Cardinal Tower (Trinity Central Book #1)

Chapter 3

The unspoken agreement I made this morning with Devon finds its way back into my mind. As I pass the marketplace, I'm able to snag a couple scraps of meat and a handwoven scarf, less than normal, but still enough. An argument across the street about the price of some fruit has escalated to an unnecessary brawl, but one that I'll use to shield my thieving. I wrap the scarf around my neck and bury my head in the wool fabric as I walk briskly around a corner, out of sight.

I make it a few paces, when I notice an intriguing scene unfolding. Just up ahead, a wall of navy blue suits block my vision of a mysterious figure. Remembering that I'm just outside Trinity Central, it doesn't take me long to figure out who they're protecting. President Malachi Blaire hurries along the streets with his guards, but as long as I've known him, I've always preferred to call him Kai. "Malachi" sounded much too pretentious, though fitting.

A crowd is gathering around for just a glimpse of their handsome commander in chief, but personally, I couldn't care less about him right now. The thought of seeing him again burns me to the core, but then again, he probably doesn't remember me at all.

The sea of guards move towards an alleyway surrounded by media, groups of reporters climbing on top of each other for an interview, and cameras recording the entire fiasco. I choose not to concern myself with whatever it is they're covering, but it must be important for Kai to make a personal appearance. A gust of icy wind forces me to retreat back into my scarf, and reminds me to keep moving.

Just as I'm about to turn another corner, locks of hair part from my view, moving with my head, and the guards separate slightly, leaving an opening to an old acquaintance. I'm almost lost in his two oceans of blue that widen at the sight of me. Our eyes locked, and I feel ten years younger, back to when he was a boy without responsibility and when I was a girl with a standing in society. I force myself to remember who we are now, and to remind myself that we have no more business being in each other's company.

His expression remains emotionless, but a familiarity dawns on his face as he lifts a hand in recognition. It takes everything I have to turn my head away as quickly as I looked up, feeling his lingering gaze burned into the back of my neck. I can almost make out the sound of my name being called, but convince myself that it's impossible. He doesn't care about me anymore than I do for him. Malachi Blaire. I shake his face from my mind.

As I enter my half-formed excuse for a home, I notice Devon's jacket lying on the ground.

"I'm home," I call to no one in particular, although there could only ever be just one person I'm referring to. The silhouette of my brother stands in the kitchen, and I hear the unmistakable static of the television turned on. He's watching the news rather intently. An impromptu report it appears, with an older reporter than Monica Blaire, though one I'd much rather prefer. Her brown hair tousles in the wind as she screams into the microphone, her voice barely audible through the commotion behind her.

The chaos in the background is intensified by the screaming of everyone trying to evacuate the area. A little girl, hair as white as snow falling over her shoulders, skin the brightest shade of pale I've ever seen, stands in the middle of it all. Government officials are attempting to subdue her, innocent bystanders are trying to get away as quickly as possible, and familiar media trucks pull up behind her, pointing their cameras at her obviously distraught face.

My jaw drops the second I notice what she's doing. Ice is slowly forming on the ground and shards of it protruding from the earth like stalagmites in a cave. The little girl, in her muddied blouse stands in the middle of it. Controlling it.

She's managing to create ice out of nothing, and none of the guards can get close enough to reach her. Her eyes seem frightened, but the way she stands makes it look as though she was freezing the street on purpose, a vendetta taking over her small figure.