The Deck of Omens (The Devouring Gray #2) - Christine Lynn Herman Page 0,27

with us.” Cal gestured to the people clustering behind him?—the rest of the cross-country team. People Isaac had heard his friend talk about for years with so much respect, so much care.

Justin’s gaze flicked across the courtyard, meeting Isaac’s, then widening a bit as it caught on Gabriel. But he said nothing to them. The expression on Justin’s face hit Isaac like a bullet. Not because he looked angry, but because he looked resigned.

Isaac’s temper roared in his ears. He could make everyone in this courtyard kneel if he wanted to?—force them to apologize. Force them to admit that they had no idea the pressure the founders were under, the lengths Justin had gone to in order to protect them. His power was already tugging at him, begging him to use it. It would be so easy to let it loose.

But Gabriel was watching. Everyone was watching. So he used his words instead.

“Cal,” he said. The boy turned toward him, the disdain on his face changing into something else entirely. That same look Isaac had been noticing more and more often. “He’s eating with me.”

The track team murmured uncomfortably. Cal stepped back, raised his hands slightly.

“If you say so,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble. Not with you.”

Justin walked over to him reluctantly, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. Isaac caught his eye, and they walked out of the courtyard together, Gabriel trailing behind.

“Why—” he began softly, but Justin shook his head.

“Don’t.” His voice was gruff and low. “They used to listen to me. Now they listen to you.”

He stalked off then, and Isaac sagged backward in the hallway, struggling to remember how to breathe.

He wished he hadn’t understood Justin’s words. But he did. He had assumed that after news of Justin’s deception got out, the rest of the town would automatically distrust all the other founders alongside him. But that wasn’t true. They were punishing Justin, and that look they were giving Isaac?—that look was respect.

It was a look that terrified him, because he knew he’d done nothing to deserve it. If the person the town felt safest turning to was a Sullivan, they really were all in trouble.

“Things sure have changed around here,” Gabriel said, and Isaac jolted. He’d half forgotten that his brother was behind them, but at least Gabriel looked distressed, too. “What happened while I was gone? Why are they being so hard on the Hawthornes?”

“He doesn’t have powers. The town found out,” Isaac said shortly. His breath was still coming a shade too quickly. “Honestly, the founders’ track record just isn’t what it used to be.”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed. And then he said the last thing Isaac expected.

“So let me help,” he said. “I’m a founder, too. I know you’re involved with whatever happened in the forest?—”

“No.” The word flew out of Isaac’s mouth before he could even think about it.

He couldn’t trust Gabriel. Not with his failures, not with anything.

Because every time Isaac looked at Gabriel, he saw his older brother standing over his chained-up body, holding a knife to his neck, ambivalence in his eyes.

Harper stood beneath the tree she had turned to stone, guilt churning through her stomach. It was a cloudy fall afternoon, but the sun still shone brightly enough to illuminate the stiff, unmoving branches. It was red-brown stone all the way from the top of the tree’s gnarled branches to the place where the trunk sank into the soil.

She knew exactly why Augusta Hawthorne had arranged for her to come here for her first training session. It was meant to destabilize her, to give Augusta justification for whatever she was about to put Harper through. Harper was determined not to let it get to her.

“You’re late.” Augusta appeared in the Hawthorne house’s back doorway, her lips pursed into an annoyed grimace. Her mastiffs loped into position behind her a moment later. They were bigger than Harper remembered; on two legs, they would easily have been taller than she was. Another show of force. Another not-so-subtle reminder that while Harper had successfully stood up to Augusta and Juniper, neither of these women were pleased about it. “I said three thirty.”

Harper pulled her phone out of her pocket. It was 3:31. Annoyance built in her throat, but she forced it down. She would not let Augusta rattle her?—not visibly, anyway.

“It won’t happen again,” she said smoothly.

Augusta inclined her head in a sharp nod. “Good.” She wore black from head to toe, her hands ensconced in their usual leather gloves. A trench coat