Whitney noticed at the same time. “Back! Back!” Swatting downward with a cloth napkin. “Get away, you mongrel!”
Whitney smacked Coop’s snout while simultaneously pressing herself deeper into the couch. Coop fixed her with an unblinking ice-blue stare, gray-brown fur bristling along his spine.
“Tory!” Whitney squealed. “He’s going to attack!”
“Maybe.” I walked into the kitchen and snagged a Diet Coke from the fridge. “Try to protect your throat.”
“Tory!!!”
“Oh, relax.” Though enjoying Whitney’s discomfort, I knew Kit wouldn’t share my amusement. “Coop, heel!”
The wolfdog trotted to my side and sat. I couldn’t prove it, but I swear he looked pleased with himself.
Whitney straightened her clothes, rolled her eyes skyward seeking patience, then rose and walked into the dining room.
“It’s dinnertime.” Placing flatware on the table. “I brought catfish po’boys, Cajun style. Black-eyed peas on the side.”
I’ll give Whitney one thing—she knows good food. I could usually tolerate her company if bribed with Lowcountry deliciousness.
I’d nearly finished my po’boy when she blew it again.
“I spoke to the Women’s Committee today.” Daintily wiping glossy red lipstick from her teeth. “It’s just not practical to return you to next year’s cohort. The invitations have been printed, and an official roster has gone to the paper. You’ll be making your debut this season after all.”
My head dropped. “What? I’m only fourteen! I’ll be the youngest deb by almost two years!”
Despite my fervent wishes to the contrary, I was being forced to take part in the grand Southern tradition of a debutante ball. Whitney’s idea, though Kit had thrown in his full support. Some nonsense about me needing “more refinement” and extra “girl time.” Like it was my fault no teenage XX-chromosomes lived on Morris Island.
I’d been attending cotillion classes for the past six months, learning massively important skills such as formal dance, standing up straight, the proper use of silverware, and the etiquette of hosting a tea party. I hated all the pretension, but there was no escape. Whitney was determined to mold me into a proper young lady.
Okay, it wasn’t all bad. I’d made a few friends, and was getting more comfortable around Bolton Prep’s ruling elite. Dressing up was kind of fun. Plus, the organization had a charitable focus, and we spent lots of time doing good works in the community.
But, by age, I should’ve been a junior debutante, with my debut taking place the following season.
“You’re a bit early to the party, I admit, but it’s not like you’re setting a record.” Her Southern drawl became aggrieved. “I pulled a lot of strings to advance you when we thought you’d have to move away from Charleston. It’s simply too much to untie that bow now.”
My thoughts were already leaping ahead. “When is the ball?”
“Friday after next.” Whitney giggled excitedly. “We’ll need to hustle, and you have some important decisions to make.”
Uh-oh. “Such as?”
Whitney gave me an indulgent look. “Your marshals and ushers, Tory. You’ll need to select escorts to the ball.”
Call it avoidance. Call it willful blindness. Call it whatever you like.
I can honestly say this hadn’t crossed my mind until that moment.
“What? Who? How many?”
“One of each, usually, but you can include more if you want. But you must have a marshal for your debut.”
I gaped. Who in the world could I drag to this disaster? Why would anyone want to go?
Whitney, as usual, misread me completely.
“I agree it’s a very significant decision. So take some time to think. But I need your choices soon, sweetheart. The invitations will be late, as is, and the boys need to rent tuxedos if they don’t already own them.”
Whitney pushed from the table and began stacking dishes. I mumbled thanks and retreated upstairs to my room. Flopping onto my bed, I couldn’t shake that single, nagging question.
Who?
Whitney’s delusions aside, I didn’t view this as a prime dating opportunity. I didn’t even want to go. Like most cotillion events, I’d probably spend the ball avoiding crowds and trying not to embarrass myself. My goal was to survive these things, not make a love connection.
Small confession: I’d never had a quote-unquote boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a convent case or anything—I used to kiss Sammy Branson behind the Dunkin’ Donuts back in Westborough, even though Mom thought he was a total slacker. But I’d never dated anyone seriously. Or even officially.
When could I have? Mom and I had bounced around central Massachusetts for most of my childhood, never staying too long in one place. She’d been my only constant. I was only thirteen when the car accident happened, Mom died, and I was shipped down south to live with Kit.
My first year in Charleston hadn’t been designed for romance. At Bolton Prep I’d been an outcast from day one—a geeky freshman transfer, on scholarship, a year younger than everyone else. How many strikes was that?
I’d had nothing in common with my classmates. My father wasn’t a member of seven country clubs, or on the board of a local hospital. Most of the attention I’d received hadn’t been the pleasant kind.
Outside of school, my world consisted of remote islands, Kit, and my packmates. No prospects there. While Hi, Shelton, and I were as close as friends can be, the idea of any brewing romance would’ve sent us into hysterics. Not gonna happen.
Ben, though. Ben was … different. I could admit it to myself, if not to anyone else. He was older, more worldly, and undeniably handsome. The only potential swimmer in Morris Island’s microscopic dating pool. I’d even had a slight crush on him when I’d first moved down here.
But ever since the sickness, and the emergence of our abilities, we’d become a pack. To me, pack was family.
It was better that way. Cleaner. Safer.
“Blargh.”
I stared at my notes, no closer to answering Whitney’s question.
I needed a date.
But who?
CHAPTER 6
THE LOCKER BESIDE mine banged shut.
“Why do we have calculus first thing?” Hi was fiddling with his tie. “Doesn’t the faculty understand you have to ease into a school day?”
Monday morning. Bolton Preparatory Academy. 7:26 a.m.
First bell was minutes from sounding.
I was back in uniform: blue tartan-plaid tie with matching pleated skirt, white blouse, black knee socks, and simple black shoes. I wasn’t a fan, but the uniform policy kept the richer girls from morphing Bolton’s hallways into daily episodes of Project Runway. I was grateful for the trade-off.
“Better to get it done early.” I shut my door and spun the combination lock. “Besides, I like math—there are no tricks, you just have to learn the rules.”
“The rules are tricks.” Ben sported the standard male uniform—navy blazer with griffin crest, white button-down shirt, maroon tie, tan slacks, and loafers. “When the problems dropped the equals sign, math stopped making any sense.”
“There’s Shelton,” Hi said, blazer was in his trademark style: inside out, with the silk lining exposed. The teachers had given up trying to make him wear it properly. “He had enough time after all.”
“Got it!” Shelton was puffing hard, a calculus book tucked under one arm, his uniform a disheveled mess. “Sprinting back to the docks takes longer than I thought. Next time I’ll just borrow a text and get mine from your dad later.”
“Told you,” Ben said. His father, Tom Blue, shuttled us to and from downtown on school days. “You’re lucky Hugo was still there. My dad’s usually on his second run to Loggerhead by now.”
As a perk for parents living way out where ours did, LIRI provided tuition for their children to attend Bolton Prep, Charleston’s most prestigious private school. Shelton, Hi, and I we
re two months into our sophomore year, while Ben was beginning his junior campaign. Since driving to campus would take an hour each way, LIRI also provided daily boat service. Not a bad deal.
If we fit in. Which we didn’t.
Most Bolton students were scions of the city’s wealthiest families. My crew stuck out like hookers at church. We weren’t part of their pampered, privileged world, and many of our classmates were quick to remind us of that fact. Taunting the “boat kids” was practically a varsity sport.
Thankfully, this year Shelton, Hi, and I had identical schedules, and Ben was in half our classes. We’d be able to watch each other’s backs.
For a group of science geeks, Bolton was a minefield of potential disasters. Double that for me, since I was also the youngest in my class. Impressed by my lower-school brilliance, Mom had decided I should skip the sixth grade. Fast-forward four long years—I was Bolton’s only fourteen-year-old sophomore.
The mocking had started from day one. And when my classmates discovered that “the little girl” was actually setting the academic bar, the sniping grew even nastier.
Freshman year had been rough. I’d hated it.
But lately, things were … different.
My first year, other students had openly sneered at me. Whispered behind their hands. Called me “loser,” or “island refugee,” even “peasant.” High school bullies can be brutal, and I’d caught both barrels.
The constant ridicule had forced me to step lightly. Drop my guard, even for a nanosecond, and the local Mean Girls would pounce to “put me in my place.”
But that was all before the summer.
Before I’d finally had enough, and decided to fight back.
Before I’d lost my cool.
As if cued by my thoughts, my nemeses appeared two doors down.
Madison Dunkle sauntered into the hall, flanked by her sycophant floozies. She practically glowed with well-groomed excess, from sculpted hair—brunette this semester, with smoky blonde tendrils—to stylish, five-figure jewelry.
Courtney Holt was on her left. Blonde, blue-eyed, and curvy, she radiated a cluelessness that was impossible to emulate. She’d been chosen as the captain of the cheerleader squad. I was amazed she’d avoided flunking out.
On Madison’s opposite side strolled Ashley Bodford, a pit viper in her own right. Night to Courtney’s day, Ashley had glossy black hair, mechanically tanned skin, and a cruel streak a mile long. Her favorite activity was preying on the insecurities of others with cutting, whispered digs.
The Tripod of Skank.
They hated me. I loathed them.
Last semester, the sight of these three would’ve filled me with dread. They’d made my freshman year a living hell.
That was over now.
Last August, at a cotillion event, I’d unloaded on the Tripod with all of Bolton’s in-crowd watching. Flaring, I’d used my hypersenses to read their emotions. Sniff out their weaknesses. Then I’d struck without mercy.
Shocked speechless, the Tripod had retreated in angry tears.
The tell-off had been epic.
Since that outburst, the other “cool kids” had been slightly more respectful to me. Almost polite. Not out-and-out friendly or anything, but the open hostility was gone.
High school popularity is so fickle.
My classmates suddenly liked me more because I’d shown teeth. Because I’d savaged a few of their own. I could scream at the childishness of it all.
That day, I’d finally bested the Tripod. But then I made a mistake.
Unleashing the wolf had gotten my blood pumping. Flaring seemed to exacerbate my aggressive nature. Caught up in the rush, I’d done something incredibly foolish. Disastrous. I’d lifted my sunglasses and flashed my glowing eyes.
Courtney and Ashley had missed it, but Maddy had enjoyed a front-row seat. Terrified, she’d bolted. And had avoided me ever since.
Normally, I’d call that a win-win. The Tripod had fled and continued to stay away. The relentless harassment had stopped.
But I worried. What did Madison suspect? Who would she talk to?
If word of our powers got out, we’d be government lab rats by lunch the next day.
Thanks to my stupidity, Madison was a threat.
At that moment, the threat caught sight of me. Her face paled and she slowed.
Ashley and Courtney bumped into Madison from behind. Confused by their queen bee’s hesitation, they followed her sight line.
Gripping her books tightly, Madison fired past me and ducked into a bathroom. Courtney and Ashley hurried on her heels, shooting uneasy glances my way.
“Man.” Hi had noted the exchange. “You’ve got Madison spooked, that’s for sure. Let’s hope she’s not sending letters to Cosmo.”
I’d told the Virals about my blunder. They hadn’t been pleased. At all.
I was about to respond to Hi’s comment when Jason Taylor rounded the corner.
“Tory.” Jason began fidgeting with his tie. “I hope you’re, uh, doing well. Had a good weekend, all that.”
Ben’s lips formed a smirk. Eyes rolling, he turned and walked off. Hi and Shelton drifted a few feet down the hall.
Jason had the blue eyes and white-blond hair of a Nordic god. The physique too. Big and strong, he was a sick athlete, and captained Bolton’s lacrosse team. A truly decent guy, he’d been an ally at Bolton from the outset.
An ally with a surprising interest in me.
I’d never known how to feel about Jason. Still didn’t.
Jason was the only guy at Bolton who seemed to notice me. He was cute. Friendly. Funny. Super popular. Everything a girl could want in a boyfriend. At least, I thought so, having no real experience in the field.
And yet … nothing. For some reason, Jason just didn’t do it for me. I’d never felt the same attraction. My palms didn’t sweat. My pulse didn’t race. It made no sense. I couldn’t explain it, even to myself.
Which made the situation … awkward.
I shouldn’t complain—for most girls, Jason’s attention would’ve been all that mattered. And I treasured him as a friend. He looked out for me at school, keeping the nastier trust-fund brats off my back.
“Hi, Jason,” I said awkwardly. “My weekend was fine. You?”
“Me? Oh, great. Took the boat out, played golf. Nice weather, um, right?”
“Definitely.” I shifted, needlessly adjusting my book bag straps. “Sunny.”
Uneasiness around Jason was collateral damage from my reckless display. Flustered by my blunder with Madison, I’d been totally unprepared when Jason offered to escort me to the debutante ball. Angry with myself, I’d lashed out at him, too.
We didn’t speak again until school started, and even then we’d carefully avoided that topic. The eggshell dance was moving into its second month, with no end in sight.
It didn’t help that Madison had eyes for Jason, and viewed me as a rival.
And Ben seriously disliked him.
Nothing is ever simple.
The bell spared us further discomfort.
“Gotta run,” I said, thankful for the reprieve. “See you later!”
“Later.” Jason tossed a head-nod to Shelton and Hi as he passed them. The Two Stooges clumsily returned the gesture.
Shelton drifted back to my side wearing a sly grin. “That was smooth, player.”
“Shut it.”
The awkward conversation had reminded me of Whitney’s instructions. I needed guys for my stupid debut, and didn’t have a plan.
Jason had volunteered, but that was months ago, and I’d rejected his offer. Rudely. Did it still stand? Choosing an A-lister might be a good move. Jason had always defended me when he could.
But I totally embarrassed him. Why would he say yes now?
Shelton tapped his watch. “Today, Brennan.”
Just then, Hi scurried across the hallway in a rush. “Did you guys hear the news?”
“What news?” Shelton tugged his earlobe,
a nervous habit. “I already know I’m not going to like it.”
“It’s all over Twitter. He’s out! They released him last weekend.”
“Who?” But I knew.
Had no doubt.
“Chance Claybourne.” Hi shook his head in disbelief. “He’s coming back to Bolton.”
CHAPTER 7
TINY DROPLETS SPLASHED my arms.
Tom Blue’s shuttle, Hugo, was kicking spray up into a fine mist. I stood alone in the stern, watching downtown recede as we churned home across the harbor.
My thoughts were of Broad Street, and a pricey piece of real estate known as Claybourne Manor.
I bet he’s alone in that gigantic mansion. Right now.
I’d been unable to concentrate in class.
Chance Claybourne.
Out of the hospital.
Returning to Bolton Prep.
Guilt shrouded me like a cold, wet blanket. The awful thing I’d done. How I’d played with Chance’s mind to protect our secrets.
And now he’s back.
Ben’s voice floated from behind me. “It’s not like you had a choice.”
“I know.” I sighed, turned. Ben often knew what I was thinking. “But messing with his head. Making him think he was crazy. I’ve felt terrible ever since.”
If not the richest man in Charleston, Chance was certainly high on the list. Son of former state senator Hollis Claybourne, and heir to an enormous family fortune, Chance’s mental breakdown had been the scandal of the decade.
Chance had suffered a total nervous collapse, with every salacious detail reported in the press. He’d been hospitalized for five months—leaving only once, to help us search for a lost pirate treasure.
Twice Chance had witnessed our flare powers unleashed. He’d seen our canine speed. Our strength. Our glowing eyes.
After the second incident, Chance had approached me, confused and vulnerable. Needing answers.
Instead of helping him, I’d twisted the knife. Betrayed his trust.
To protect the Virals, I’d convinced Chance that he’d imagined the whole thing. That the images he described were unreal. Figments of a distressed mind. Frightened, and in shock, he’d returned to the psych ward for further treatment.