Page 220 of Because I Killed Him
Even if Blues are the true enemy, Heretics aren’t far behind. Taking out one of their nests—especially one that’s likely coordinating attacks that kill twice as many innocent low-citizens as corrupt Blues—would be a start, a first step toward changing things the way Dad does.
“I want to get to work now,” I add. “While I’m home for the summer.”
Jerome’s eyes narrow, then he grins. “You asking for my number, Waldsten?”
I cross my arms, already immune to the jabs. “Yes. So get used to my voice. I’ll have questions.”
“Got one now?”
“A few. How’d you find out about this forum? The Flamingo Club?”
“A Heretic spilled it during an interrogation. A sixth-year called Weathers.”
Immediately, I know he’s talking about Eve Weathers, our former Grandmaster. I see her in my mind, dragged out of Green Dormitory in her pajamas, her lip split open, yet her head still held high.
“It was luck, really,” Jerome goes on. “She wasn’t even on our radar. The Coppers were investigating her first.”
“For what?”
“For being a Vulgar.”
He says it like an inside joke, a throwback to my fight with Edmund in the rain. But I’m not laughing because that’s not me. Loving someone outside your blood color is one thing, but being a Vulgar is something else entirely.
“By the way,” Jerome says. “I hope it goes without saying that you’re gonna need to steer clear of Blues until this op is over. You don’t join their entourages. You don’t talk to them. Hell, you don’t even crack a smile theirway. One wrong look at your Blue boyfriend and the Heretics will know you’re not one of them.”
I touch the Aegis on my thumb, a restless weight settling in my chest. It feels like a big commitment, though I can’t quite say why. My relationship with Edmund is over, as broken as the wire daffodil I threw at him.
“I have an Aegis,” I point out. “Won’t that alone give me away? The Heretics will know I’m not one of them.”
“Only if theyknowyou have it.” Jerome takes my hand, his fingers closing over my thumb as he squeezes the Aegis until it glows blue. Then he slides the Aegis beneath my Blood Ring, where it settles with a soft click.
“Where’d it go?” I ask. “In my Blood Ring?”
“Kind of. Don’t fiddle with it or take it off to show anyone. If you do, I’ll know.” He sips from his energy drink. “It’s an Aegis designed for informants. Anyone who connects to your Bond—Heretics, Coppers, whoever—will see a fake home screen. They won’t know you have an Aegis or how many civil credits you’re sitting on. Which is a lot, by the way, so don’t get tempted to start helping poor bastards in need. You’ll raise suspicion.”
Jerome checks the clock as if he’s got somewhere else to be. “Any other questions?”
“Just one. Who are the other students? The ones going into the Flamingo Club with me?”
“Better if you don’t know. If the Heretics crack you, we don’t want the whole operation unraveling around you.”
I nod. Fair enough.
“I’ll say this, though.” He looks me up and down, still assessing, still doubtful. “You came out on top. The other recent hires didn’t get Aegises. They’re getting free academic credits to compensate for the study time they’ll lose working for us. Not you, though. You’ll come here next year, tutor with me, and sit through every lecture. If the Heretics don’t break your head, maybe I will.”
“Fine by me,” I say, because I agree I came out on top. “I’ll see you next year, Professor. In the meantime, I’ll need your number.”
Jerome transfers the information with a swipe of his Blood Ring, then adds, “I don’t think you’ve got it in you to pull this off, Waldsten. That’s obvious. But if you do, it’d be damned good. If we gut this nest, beak to tail, we’ll both walk away with Meritorious Service Crests.”
I stare at him, and the hope in his eyes mirrors the sudden, fiery rush in my chest. He’s talking about a medal for classified acts of service, the kind no one knows the details of but that everyone respects. A future in politics like Dad’s wouldn’t be out of reach for me, then. The door would swing open by itself.
“I won’t waste it,” I say.
Then I turn and walk out, my steps fueled by the first hungry, all-consuming taste of purpose.
In the foyer, Henry sits in a chair, eyes open but vacant, frozen in that unsettling half-life they call standby mode. I move past the robot, eager to get out the door and feel the Aegis on my skin in the open air. But something stops me, pulling at the part of me that still believes in gratitude, even toward a machine that can’t feel it.
“Thank you, Henry,” I say softly. “For helping Charlotte and me, and for stopping Rosamund.”
