Page 104 of Prey It By Ear

Asani snaps the book shut as he looks out into the room with a firm glare. “The war was never about order alone. It was about survival, and every single one of you is a descendant of the winners. There are nobles in this room, future titans of industry, and heirs to the ruling bodies that govern us. It is your legacy, and you are the product of centuries of calculated strategy to keep that dominance in place. This class will teach you how to wield your power by understanding how its structure was built, and how to defend it should our enemies come back into play.”

I feel the blood run cold in my arms. For all the posturing of the families, this is the first time I’ve heard someone official say what everyone already knows in their heart. The Heathers look delighted because they live for this shit. Pink is already taking notes, and Gold is smirking. The new girl looks as if she wants to disappear.

It takes Felix’s cousin five minutes to outline the semester plan—weekly discussions, each led by a rotating pair of students who will present a case study of their own family’s role in the wars, the purges, and the peace that followed. We are not to use the Prednet, only primary sources and witness accounts. If an official story exists, you are to explain why it’s a lie, and who benefits from it. If you refuse to discuss the truth, you fail.

“This is not a safe space,” he adds, and two canids in the front row snicker. “If you want a safe space, take your trust fund and retire to an island somewhere to hide out like a coward. None of you were raised to be chickenshit losers, but your families deserve to know if you cannot honor the history of our various species and leaders.”

Looking at me for a moment, Asani moves from behind the podium to pace the front of the class. “First up, the Barringtons, the Ericksons, and—” he looks at his list, “—the Drews. You three will present on the Bloodstone Reforms next week. You’ll meet after class, arrange your arguments, and come prepared to tear each other apart. Questions?”

Yes, I have a motherfucking question, you insufferable asshole.

But I don’t say that, and the following silence is eerie as the collective asses of the room tighten up. The professor looks at the Heathers, then at me, and then goes back to his computer. “If you’re not ready, you will be. If you’re scared, good. If you think you’re better than this, you can test that theory in the real world, where failure is fatal.” He lifts the book, drops it back on the table, and says, “Your future begins now.”

Every eye in the room is on him, but he doesn’t give us the satisfaction of a grand gesture or an icebreaker. Instead, he points to a wolf girl and says, “Read the next paragraph.”

She blinks and looks down at her tablet, clearing her throat before she says, “At the beginning of our quest for a new world, the rivers ran red with blood. By the end of the first month, some of the old cities were gone, replaced by camps, all run by the shifters who had the least mercy. The magicals who were captured were placed in these prison camps and the prey shifters drafted into service for the predators. Humans were also killed or shuffled, though that effort was kept secret and ultimately blamed on their own people in the eyes of history.”

I feel cold sweat at the base of my neck. Gold is vibrating with anticipation, already imagining the rhetorical knives she’s going to plant in my back, I’m sure. None of the other preds in the room seem very concerned with this stark unveiling of the authentic version of history, which lets me know that no one in here is ever going to be an ally. I didn’t really believe they would, but I keep hoping to find more preds like my friends and family to grow our numbers in our small resistance effort.

This is going to be a semester from hell, no question about it.

Asani continues for the rest of the class, having people read aloud, and then we dissect what was read. The time drags as I furiously scribble notes on every single thing each person says, and when the Khan finally stops talking, he closes his laptop, and says, “Next week, three of you stand here and tell me why your family deserves their seats. You’ll be judged not just by me, but by each other. See you then.”

I sit in my chair a minute longer than necessary, and then I pack my things, hoist my coat, and make a beeline for the exit. As I reach the door, I look back just long enough to see the cousin watching me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He might think he’s got me where he wants me, but that’s not true. Everything he’s teaching, whether it’s his idea or the Society’s, is helping me form a better picture of what the Fae are angry about. It doesn’t mean I agree with their methods insofar, but it will make rebelling against the Society, perhaps alongside them, an easier decision.

All this dickwaffle did was solidify my belief that none of the people in charge should be allowed to stay that way and the entire system has to go.

Requiem K. 626: Lacrimosa

Fionola (Unknown Fae Lady)

It is not yet fully dark, but the last of the sun has been wrung from the sky, leaving only the bruised underbelly of twilight. From the ridge above l’Academie, I watch the last sliver of light fail to reach the lawns, and a small parade of idiot children try not to notice the night coming for them. It is, I think, the purest vision of hope to be found in this shithole of a world—the blind, defiant belief that the dark will not catch up if you run fast enough.

The canines are the worst, predictably. They can’t move through a space without advertising their collective insecurity, traveling in jittery phalanxes, always watching the perimeter, but never trusting their own. I mark a cluster of them at the base of the north steps, the tallest one yapping at the rest until his joke lands and they all laugh too loud, their posture exaggerated by the awareness that even this close to the main hall, something might be watching from the trees. They are not wrong, but their definition of ‘something’ is pathetically unimaginative.

On the quad proper, two felines cross in parallel, keeping three body lengths between them and pretending they don’t see one another. Their tails move in distinct patterns—one nervous, one contemptuous—and they pass without making a sound.

Good. It’s less noise for me to filter through.

The freshman brigade in their red plaid is the most laughable. There’s a group of six or seven drifting at the edge of the campus like brainless flotsam. Some other year, they would have been running toward the cafeteria, shoving each other and whining about tests and relationships. Instead, they move with the slack disorganization of survivors, each one subtly guarding a different sector of approach. I suspect these children have seen what happens to those who make themselves a story. The clever ones have already mastered looking like nothing, and will probably live through September.

I let my gaze track across the rest of the grounds, but there is nothing new. Every piece of this tableau has played out before, and every time it ends with the same blood on the same grass. I wonder if any of the architects or their little cronies realize how their reforms resembled the systems they claimed to hate. It’s always the same: the powerful create a nightmare for the powerless and then pat themselves on the back. At this hour, with the taste of a coming storm in the air, even the new paint job on Dupree cannot disguise the rot underneath.

Movement at the far edge of the quad draws my eye, and I know what I’ll see before I look—our unsinkable bunny rabbit. She is more colorful than the things that exist after the sun sets, striding out of the main doors with that staccato twitchiness peculiar to her energy. The aura of outrage emanating from her is almost visible; something has pissed her off and judging by the rawness of her posture, she’s been at war all day. That should concern me, but the next part matters more. Flanking her—no, not just flanking, matching pace and breathing—is my ex-fiancé. The gargoyle carries himself with the careful discipline of someone who expects a sniper at every window and has memorized every escape route, which is not who he used to be.

I suppose time changes us all for better or worse, and though I’m part of that paranoia, I dislike seeing his joie de vivre dimmed.

They’re moving toward the annex, neither of them talking, both hyperaware of gaps in their security. I clock the distance between them and the next nearest predator and file it away for later. There’s a reason I started with the worst of the pred children, and it wasn’t for the poetic vengeance of it. If anything is going to crack this place open, it’s the impossible heir, the one even the most loyal Society leader cannot seem to actually kill because they don’t know what she might hide under her skin. I wonder, briefly, if her mates know how easily they could become a liability, especially now that their auras glow with completed bonds.

I wonder if she does.

It doesn’t matter, though. I am not here to think about her, but to watch the rest of the equation. Three centuries of disappointment give you a patience so complete that it’s almost a revenge of its own. I spend the next several minutes cataloguing the remaining stragglers, marking which ones are nervous, which ones are pretending, and which ones are easy prey for our needs. The pattern is the same as last year, and the year before, and the ten years before that. Even the influx of capital from the Drew scion’s demands hasn’t changed the basic geometry of their student body here. If you want to know who will crack first, watch the ones who never pay attention to anything but themselves.

The quad empties, and the only noise is the wind dragging leaves across the stone. I watch the sky for a few seconds, then check the position of the moon. The woods are waiting, and I have much to do as night closes in.

I step off the path and walk the border between manicured grass and an underfed tree line. Every third step, the ground gives a little, and there is a brief, insistent pulse from the book in my coat. It wants to be opened, but not here. It is not time, though—not until the signals converge and certainly not by my hands. Everything must be done according to the prophecies if the future is going to come to fruition.

The campus lights warp and split my shadow on the uneven ground. There was a time, long ago, when this would have unsettled me. Now it just makes me want to correct the symmetry myself, but I cannot. The urge to fix the lighting with a gesture is strong, but instead I focus on the weight of my mission. My double agents have been in place since before I arrived, and the meeting at the old shed will happen as planned. All I need to do is deliver the payload, and after that, it’s out of my hands.