Page 97 of Because I Killed Him
“Two thirty-eight? How the hell did you drop that low?”
“I lost over a hundred at the Speakeasy,” I say, reaching for the coffee pot, but Edmund moves it away again. “And you pushing me to break the law every other day doesn’t help. I’m not like you, Jack, and Dickie. I don’t have civil credits to burn. Sometimes it almost seems like you want to get me expe—”
A buzz cuts through my Bond.
I glance down at the screen, and my mouth falls open. Two hundred new civil credits appear, impossible yet real, each like an extra breath of life.
Sender:Edmund Prew.
Gratitude floods in, but confusion crashes right behind. I stare at the civil credits, then at Edmund, then back again. I didn’t realize Blues handed out such large amounts. The only place I know where transfers this big happen is the black market. Suddenly, I understand why Miss Linwood wanted an audience with Edmund so badly. One civil credit transfer from him would’ve eliminated the threat of her expulsion.
Why would he do this? What’s the catch?
“How much do I owe?” I ask.
“At this point, enough to start you a tab.”
“Yes, but what do I pay it with?”
“You pay it by following my rules.”
“You mean the loyalty rule?”
“Exactly. And after today, you’re gonna make sure you don’t come to my suite alone anymore.”
I don’t understand why he’s so hung up on us not being alone together, but I nod anyway.
The sun climbs higher over the terrace, shining directly into my face. I squint, trying to adjust my angle, until Edmund gestures for a Pinkie to open the striped sun umbrella beside the table.
“I’m not going to let you get expelled, Miss Waldsten,” he says. “Sending you back to the Green District would make my life a lot easier. Safer, too. But it’d cost me more than it’s worth. I don’t take hits to my name for convenience.”
I know what he means. If I get expelled, it’ll make him look weak, as if he can’t protect his entourage. And that would pour enough blood in the water for every Blue on campus to smell.
“So, the credits are free?”
“You could say that.” Edmund gives a slight, amused shrug. “My birthday’s coming up, and yet here I am, giving out gifts.”
He drains the rest of his coffee, then moves on to a second cup. He adds no sugar or cream, just a slice of butter melting in slow swirls. What a freak.
I inch toward the coffee pot, hoping to avoid drawing his attention, but once again, he places it out of my reach.
“There’s a cap on civil credit transfers: two hundred per day,” he says. “Remind me tomorrow if you need another two hundred.”
Another two hundred? How many civil credits does he have? The Blues get more than we do—everyone knows that—but the exact numbers are a mystery. They say it’s to keep jealousy at bay and avoid unnecessary tension. But if Edmund can turn out two hundred civil credits like water from a tap, he must be sitting on thousands.
Questions gnaw at me, but I push them aside for now.
Across the table, Edmund picks up his eyedropper and tips his chin back, dripping the clear liquid into his eyes. He looks like he’s already moved past the civil credits.
To him, they’re nothing.
To me, they’re time. Life. They’re also out of my reach without his help, like the damn coffee pot he keeps moving.
The words catch in my throat, but I push them out anyway. “Thank you, Edmund.”
His hand pauses midair, the eyedropper hovering in front of him.
“I realize it’s to protect your reputation, not because you care,” I add quickly, “but I’m still grateful for the credits and… for what you did in the Tangerine Tree.”
