ZEPHYR
Where the fuck was she?
It was two in the afternoon on Thursday, and Biba was once again AWOL. I was not generally a possessive guy, but I’d just about had it with people going off the reservation. Arvo was walking around like General Patton these days, fighting his own private war and assuring me he had everything “well in hand.”
And Sol . . . I was beyond pissed about that situation. He was breaking against the Kings, which meant I couldn’t be in the same room with him. And it might mean blood was about to spill.
Then there was Theo, skulking around Biba like a pathetic lapdog. You couldn’t do anything with a guy like that except try to keep him away. Who knew what sad-sack nonsense he was trying to feed Biba? What a bad guy I was, how awful the Kings were, how he could keep her safe.
That was why, at the moment, I was searching the whole damned manor for Biba. I recalled that she had her first big exam from Gianas next week. Maybe there was a study session in his room. I made a beeline to the classroom and flung open the door.
But the room was empty. No one was in the class.
No one except my father.
It’s fucking weird to see your father in your school. Like, maybe the last time it’s normal is when you’re in preschool and your parents have to pick you up from the classroom physically. Not that Peter Williams had ever picked me up. We had servants for that.
Dad managed to look intimidating even seated at a student’s desk. He had his favorite Huntsman Prince of Wales suit, creaseless shirt with monogrammed platinum cufflinks, black silk tie with a matching platinum pin, and pristine calfskin oxfords. His feet were pressed together, his hands folded before him. This was the exact way he sat in his home office, behind his cherrywood desk, when he received me to tell me I was a disappointment.
Which is what I was. Dad never let me forget that.
“You could have called,” I said. “Given me some warning.”
“It was more valuable,” he replied crisply, “to see the extent to which you let yourself go when I’m not around.”
He had a point. I was on day three of my frayed Balmain jeans and day two of my McQueen hoodie. Plus, I’d opted for my knit cap over actually washing my hair.
“Sit down, Zephyr.”
There was something Pavlovian to the way I followed his orders. I pulled up a desk and sat facing him.
“How are your grades?” he demanded.
“There are no grades, dad. The term just started.”
“No matter,” he continued. “I need to call you away. There’s an issue with our port in Morocco. It started with a minor dockworker strike. Now there’s a diversion of freight vessels from some eastern port that’s bogged down because of a petty coup.”
I nodded. Last term, I’d have jumped at the opportunity to lend my skills to Williams Maritime, but I was worried about what might happen in my absence with so much going on at school. Not that I said this to Dad. I worked hard to keep a poker face.
“Anyway, I’ve no option now but to sack the harbormaster. He’s a damned imbecile anyway. We have freighters lined up to be unloaded and reloaded. I need someone I can trust to run things down there.”
“Of course, Dad,” I replied carefully. “I just have to get some things in order—”
“Order? What is there to get in order?”
“I mean—well, I need to tell the Dean, for one. How long would I be gone?”
“Schmidt can piss off. He does what I tell him. You should only be gone a couple of months, anyway. Take your texts with you and read them at night.”
“Okay, sure, but there are other things, you know. . . .”
My father’s eyes narrowed. Other things must have struck a nerve with him. His mind must have jumped immediately—and accurately—to the Kings. Dad’s one regret was letting the Kings become outlawed during his time at Stormcloud. He had prepared me from the beginning to re-establish them.
“Our affairs are in order, are they not?” he asked flatly.
“Sure. There’s just . . . uh, some projects in the air—”
Suddenly, he lifted his hand, and a sneering smile curled at the corners of his mouth.