Chapter 5 — The Boy Who Wasn’t There

The meal bell rang once.

Amelia had been sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the symbol on the back of her placement slate, when the sound moved through the room.

Not from outside.

Not from the hall.

From inside the walls.

A single low note rolled through the floorboards, up through the legs of the bed, and into her bones. The brass lamp flickered. The window glass trembled. Somewhere beyond her door, voices rose at once, followed by footsteps and the soft rush of bodies moving in the same direction.

She waited.

The bell did not ring again.

Follow everyone else if you hear it once.

If you hear it twice, don’t.

Liora’s advice had sounded ridiculous when she said it. Standing alone in a room that had already learned too much about her, Amelia was less willing to call anything ridiculous.

She tucked the placement slate into the desk drawer, changed into the Waycross uniform because arriving in her own clothes had begun to feel like wearing a target, and braided her hair again with fingers that only caught twice. The uniform fit perfectly. Of course it did. Charcoal blazer, white shirt, burgundy tie, skirt, dark tights, boots that looked new but softened around her feet like they had already been broken in.

When she looked in the mirror over the washstand, she barely recognized herself.

Not because the uniform transformed her into someone impressive. It didn’t. She still had the same lightly freckled nose, the same chestnut hair escaping its braid, the same expression that looked calm only because her face had always been better at lying than her pulse.

But the girl in the mirror looked placed.

Like Waycross had found an empty outline and pressed her into it.

Amelia looked away first.

The residence hall was nearly empty when she stepped out, though the air still held the trace of students who had passed through moments earlier: perfume, damp wool, smoke, fur, something coppery and sharp she chose not to identify. She followed the sound of distant voices, turning where the corridor seemed to expect her to turn.

Once, the hallway dipped when it should have stayed level.

Once, a door opened beside her, showing a room full of candles and no floor.

She kept walking.

The dining hall announced itself through scent before sight.

Roasted meat. Honey. Charred herbs. Wet stone. Cinnamon again, threading through everything like Waycross’s idea of a signature. Beneath it all sat stranger smells: saltwater, hot iron, crushed flowers, and something darkly sweet that made her stomach tighten even as her mouth watered.

The doors stood open.

Amelia stopped just inside.

The hall was enormous.

Not simply large. Enormous in a way that made her question the shape of the building from the outside. High arched windows climbed the walls, their stained glass shifting with the angle of her gaze. A black bird became a crown. A crown became a forest. A forest became a mouth full of teeth before she looked away.

Tables filled the space in uneven rows. Some were of ordinary height. Others were raised, lowered, widened, or set apart by invisible boundaries Amelia only noticed because students avoided crossing them. Food appeared on long, dark serving slabs in portions that made no sense. Tiny jeweled fruits arranged in silver bowls. Thick cuts of meat still smoking. Bread black as coal and glossy with butter. Glass pitchers filled with liquids that shimmered blue, red, gold, and one shade her eyes refused to settle on.

Students filled the room with motion.

Laughter, argument, cutlery striking plates, growls low enough to pass for conversation. Wings rustled somewhere near the far wall. Someone hissed. Someone else snapped, “Use your fork,” in a tone that suggested this was not a metaphor.

Amelia took one step forward.

The nearest conversations thinned.

Not stopped.

Thinned.

A dozen glances found her and slid away. A few stayed.

Human, the room seemed to say without speaking.

She lifted her chin because lowering it would not make her invisible here.

An open seat waited at the end of a table near the side wall. She did not trust that. Seats at Waycross seemed unlikely to be accidents. But standing at the entrance with everyone watching felt worse, so she crossed the room and sat down.

The chair adjusted beneath her.

Amelia gripped the edge of the table until it stopped moving.

A plate appeared in front of her.

She stared at it.

There was bread, at least. Or something shaped like bread. A small dish of butter flecked with green. A cluster of silver grapes. A slice of something pale and glossy that might have been cheese if cheese had veins.

Her stomach made a quiet, traitorous sound.

She reached for the grapes.

A hand closed around her wrist.

Amelia went completely still.

The touch was not rough. That made it worse. Long fingers curled around her wrist with easy certainty, thumb resting lightly over the beat of her pulse as if he had every right to feel how fast it had started moving.

Warmth slid beneath her skin.

Not heat exactly. Something closer to recognition, though that was absurd. Bodies did not recognize strangers.

She looked up.

A boy sat across from her.

No, not a boy. Not really.

He looked her age or a little older, but there was something in the way he occupied the chair that made age feel like the wrong measure. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with sharp cheekbones and storm-gray eyes that held far too much amusement. His uniform was technically correct, though worn, as he had personally offended every rule governing its arrangement. Tie loose. Sleeves rolled. One boot braced against the table leg.

He smiled.

It was a slow, dangerous thing.

“Not those.”

Amelia looked from his face to his hand around her wrist.

Her pulse betrayed her again beneath his thumb.

“Why?”

“Because they like being wanted.”

She waited for him to explain.

He did not.

Of course he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “Did you just warn me about emotionally manipulative fruit?”

His smile deepened. “You catch on fast.”

“Not fast enough, apparently.”

“No,” he agreed. “But faster than most.”

His thumb shifted once over her pulse before he released her.

The absence of his hand felt colder than it should have.

Amelia drew her wrist back and resisted the urge to rub the place where he had touched her. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. Because it still felt warm, and she did not want him to know she noticed.

He knew anyway.

She could see it in his eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Kai.”

Just that.

No last name. No title. No species. No explanation for how he had appeared in the chair across from her when she was certain it had been empty.

“Amelia,” she said, then felt foolish because everyone here seemed to know that already.

“I know.”

“Of course you do.”

His gaze flicked over her, not rudely, but with an attention so precise it made the room seem louder around them. “You smell like rain, fear, and old paper.”

Amelia stared at him. “That is a terrible thing to say to someone during dinner.”

“It’s not an insult.”

“It’s not a compliment either.”

Kai tilted his head slightly. “Not everything has to be one or the other.”

His eyes caught the light oddly when he moved. For a second, the pupils looked too narrow. Almost slit.

Amelia’s fingers tightened around her fork.

The motion was small.

Kai noticed.

His smile changed, becoming less amused and more interested.

“What are you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Across the table, someone choked on a laugh.

A few students nearby went quiet.

Kai leaned back in his chair as if the room’s reaction pleased him.

“That’s a dangerous question here.”

“I’m starting to get the impression all questions are dangerous here.”

“Only the good ones.”

“And was that a good one?”

His gaze held hers.

For the first time, the teasing thinned enough that she saw something else beneath it. Not kindness. Not softness. Something watchful.

“Better than you know.”

A chill moved over the back of Amelia’s neck.

She looked down at her plate because his attention was beginning to feel too much like standing at the edge of something deep.

The silver grapes glistened innocently.

She pushed the bowl away.

Kai’s mouth twitched.

“Good girl.”

Heat flashed through her before she could stop it.

Not embarrassment exactly.

Not anger either, though that would have been easier.

Her eyes snapped back to his. “Don’t call me that.”

The amusement returned, sharper this time. “There she is.”

“Who?”

“The one under all that careful.”

Amelia hated how close that landed.

She picked up the bread instead. “Does this bite too?”

“Only if you insult it.”

She paused.

Kai laughed under his breath. The sound was low and warm and far too pleased with itself.

For a few minutes, he let her eat. Or pretend to. The bread tasted like rosemary, smoke, and something sweet at the center. It did not bite. The butter melted too quickly on her tongue, leaving behind a faint spark that traveled down her throat.

Amelia set it down.

Kai watched everything.

Not like the others had watched. The students around her looked at her as if she were a problem or a curiosity. Kai watched, as if he were reading the way she solved herself.

“You shouldn’t sit alone,” he said.

“I didn’t realize I had company until it grabbed me.”

“If I’d wanted to grab you, you’d know.”

Her breath caught.

Only a little.

His eyes dropped to her mouth for half a second, then returned to her face.

The air between them changed.

Amelia became aware of the space under the table, of his boot still hooked near the leg of her chair, close enough that if she shifted her foot, she would touch him. She became aware of his hand resting near his cup, of the faint scars across his knuckles, of the clean scent of rain and pine beneath the hall’s heavier smells.

She should have been frightened.

She was.

That was the problem.

She was frightened and something else.

Kai’s expression went still, as if he had heard the thought.

Then he leaned forward.

“Careful, Amelia Vale.”

Her name sounded different in his mouth. Less like an introduction. More like a secret he had decided to taste.

“With the fruit?” she asked, because sarcasm was safer than silence.

“With wanting answers too badly.”

Before she could respond, a group of students passed behind him. For one second, their bodies blocked him from view.

When they moved on, the chair across from her was empty.

Amelia stared.

The cup he had not drunk from remained on the table.

The warmth around her wrist remained, too.

A girl two seats down looked at the empty chair, then at Amelia.

Her face had gone pale beneath the faint shimmer of scales at her temples.

“Kai Mercer doesn’t sit with anyone,” she said.

Amelia looked at the place where he had been.

Outside the high windows, rain streaked the stained glass, turning crowns into forests, forests into mouths, mouths into something almost like a smile.

She picked up her fork again.

Her hand was not quite steady.

“Apparently,” she said, “he does now.”