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Back The Art of Exile Save as PDF
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Map
  4. Dedication
  5. GENESIS INSTITUTE GUILDS
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  50. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  51. IMAGE DESCRIPTIONS

As inconspicuously as I can, I pull my phone from my hoodie pocket and tuck it past the waistline of my leggings and into the front of my underpants.

When the thud of boot steps grows louder behind me, my instinct is to bolt, but I force myself to keep a normal pace. I relax my shoulders and hold in my ragged breaths.

“Halt,” one of the guards calls, and I comply, heart racing. I pull my hoodie down over my thighs and suck in my stomach so the outline of my phone doesn’t show. The phone is locked, but they could easily force me to unlock it. And there’s no innocent excuse for the photos and videos I just took.

But these guards have no reason to suspect me of anything, right? Maybe they just have a simple question.

“Ada Castle.” The guard’s voice echoes around the Equinox. “In the name of the Blood Crown and the Maker Council, we order you to submit to a search of all belongings on your person.”

My stomach plummets. Or that.

9

I try to swallow, but my throat is too tight. Why is this happening? The hard case of my phone presses uncomfortably against my groin. I attempt to squish my facial expression into quizzical innocence as I comply with the guards and, with trembling hands, empty my hoodie pockets.

All I have are my notes from my meeting with Michael, my pouch of sense, and a quarter and a stick of gum that have been living in the recesses of my pocket since whenever the last time this sweatshirt was washed.

The blond guard scrutinizes the provincial items extra carefully.

The gray-haired one pats me down. Arms, back, stomach. His eyes are as gray as his hair. And cruel.

My heart thunders as he impersonally pats down my legs, my thighs. For the first time ever, I’m thankful for those five extra pounds that now mold a cushy hideaway around my phone, keeping it in place.

A passing journeyman stops in her tracks and calls over, “Does the Council know you’re searching a recruit?”

“Move along, lass,” Gray-Hair says. But she doesn’t move along, and a cluster of other observers has started to form.

“This isn’t the way we do things here,” someone else insists.

Gray-Hair ceases his frisking, and Blondie tosses my things back to me, confiscating the quarter and the gum.

“We’re done,” he growls. “For now.”

After they stomp away, a few people linger to make sure that I’m okay, which is kind, but I just want to get out of here. I brush them off and rush toward the Winter wing, cursing myself for thinking I could ever do this job in the first place.