Page 29 of A Dead Man's B-Side
Wolf shrugged, “It isn’t unheard of, a Saltford or a Windsor marrying anyone other than each other. But for centuries, their heirs have marriedonlyeach other. They’re like rare collectibles.”
“And the Letums? They wizards or something?”
Wolf laughed, “Good lord, no. They’re just…” He jutted out his bottom lip, failing to find a better synonym. “Dark. Their children have probably never seen the light of day if their grandfather had a say in it. And he most likely has.”
I raised my brows at the information.
I find truth, now, in the phrasing that rich people pay in blood. These people have most likely killed a person or two to remain in power.
A dead son by suicide, a broken marriage by force, a dark family by death.
Wolf seemed to be in thought before he spoke, “I believe the Letums have a son. Our age. But that’s only information E–... I heard.”
His mood dampened with the pause of his words, something in his mind and slip of tongue reminding him of old and sorrowful times.
I let him wallow before turning on August. “And you? What do you have to contribute?”
August seemed offended, but I could tell my words made him itch to prove himself, most likely from lack of friends and in hope ofnew ones. “Well, if youmustknow, Rain Atlas Jett didn’t use her grandmother’s name to become student body president. She’s vicious all on her own.”
I rested my face. “Well, I assumed as muchon my own. What with her forcing students into becoming tour guides.”
He rolled his eyes before leaning over me to tap his cigarette lightly atop the soap tray. I leaned away at his closeness with a scowl, but he didn’t seem bothered as he sat back and crossed his legs. “Oh, she did that, did she? Who’d you fall into the hands of?”
“Ajax and Paris.”
“Sheesh, that’s like forcing America and Japan into a ballet duet.”
I scrunch my face at his innuendo. “Do you hear yourself sometimes?”
“Well, I have ears.” He said stupidly, running a hand through his red curls.
There was too much to unpack with a boy like August, so, like any sane person, I chose to ignore him.
If I were sponsored by a board member, I wouldn’t have expected such unfamiliar names. Mr Browne was a ghost in the mist, but he didn’t seem to recognize me.
Or maybe I received my admission by simply writing an essay.
Perhaps it was just that simple.
It seemed the most likely answer. The real mystery wasn’t me or my place here. It was Mr Browne and people like Rain Atlas Jett with the power to look into my past.
I feared for what may find me the longer I remained.
“Are you American?” Wolf asked abruptly.
August perked up. “Yeah, I was meaning to ask. Where’d they find you, Alex?”
I pondered on whether I should tap the burning ash down on his hand at the nickname but thought better of it–no use making enemies when you can make allies. “New York City.”
“Oh, a city boy. I thought, with the accent, you’d be from… I don’t know, Russia. Well, I’m from Philly, myself. Guess we’re both used to rats and trash, eh?”
I remained silent, feeling slightly put off by the conversation. But grateful for how quickly August brushed over it.
It wasn’t exactly shocking, my accent. I’ve heard plenty of accents today alone. But the knowledge that I didn’t speak my own native language was. At least to whoever asked.
On the rats and trash, I wanted to agree, albeit on a deeper, more intimate level than he.
We both turned to Wolf, who shrugged sheepishly. “No trash in Newport.”
