Wicked As You Wish (A Hundred Names for Magic #1) - Rin Chupeco Page 0,27
remained open to anyone still hanging around campus waiting for the game to begin. Unfortunately, the Elsmore cafeteria was also famous among its students for discouraging appetite. The walls were a shade of putrid green, with rows of steel tables and chairs bolted to the floor, not unlike those found in prisons when viewed at certain angles.
Zoe steered Tala toward one of the tables, where three students sat. Tala had never seen them before in her life. Two were picking half-heartedly at their food, the pained looks on their faces indicated this was a better alternative to eating it. A large guitar case was stacked underneath the table, and she wondered if they were members of a band.
“Took you long enough,” the boy said good-naturedly. He had the sort of open face that made expressions easy to read, with East Asian features. “Hi. You must be Tala. I would bow, if there weren’t so many people around.”
“Please don’t.”
“The Makilings are royalty too, you know. You’re in history books.”
Tala eyed him suspiciously, not sure if he was teasing her, but the boy radiated genuine sincerity.
“The firebird here?” he asked.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Zoe said. “Scoot over and let us sit.”
“I’m not a picky eater, but this looks like a llama just vomited into a tortoise’s regurgitated mashed potatoes, and that’s not meant as a compliment.”
“Thank you, Ken,” Zoe said. “Thank you so much for whetting my appetite.”
The only boy in the group eagerly stuffing food into his mouth appeared surprised by the statement. He was short and skinny, with a face like what an even-tempered weasel in human guise might resemble. He carried a bundle of heavy brown fur, slung across one shoulder like a fashion accessory. He shot a glance Tala’s way in greeting. “It’s not bad,” he protested. “Tastes like a rottduan from Altai.”
“Rottduan are made from larvae, West. My point exactly.”
“It’s called a sloppy joe,” the other person in the table supplied quietly and grinned when Tala looked up. “My pronouns are they and them,” they told her, quick to sense her hesitation. They were expertly rolling a piece of toothpick across their knuckles, trapping one end between their fingers to flip it over to the next.
“They’re made of people? Named Joe?” The boy named West took another bite. “It doesn’t taste like people,” he decided after a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “Maybe camel.”
“You can probably tell they’re not from around here,” Zoe said.
“No, we’re not,” the first boy admitted. “The name’s Kensington Inoue. Call me Ken, everyone does. The quiet, unassuming enby over there is Loki Sun-Wagner, and the one eating ‘camel’ meat is Weston-Clifford Eddings.”
“Weston-Clifford Beaujour Grethari Bannock Iognaidh-Under-Waves Brighteye Eddings VI. But you can call me Weston-Clifford Beaujour Greth—”
“Yeah no, we’re just calling you West, West. And just because it’s named after a person doesn’t mean it’s made of a person.”
“How would you even know what human meat tastes like?” Zoe demanded.
“I had some, once,” the boy said in a chillingly vague way. “But that was an accident.”
“So. Tala, right?” Ken asked. “Man. It’s an honor. Really. I know all about your mum’s exploits. My folks fought alongside her a time or two. I know about your dad’s too. I mean, not the unconventional bits, but the…” He trailed off, eyeing her worriedly, but when all Tala did was look confused, he took heart and continued. “Anyway, we’re part of Alex’s protection unit, which reminds me. Sorry, Zo, we’ve been to all his classes and His Highness isn’t in any of them.”
Zoe frowned. “Are you certain? The firebird’s presence suggests otherwise.”
“Absolutely. We searched everywhere. Not even West could sniff him out.”
“If I can’t find him, then he isn’t here,” West said confidently. “I’d bet my left nostril on it.”
“How can you be so sure?” Tala asked.
Ken grinned. “Let’s just say West sports some very unique skills. Bloodhounds got nothing on him.”
Tala took out her own lunch—beef stewed in tomato sauce, noodles sautéed with seafood and vegetables, fragrant rice. Her companions watched, their hunger plain to see with every uncovered container, their own lunches forgotten in envy.
“You’re torturing us,” Ken groaned. “This is torture. You can’t expect us to sit and eat our awful sludge while you dangle actual food in front of us.” The lunch lady chose that moment to pass by their table; it took one baleful look from her for Ken to fold like a wet leaf. “Not like that’s a bad thing!” he called hastily after her retreating back. “Best sludge I’ve