The Spy by Sophie Lark

12

Nix

It’s near dark by the time Ares and I return to the school, the sky purplish and starless, the pale stone of the castle walls taking on a gloomy tint.

The school grounds are quiet, with only a few students crossing between dorms or walking across the lawn toward the library, their faces difficult to discern in the dark.

We missed dinner. Luckily I’ve got some snacks stashed away under my bed, or I might starve to death in a single night after all that exercise.

A brief silence has fallen between Ares and me, after easy conversation all the way home, centered on our classes and the upcoming first event of the Quartum Bellum.

The quiet is companionable.

I’ve never been so tired, and I’ve never had so much fun.

I love being out in the woods by myself. Having someone with me was even better. And not just any person—someone whose speed and stamina matched my own.

Ares fascinates me. Every time I peel back a layer of his reserve, I find something unexpected beneath—something stronger and more intense than I anticipated.

Everyone thinks he’s some gentle giant.

I don’t think he’s gentle at all.

I only think he’s careful.

I don’t know why he’s holding back, but I want to see more.

I look at Ares, more handsome than ever in the twilight.

He has a long face with a straight, patrician nose, a sharp jaw, and a deep cleft in the chin. The curve of his upper lip reminds me of my bow. The dark stubble on his cheeks is rich and velvety. His hair, dark with a few lighter streaks from the sun, has dried windswept. The faint scowling line between his eyebrows never seems to entirely fade away. It’s not a mark of anger—more like stress or worry.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask him.

“Nothing,” he says. “Only that I should probably—”

He breaks off with an infinitesimal jerk of his head, like a hound sighting a rabbit. I look in the same direction, toward the Armory, but I don’t see anything.

“What is it?” I ask him.

“Nothing,” he says. “Only . . . I thought you might like to see the hall of winners in the Armory. Since you were curious about the Quartum Bellum.”

“Sure,” I agree.

My legs are already jelly. What’s another few minutes of walking?

We cross the lawn, the grass dark as ink now that the sun is all the way down. Only a little soft, golden light leaks from scattered windows. No floodlights illuminate the Kingmakers grounds.

Ares leads me into the annex of the Armory. He seems to be looking around, like he isn’t quite sure of the way, though he must know the school ten times better than I do, this being his fourth year.

“It’s right in here,” he says in a strangely hushed tone.

Up ahead, someone else is speaking, low and intent, like they don’t want to be overheard.

I hesitate, not wanting to interrupt the two figures up ahead, one tall and one short, engrossed in conversation. But Ares hurries on, saying loudly, “Cat! Hedeon! What are you two doing?”

Cat Romero and Hedeon Gray startle, their gazes tearing away from the wall of photographs.

“It’s alright,” Hedeon says to Cat. “I don’t mind if you tell them, too.”

Cat examines us, her dark eyes liquid and glimmering in the golden lamplight of the corridor. She’s frowning slightly.

It’s Hedeon who rushes on, his voice tight with excitement, “Cat thought the girl in this picture might possibly be my mother . . .”

We all turn to look, irresistibly drawn—even Cat and Hedeon, who had already seen the photograph before.

I see a girl no older than me, with dark hair and deep blue eyes. She’s extremely beautiful, only more so because of the expression of wild triumph on her face. Something about her—maybe the sensual edge to her beauty, or the air of recklessness—reminds me of Sabrina Gallo.

The girl is the winning Captain of the Quartum Bellum in her Sophomore year, and then again , the next picture over, as a Junior—an achievement even I know to be exceedingly rare.

The losing Captains, all male, glower at her furiously.

“Why would you think that’s Hedeon’s mom?” Ares asks. He sounds skeptical and confused.

I glance between the girl’s face and Hedeon’s. “She does look a bit like him . . .”

“Not really,” Ares says. “Just ‘cause she’s got dark hair and blue eyes . . .”

Hedeon’s face falls. He examines the photograph again, searching for evidence to counteract Ares’ disbelief.

It is true, their features aren’t entirely alike—the girl has a soft, oval face, with a narrow nose and gently arched eyebrows. Hedeon’s bone structure is rougher, his jaw broad and his nose, before it was broken, more Roman in shape.

Still, children don’t look precisely like one parent. Or either parent, sometimes . . .

I read the name beneath the photograph. “Evalina Markov . . . Who is she?”

Now Cat speaks up in her soft but penetrating voice.

“I looked her up. She lives in St. Petersburg. She’s married to a man named Donovan Dryagin. They have three children.” She pauses a moment, her eyes fixed on Ares, not Hedeon. “She’s related to Neve and Ilsa Markov—you know them, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Ares says, in a slightly strained tone. “I took Snow’s boxing class with Ilsa last year. She’s one of the only female Enforcers.”

“Her older sister Neve already graduated,” Cat says, explaining to me now, and maybe Hedeon, too. “But Ilsa’s still here. We could ask her—”

“No!” Ares interrupts. “You can’t do that!”

“Why not?” Cat inquires calmly.

“Because think what you’re accusing this woman of! Getting pregnant at Kingmakers, which is completely against the rules, then having a secret baby and giving it away without her family knowing—”

“How do you know they’re not aware?” Cat demands.

“Because obviously Hedeon’s parents don’t want to be known!” Ares cries, throwing up his hands in disgust. “Look, I’m sorry, Hedeon. I know you want to know where you came from, but you could really fuck up this woman’s life if she hasn’t told her parents or her husband . . . if it’s even her at all! You could accuse someone based off what, a guess? The fact that you both have blue eyes? A lot of people have blue eyes.”

Hedeon’s look of disappointment is heart-wrenching. At the same time, there’s truth in what Ares is saying—when you dig up a grave, you’re sure to find bones.

Cat is frowning, arms crossed over her chest. I’m not sure if she’s annoyed that Ares is poking holes in her theory, or if she doesn’t like him dissuading Hedeon.

Hedeon can’t stop staring at the photograph.

“How is she related to Ilsa Markov?” he asks Cat.

“Ilsa’s grandfather and Evalina’s father were brothers. And guess what Evalina’s father’s name was?” Cat says, throwing a triumphant glance at Ares.

“What?” Ares says dully.

“Hedeon Markov,” Cat replies, in the tone of a slamming book.

Ares shrugs like that doesn’t prove anything, but Hedeon and I both gape at Cat, suitably impressed.

Cat says, “I could see a girl, forced to give away her baby, wanting him to have a family name, since he wouldn’t have her surname.”

The silence in the annex is profound, all of us pondering if this could possibly be a coincidence.

At last, Ares says to Hedeon, “Well . . . what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know . . .” Hedeon replies.

He looks stunned, and almost dreamy.

“Just . . . be careful,” Ares says desperately. “Think about it first.”

Ares and I leave Cat and Hedeon in the annex.

As we walk north toward our respective dorms, Ares seems strained and distracted.

I can’t help but wonder why he’s so concerned about Evalina Markov.

“Don’t you think Hedeon has a right to contact his parents?” I ask Ares.

Ares turns on me, already agitated before the words have even left my mouth.

“Nix, you know what these old mafia families are like. Especially one or two generations back. This woman is married, with her own children. If Hedeon’s her son, he’d be the oldest of all of them. Do you know what a mess that makes?”

“The truth isn’t messy,” I tell him. “It’s just the truth.”

Ares shakes his head at me.

“The truth is always messy,” he says. “That’s why legends are lies. In real life, there’s no perfect narrative where the good guys and the bad guys all get what they deserve, and everything works out in the end . . .”

I can feel my face getting hot.

My father’s stories always have the ring of legend to them. A clean narrative arc, and a moral at the end . . . usually my father getting his just reward for being particularly brave or particularly cunning . . .

His stories mean everything to me. Especially the ones about my mother.

“Something can be true, and a good story!” I cry. “Maybe Hedeon’s mom would love for him to call her up, maybe she’s been waiting . . .”

“Waiting for what?” Ares shouts back at me. “If this woman gave her baby away, she knew where he was the whole time. If she wanted to contact him, she would have done it.”

We’re standing at the junction point where Ares is supposed to go east to the Octagon Tower, and me west to the Solar. Yet we’re standing here, both way too upset over something quite different than what we’re shouting into each other’s faces.

I know what I’m angry about.

The question is . . . why is Ares so mad?

No time to ask him. Ares gives me a brief and grudging, “Good night,” before turning and stalking off toward his dorm.

I’m left standing there, with the nagging suspicion that Ares followed Cat and Hedeon into the annex on purpose.

* * *