, and wraps her shawl tighter around her. Thaddeus is unapproachable, so the onus is on me. My mother drops her eyes. “Cassius?”

I can only shake my head. I feel the helplessness bubble up in me, but I can’t let it devolve into anger. I chance a look at my father. The old man is propped up in the lounge room and staring vacantly out at the dreary London sky. This is his every day. I stare at him and see everything our life will become if the threat in that letter comes to pass.

University admission means you can live in London, and graduation means your family can, too. And all of London is safe behind the wards. There is no saying where they came from—the massive crystal wards that protect us—or who made them, though a dozen London-based families claim a generational link to their creator. Or founders. The stories say God blessed this city and made it his bastion to protect us from the evils Satan unleashed upon the world. But many families resist the church’s input, and claim scientific genius, or a stroke of luck. There is no single story; like every myth, there are variations. Numerous accounts. All this to say that, in the end, does it really matter? As much as the scholar in me craves their origin, the basest human part of me is grateful enough for their protection.

They stand taller than any man; wide and imperfect crystal structures that are placed at each gate around the walled city. The protection they offer is invisible to the eye, but it is there. Somehow, they guarantee safety from the teras.

There is, of course, a price. For those who live in London, it comes at the cost of a member of your family dedicating their life to fighting the threat. It is one of the only ways to get into the city long-term, unless you are descended from the Working Class which keeps the place running.

Thaddeus didn’t mind it. He revelled in it, really. Hunter. Saviour of the Jones family. Some of that joy is innocent; I know my brother is glad for the knowledge, the lessons on how to defend himself, and I remember hearing Thaddeus crying with relief the night of his graduation, guaranteeing our safety in London so long as he was a practising Hunter. But the darker side is that Thaddeus loves the glory. The power he has over our family.

That’s why he’s angry now, I think. Everything is suddenly out of his hands.

“What is it?” my mother says again. Thaddeus comes forward to block her, but she shoves past him and snatches the letter from my hands.

She can read but not well. I wait for her to parse it. I lower myself into a waiting chair and focus on the cigarette, on the burning smell, the aftertaste in my throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her. She reads it slowly, hovering on each word. Then she reads it frantically, then again. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling like all the air has been knocked out of me, like moving will exhaust me. Then I hear my mother sob. My heart twists. The sound is a hollow thud that warps into a high keening, and she crumples to the floor in front of me, and I don’t know what to do. I hesitate, my hand close to her head, and then I look up at the ceiling, blinking, trying to make out the delicate patterns in the cornices to keep my mind off what is happening. My mother grabs at my pants, hands desperately clawing at me.

“Cassius,” she cries. She screams it like I’m dying. Like she is dying. Her voice breaks halfway through and makes my name a whisper. A prayer. She is praying to God with every syllable. “Cassius, please. Please.”

My father doesn’t react. Thaddeus presses his fist against his mouth. But my mother is on the floor hysterical, pulling at my clothes. I have never seen her beg before.

“Stop it.” My voice cracks. I hate it. I hate sounding weak. I try in vain to gently shake her off, prying her hands away from my pants, but she holds them tight and pleads. The letter scrunches up in her fist.

I feel like my insides are cooking. My chest is heavy. I’m nauseous and sweating. “Stop it,” I whisper again, over the sound of her cries.

“Please, you have to—”

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