Page 47 of A Dead Man's B-Side
Rain, at the slide of the door, released her hands with barely a glance my way and cleared her throat, as if none of it had happened.
A speedy escape.
And yet, something told me she was plotting her future words carefully as we all waited with bated breaths at who would enter next.
Another student?
I looked around at the seats available and found only one. A single leather, studded armchair sitting next to the fireplace, facing us.
Footsteps approached, and from the darkness emerged a man, a large, unrecognizable man in an unblemished, deep blue three-piece suit. A memory of a plane ride emerged, but I shook it away, not understanding its relevance. He paused under the arched entrance and regarded each one of us with an impassive expression. For a long moment, a moment which allowed me to assess him, no one seemed to breathe.
He reminded me of an unsuspecting serial killer. No one I knew of, but rather an archetype. Those villains you’d never feel an ounce of trepidation towards until it was too late.
Though I wouldn’t go as far as saying the likable villains in novels, the ones that always had a quick tongue with an underside of comedic relief. The ones you feel guilty for hating to see lose when you should be rooting for the hero.
I found myself noting everything wrong with him in hopes of ignoring how perfectly put together he was.
His nose looked as though it’d been previously broken. He was lean and came off as someone who’d prefer winning with their sharpwords rather than their sharp right hook. Though, the dark edge in his eyes told me that if it weren’t an option, he wouldn’t mind things getting dirty.
His face was too angular, cheekbones protruding. Everything about him, I decided, looked wrong. His eyes didn’t match his mouth, his mouth didn’t match his nose, and his nose didn’t fit his face at all.
Perhaps I was acting on pure inferiority.
I’ll admit that I lied about the last part. He was impeccably well-proportioned.
From the way I was describing him, one would think I was in love with him, though I feel Paris had already beaten me halfway there.
Everyone else, aside from myself, seemed to know who this man was from the way in which their eyes widened, and Marigold’s mouth, from where I sneaked a glance, was hanging open. August must have been tapping Ajax incessantly, maybe in shock or in excitement, but Ajax had had enough. I watched as he grabbed August's pinky and rammed it back until a muffled cry sounded.
Right on cue, a clearing of a throat pulled my attention back towards the man. He watched for a few seconds longer before a gleam shone in his eyes and a wide grin spread across his full lips.
“I see all seven of you made it. Perhaps this year will be promising.”
His voice was low but strong, as though it were travelling in waves throughout the walls. A contributing factor might have beenthe thick and posh English accent he held.
When he turned to remove his long black coat, I turned to Paris and whispered, “Who is that?”
She opened her mouth to whisper; her eyes remained following the man’s movements as if in a trance. “That’s–”
He answered me, or rather the room, before she could, “My name is Thaddeus Saltford-Windsor. And as per tradition, welcome to the seventeenth class of the Founder’s Society.”
He threw his coat over the back of the chair and turned to face us as he sat down, quite gracefully, might I add, into his respective seat.
At the responding silence, he lifted his hands before tapping them back onto his thighs. “I expected there to be at least a few questions, but this is wonderful. We’ll be finished in…” he checked his watch, “barely ten minutes, if I manage to monologue that quickly.”
Rain, having not moved a muscle, spoke as though for all of us, which was great because it didn’t look like anyone had the air in them to do as much, “Sir, it is an honour to be considered for such a role. We can only promise and attempt to the best of our ability to meet your standard.”
A dreadful feeling was settling in my gut like thick tar. I didn’t want to join a cult. And I wasn’t keen on having anything tie me down.
Considered for such a role.
To the best of our ability.
I didn’t remember signing up for anything of the sort; all of this had been…
I turned to glare at Wolf, but he didn’t seem to notice the heat of my stare; his eyes almost glazed over as he refused to look away fromThaddeus Saltford-Windsor. As if he’d seen a ghost.
Pompous name.
