Page 122 of Because I Killed Him
In the evening, we hole up at our favorite tap dance club, Jolt & Jive. Usually, it’s packed from wall to wall, the kind of place where you can disappear into a sweaty crowd under neon strobe lights. But today, even the dance floor is empty. Only a few students linger in the booths, their eyes lit by their Bonds as they stream live footage from Edmund’s and Rosamund’s party. Charlotte and I keep our eyes off the feeds, but we can’t avoid the gossip. Someone says Edmund made a grand entrance: Jack on a horse, charging through the snow, with Edmund skimming behind on a snowboard, the two of them tied together with a rope.
I’m no longer disappointed about missing out. Even if Edmund had changed his mind—if, at the very last second, he’d invited me—he still wouldn’t have gotten me through the door. His mother locked the guest list the moment it swelled past four thousand names.
So Charlotte and I make our own night.
We head to our usual booth, about to place an order, when a Pinkie walks over with two bottles of red wine.
“Compliments of a gentleman for Miss Waldsten,” it says.
“Gentleman?” Charlotte arches an eyebrow at me, amused. “Which one?”
“The gentleman requested to remain anonymous,” the Pinkie replies, then discreetly slips a note into my hand.
I unfold the note under the edge of the table, already suspecting who it’s from:
If you want a third bottle, I’ll bring it myself.
I smile and tuck the note into my pocket, out of Charlotte’s sight.
She pops the cork on one of the bottles with a snort. “Kinda defeats the purpose of sending wine if you don’t say who it’s from.”
I nod, pretending to agree as she pours the wine. Somewhere between the second and third glasses, we leave the booth for the dance floor. The band plays a jazz tune from the Shield War era, a lively rhythm full of fast runs. We tap out the beat, laughing as we stumble through the steps, our shoes squealing across the floor.
Halfway through the song, two students ask us to dance. Charlotte and I exchange a tipsy glance, then laugh and slide our hands into theirs. My partner is a slender Purple with a face that could sell beauty cream, but as we tap across the floor, my thoughts keep straying to Edmund. I wonder if he’s dancing, too.
Charlotte and I dance until our hair sticks to our foreheads, our calves ache, and the only thing left to do is collapse back into our booth, breathless and spent, our laughter echoing off the empty walls.
Around midnight, we stumble back to my hovercar. I power it on with a swipe of my Blood Ring, and my Bond’s AI assistant chimes in:Blood alcohol content exceeds safe manual threshold. Switching to autonomous mode.
I giggle loudly. I’m not drunk, but I’ve reached that tipsy feeling where everything looks slightly tilted, and I catch myself staring too long at the condensation on the window or the pattern of lights along the dashboard, and it all feels important.
The dormitories should be quiet by now, especially on a Saturday night.Most students are still out, jammed shoulder to shoulder at Edmund’s party or at whichever club is hottest this week.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the Green Dormitory is a blaze of commotion.
As Charlotte and I arrive, blinding lights sweep across the building in jagged yellow streaks. Large, armored vehicles block the entrance, some parked on the curbs, doors flung open, radios still barking. Giant figures move through the chaos, their ribbed black-and-gold suits inlaid with brass, and their fierce, full-face helmets mirror-dark. Serrated blades run down the spines of their high-polish boots, built for scaling walls, combat holds, and, when necessary, drawing blood.
The figures move in a tide of black. Some secure the entryways while others scale the walls on hoverboards. A team patrols the roof, weapons ready, their backs to the helicopter that roars overhead, its spotlight sweeping the courtyard in blinding arcs.
I immediately realize these officers aren’t Coppers.
They’re Brasscoats, the secret police formed to hunt Heretics.
Someone is getting arrested tonight.
Everyone wears a chain of weakness; some only hide it better than others. Find the chain, tug once, and the person will break.
—INSPECTOR CHRISTOPHER HALE,
BRASSCOAT H-1 DIVISION
CHAPTER 28
The Brasscoat ranks are a steel trap. Not a single whisper about the Heretic’s identity leaks to the media or even to the Coppers. The only thing we know for sure is that the Heretic is a Green. And they won’t die here. They’re probably already being transported to Charleston City, where their death will be broadcast on every screen across the Civilized World.
I can’t sleep. My mind keeps turning, unraveling possibilities in the dark. Is the Heretic a man or a woman? A first-year or a fourth-year? Is it someone I’ve sat next to in class, brushed past in the hall, or laughed with at a club? I twist in my sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if the answer might be written in the cracks.
