King of Cups (Stormcloud Academy 2)

And he checked in on me every day, just to make sure I was taken care of in Zephyr’s absence. These check-ins were supposed to be friendly, but everything about Arvo’s demeanor made them seem menacing. Even asking if I needed something from the village market sounded like a gross insinuation. I always just said I was fine.

The fact of the matter was that, despite myself, I missed Zephyr. He wasn’t the sweetest man in the world, but he made me feel alive. Just taking his hand in the hallway between classes made me feel like I was being dragged along on an adventure. I would summon the image of his devilish smirk many times each day and make myself breathless. With him gone, I had an aching need building within me, one I’d never felt before. It was both spiritual and primal. It simultaneously felt like only Zeph could satisfy this need and like I should take hold of the first man I desired.

Yet even so, my mind was consumed with that horrid interchange I had with Theo in the archives. How fucking dare he speak to me that way? Who did he think he was?

The memory of his hands on my shoulders and his self-righteous needling still pissed me off days later. Yet I couldn’t get out of my mind the story he’d told me of the redacted expulsions, the disappearance, and that ominous sworn statement buried away in the archives. Theo had thought I was distracted or worried about being caught, but really, I’d been looking away to avoid meeting his eyes. His discovery had utterly captivated me, and I’d known that if I looked at him—really looked—I would drop everything else and begin my investigation with him anew.

And how long would it be before one of us turned up dead?

Still, I couldn’t leave this alone. I’d just have to snoop around in secret without him.

My first step would be contacting Gail’s aunt and uncle, an act I’d put off far too long. I still lacked the courage to call them, to hear their heartbroken voices. So I decided to write them a letter.

Thomas and Mary,

I don’t know how to begin this letter except by saying I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how long it’s taken me to reach out and for the fact that I’m doing so by letter.

Mostly, though, I’m sorry for Gail. I can partly imagine your pain only because I feel something like it too. Gail was my dear friend, the best person I met here at Stormcloud Academy. Not having her near me anymore is sometimes unbearable. Her absence is beyond painful. There is no replacement for the light she brought.

I worry that we’ll never really know what happened to Gail, but I have resolved to try to understand.

I suppose I need to say I’m sorry again. I’m sorry that I must ask you to help me.

When the four of us were in Evian Les Bains together (a wonderful memory that seems a lifetime ago), you mentioned that Gail’s father came into conflict with some influential students at Stormcloud. In my research, I have discovered that he and two other students signed a statement accusing some classmates of involvement with a disappearance. This resulted in expulsions, but I cannot seem to find the names of the expelled students.

I firmly believe that this incident likely played a role in Gail’s death. I need to know who the students were that Douglas crossed. Is there any light you can shed on this?

Again, it is impossible to express my sorrow and regret for what happened to Gail. I hope you can bring yourselves to speak to me, but I understand if you cannot. Just know that you both are—as is Gail—forever in my heart.

Sincerely,

Biba Quinn

It was maudlin, self-pitying, and perhaps indelicate, but it was the best I could manage. On a Friday night, I folded the letter-stock, slipped it into an envelope, and placed it in the mail with enough postage to get it to Cornwall. Then I returned to my room.

Alone. It was my natural state at that point. I’d have liked to have some confidante in those days, but all candidates were either pissed at me, creeping on me, in Morocco, or dead. Much as it pained me, I was on my own.

Or was I?

Just as I’d settled into a high-quality bout of self-pity, a frantic rapping hit the door. It made me flinch. After all, I was only in this room because Zephyr had insisted I stay there. The only other person I could imagine having the balls to call on me here was Arvo, and the idea of letting him in at midnight while I was by myself . . . well, that wasn’t going to happen.

The knocking continued. For a couple of minutes, I debated what to do. What was the worst thing that could happen if I peeked through a crack in the door?

A knife in the heart, Biba, my logical brain told me.

I grabbed a pair of sharp scissors and gingerly approached the door. I hesitated a moment, debating whether I could actually defend myself against an attack, then decided I was being paranoid. Even so, I latched the chain before cracking the door.

It was Sol. I almost didn’t recognize him. His face was a mass of bruises and swelling.

“Biba,” he groaned through broken lips. “Please let me in.”

I did, as fast as my shaking hands would permit. As I opened the door, he stumbled inside. He was a bloody mess. His black t-shirt was torn at the neck, and there was a smear of drying blood on his nose. And Christ, that perfect nose of his was pointing just to the left, the cartilage cracked along the bridge. One eye was all but invisible under puffy black and blue skin.

Sol walked slowly, in halting paces. At first, I thought he’d broken a foot, but he was just exhausted.

“I ran,” he panted, “from the other side of campus. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“What happened?” I asked as he slumped down heavily on the bed.