Page 123 of Because I Killed Him
A Heretic on campus isn’t uncommon, far from it. There have been others. But this is the first arrest of the academic year, the first since I arrived.
The Heretic’s time is running out. Tomorrow is Bloody Sunday. If the executions were taking place at Grandmaster, I’d be forced to watch, but since they’re not, I can get out of it, unless, of course, Edmund forces me.
By the time Charlotte and I arrive at his suite for a late breakfast, the ghost of the party at the Lotus Lounge still lingers in the air. The smell of stale cigar smoke and sweat-slicked revelry is woven into the boys’ clothes, their skin, and their sluggish movements.
Jack sprawls across the sofa, his hoverbike helmet tilted over his facelike a blindfold. An empty espresso cup rests on his chest, rising and falling with each breath.
Edmund stands by a breakfront near the window, his back to us, the morning light tracing the sharp cut of his shoulders. A heap of vitamins sits on the oak surface, far more than I need to take each day.
He picks up a few pills, swallows them dry, then stops. His whole body goes still so suddenly I swear he’s fallen asleep standing up.
Dickie, somehow immune to the wreckage of the night, joins Charlotte and me at the table. His plate keeps piling up with each passing second as he works through a five-course meal like it’s a grab-and-go snack.
“The Heretic’s probably a first-year,” Jack mutters from beneath his helmet, reaching for his espresso. “The Brasscoats would’ve caught them years ago otherwise.”
“Not a first-year.” Charlotte tips down her sunglasses. “A sixth.”
Dickie taps his steak knife against his plate with a scoff. “How would you know?”
“Because the name just leaked.”
I throw down my napkin on the table. “Who leaked it?”
“The Tattler,” Charlotte says. “Don’t you guys read Tattletale?”
“I don’t need to read gossip rags, broad.” Dickie snorts. “Iamthe gossip.”
I pull up Tattletale’s website, kicking myself for not checking sooner. The Tattler always knows first, sometimes even before Benjamin Bogart.
Charlotte smirks at Dickie. “So, youdon’twant to know who the Heretic is?”
“Not if you’re going to dangle the name in front of me like—”
“It’s Eve Weathers.”
Dickie drops his knife with a clatter.
Espresso shoots from Jack’s nose.
Edmund turns on his heel, snapping out of his daze like a machine powering back on.
I take a sip of my breakfast tea and immediately choke. The hot liquid burns as it goes down the wrong pipe. I hunch forward, coughing, and fumble to pull up the article.
Eve Weathers isourGrandmaster, overseeing all the first-years in theGreen Fraternity. When I locate the article, the headline, TO CATCH A TRAITOR, stares back at me, sandwiched between half a dozen articles about Edmund’s and Rosamund’s birthday party, as if Eve’s name is just another topic to gossip about over brunch.
I skim the article, which claims the Brasscoats are still working to confirm who Eve is working with. They don’t know how long she’s been a Heretic, but they’re sure of one thing:she’s not alone. The Brasscoats suspect an entire network of Heretics exists right here, on campus, moving through the same halls, eating at the same tables, slipping between us like shadows, and plotting the destruction of the Civilized World’s energy shield while we jot down our history notes.
“Know anything about Weathers?” Edmund asks Jack. The fatigue in his face has been replaced by a disdainful expression. I know he has reason to hate the Heretics more than most. His father was murdered by one.
“Only that she was hung up on a Purple,” Jack replies. “I’ll ask around for more.”
“Thanks.” Edmund grips a chair rail at the table, his fingers whitening against the wood, then activates his Bond. His left eye glows electric blue. As a high-citizen, he can likely access information that rivals Dad’s clearance level.
Jack checks his Bond briefly, then waves a hand at us. “Got an alert. The school board is recommending we all watch the execution tonight. Says it’s important for unity.” He glances at Edmund, the question hanging on his face.
“Good,” Edmund says, then keeps working.
“A fine plan.” Dickie raises his glass of chocolate milk and taps the rim with his knife like a toast. “There’s a Bloody Sunday viewing in the Blue student lounge every week. We could join.”
