Page 11 of The Blackened Blade

His eyes widen as a small wet trickle falls down my cheek and a single red droplet makes its way onto the floor between us.

I lean in closer to him, just a fraction of space between us now as our noses almost touch. “Or get used to sharing.”

I pull back, straightening myself in my seat as Mr. Finch writes something on the board.

A loud husky laugh rings out beside me, the whole class falling silent with Mr. Finch dropping his marker and stumbling to pick it up again.

The boy looks at me, his gaze a little less cutting as he wipes his eyes.

He takes the blade, placing it to his lips as he licks the small droplets of blood away, his gaze never leaving mine as his look becomes more curious than cold.

Then he places the small blade back into his pocket.

“It's been a while since I’ve had anything fun to play with.” A wicked smile spreads across his lips, “And just when I was getting bored, too.”

His eyes trail down my frame before flickering back toward my gaze.

He slowly leans back down on the desk, resting his head on his arms, his gaze unflinching as he watches me.

He gives me one last crazed grin before slowly closing his eyes again.

Other than a few quick curious glances and some light whispers, the rest of the class continues without a problem. Mr. Finch continues his lesson, a little more nervous than when it began, and I get to enjoy over an hour and a half of ‘World History’in all its boring glory. Another thing I hated about my previous life,the classes.

I yawn, stretching a little as I lift myself up with the ring of the class bell, and make my way to the door.

I grab the sheet with my schedule on it as I make my way outside, and freeze at the words listing my next class,‘Music of the Arts’.

It wasn’t the class I had the problem with, but the words following this particular lesson,‘Group class; 2nd, 3rd and 4th years.’

My half sister Seria was a year below me, so thankfully we didn't have many chances during class times to meet. Except this one.

Every second class, every Monday for an entire year, I would have to see her. This time knowing her smiles and sweet words were all fake. A show or performance to make herself seem innocent and kind to others, hiding her dark malice under a gentle mask.

I head to the class a few doors down and stop just feet from the classroom. A tinkling laughter filters out through the door and I freeze.

Her voice used to always remind me of a fairy or what I’d imagine a mermaid or siren would sound like. So sweet, so angelic.

I truly loved my sister. She had joined our family late, when I was fourteen and she was just thirteen. I had longed for affection and had hoped we would bond as sisters.

I never understood why the few friends I had around me left me after she came, or why their gazes toward me turned cold.Now I do.

Most of the miserable moments I suffered and tears I shed had been some orchestrated scheme or manipulation of hers. She had happily admitted at least that much herself the last time I had seen her before the Facility.

I take a step toward the room, my gaze hardening toward the door as my rage begins to build.

A hard shove slams into my shoulder, making me stumble to the side as the group of male students chuckles echo around the corridor as they leave.

My anger gets pushed to the back of me as I realise where I am, and that the girl through those doors didn’t know I knew she was a fake, evil bitch who deserved every drop of misery she had served me on a platter, and then the whole buffet to follow.

I take a slow breath, calming my anger.

Now wasn’t the time.

I wasn’t strong enough to take her and her lackeys on. I couldn’t even manage to hold my own and not fumble when that group pushed me. There was no way to protect myself from what would come if I took her on now. I was physically too weak.

I had to train first. I had the time now, plenty in fact.

One moment of pain would never make up for what she’s done to me over the years anyway, and of what I’ve suffered because of her.

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