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“I go once in a while,” he says. “But I like it better here.”
It doesn’t take long to leave the little village behind us, and to begin ascending the long, winding road toward Kingmakers. We drive through orchard and farmland, then up through rockier ground where goats and sheep graze.
I see olive groves and a vineyard so heavy with grapes that you could almost get drunk off the scent alone.
All the while we’re climbing steadily, drawing closer to the colossal stone gates of Kingmakers.
On one side of the gate stands a winged female figure brandishing a sword. On the other, an armored man holding an axe.
We pass between the two figures onto the grounds of the school.
Up close, the castle is even larger than I expected. It’s almost like its own self-contained city with greenhouses, terraced gardens, courtyards, palatial buildings, towers, armories, and more. I don’t know how the fuck I’m ever going to get to class on time.
Anna sits next to me, silent but looking everywhere at once.
“What do you think?” I ask her.
“It’s beautiful.”
Trust Anna to skip right over “strange,” “terrifying,” and “intimidating” to land right on “beautiful.” I guess, considering the house she grew up in, Kingmakers probably feels more like home to her than it will to anybody else.
Since I grew up in a normal house with sunlight and stainless-steel appliances, I find Kingmakers just a little bit spooky.
As the wagons pull into the main courtyard, we’re met by a dozen students who look like they’re probably Seniors. They’re all neatly dressed, with their shirts tucked in, ties in place, and hair properly combed. They look cool and comfortable, and like they’re ten years older than us instead of only three.
By contrast, we tumble out of the wagons in various states of undress, sunburned and sweaty, with our hair salty and tangled from the sea breeze. The Seniors smirk at each other.
A tall black girl steps forward. She’s slim and elegant, with her hair twisted into a thick braid that hangs over her left shoulder.
“Welcome to Kingmakers,” she says coolly. “I’m Marcelline Boucher, and I’m a Senior year Accountant. This is Rowan Doss, Pippa Portnoy, Alfonso Gianni, Johnny Hale, Blake Wellwood, Grant McDonald . . .”
She points to her fellow students, listing off their names in such rapid succession that I can’t remember any of them a moment later.
“We’re here to take you to your dorms. So you can get . . . cleaned up.” She raises a disdainful eyebrow at the lot of us. “I’m going to read your names. Grab your bag and join your guide. And pay attention! I’m not going to repeat myself.”
She barks the last line at a couple of Freshmen who were whispering to each other. They snap to attention under her fiery stare.
Marcelline pulls a list out of her pocket and begins to read off our names.
Anna’s in the first group, and the smallest—there are only three female Heirs in our year, including her. She retrieves her suitcase and goes to stand beside Pippa Portnoy, a petite girl with a sly expression and thick, dark bangs hanging over her eyes.
The next two groups are Enforcers—almost all male, with a dozen students assigned to each guide. The Accountants are called next, then the Spies, and finally we’re down to the male Heirs. Marcelline reads off the names, pointlessly since we’re the only ones left:
“Bram Van Der Berg, Ares Cirillo, Erik Edman, Leo Gallo, Hedeon Gray, Valon Hoxha, Kenzo Tanaka, Jules Turgenev, Emile Girard, and Dean Yenin.”
Fucking great. I’m going to be sharing a dorm with the two most obnoxious people I’ve met so far.
At least Ares will be there, too. He gives me a fist bump as we line up next to our guide, a Polynesian guy with his hair shaved into a Mohawk and several piercings in both ears.
“I’m Johnny Hale,” he reminds us. “I’m supposed to help you get settled in. Remind you of the rules. Make sure you get places on time the first week. But I’m not your fucking babysitter, and I don’t give a shit about your problems. So follow the rules, and don’t expect me to bail you out if you don’t. Any questions that aren’t fucking stupid?”
He glares at us, challenging us to come up with a query that fits his criteria. Nobody dares to try.
“Good,” he grunts. “Let’s get going.”
He leads us across the courtyard in the direction of the towers on the northwest corner of campus. We pass through a couple of greenhouses, and then what looks like an Armory.
“Gym’s in there,” Johnny says. “That’s where your combat classes will be held, too. You can work out any time outside of class hours—it’s open all night. There’s an underground pool, too. And showers so you can clean up after.”
