Spellhacke- M. K. England Page 0,57
utilitarian, built or rebuilt in the wake of the earthquake that set off the plague, and named for wealthy donors. The Katheryn A. Sherrinford School for Business. The M. Ridings Social Sciences Building. The Park-Torres Department of Technical Maz Studies.
A bit of the school’s original historic charm lingers in the older structures that have survived the last ten years of earthquakes, mostly fountains and other low-to-the-ground features. How were the builders supposed to know that this previously earthquake-free area, tucked away in the mountains, would suddenly become one of the most quake-prone places on the planet?
Remi and I chose to wait until night to make our break for the archives. Honestly, I needed the day to clean up all the nasty footprints I’d left and to get some new clothes and other supplies delivered by drone, courtesy of Ania’s credit account. And sleep. So much sleep. Turns out the cure to my insomnia problem is walking halfway across the city, soaking in my own sweat and fear. Gross, but effective.
Once full dark fell, Remi and I left Ania and Jaesin watching a movie on the couch and slipped out the same window I left through before. Though the cops still haven’t shown our faces or names on the news, we have to assume they have both, so we had to get creative moving through the city. Walking there and back was definitely not an option. Even with gliders, it would take all night.
We ended up calling Davon. I hated to do it, but what other option did we have? Davon picked Remi and me up in a RidePod a few blocks from Ania’s neighborhood, and off we sped to the university district. Cue the awkward.
The ride there is thankfully brief. I sit in between Remi and Davon, trapped as they make the kind of polite small talk I despise.
“The Hawks are your glideball team, right?” Remi asks over my head. “Heard they made it to the finals.”
Sports? Seriously, that’s what we’re falling back on here? I crane my neck to peek through the window at the streets far below. Too far to jump. Probably.
“Yeah, they made it, then totally blew it. Too many key players injured,” Davon answers.
“I’ll injure your key players,” I grumble.
They quite charitably ignore me, carrying on with their chatting over, around, and through me while I sit on pins and needles. Any second now, Davon will ask what he thinks is a thinly veiled question about my and Remi’s relationship (or lack thereof). Or, Remi will make a politically charged comment about MMC and the people who work there. Either way, it won’t matter that we’re wanted for the pipeline explosion, because I’ll end up wanted for murder instead. Layer the weirdness of seeing Davon for the first time since I ran from him in the sewers and this is just . . . the best. I love it.
But finally, blissfully, the pod begins its descent, and eventually comes to rest next to an old half-crumbled building near the archives. I thank Davon for the ride, but the memory of breaking down all over him last night has my cheeks growing hot, so a nudge with my elbow is all the affection I can manage. He catches my hand as I slide across the seat, though. He’s never been all that good at letting things go.
“Hey. You okay? Do you need anything?”
Yeah, I have no idea what to say to him. I’m pretty sure your employer wants to kill me? I can never take that job you stuck your neck out to get me because I don’t want to die and/or work for attempted murderers?
“Fine. All good” is what I manage. His mouth twists with skepticism, but he lets my hand go.
“Call me if you need a ride home, no matter what time. Be careful, Dizzy.”
I grunt an affirmative and back away from the pod, leading Remi across the street and onto the university campus.
The former school of music building is nothing but three barely standing walls aboveground, but below is a different story. Before the earthquakes started, the school made use of an underground tunnel system for the winter months, when Kyrkarta gets unbearably cold. Above-ground isn’t feasible due to aircar traffic and the train lines running throughout the campus. Instead, a spidery system of tunnels—much nicer than the sewer systems we’re used to—extend beneath many of the school’s major buildings.
Only problem is, many of them have collapsed over the past ten years, and the