The Lost Heir

Old Stone

"This bit always humbles me and Bertha," Sam says, steering into the nearest space among a sea of sleek, expensive cars.

Bertha gives a small, resentful groan as the handbrake goes on, which does not help her argument.

"Bertha may be older than me and have a hundred and twenty thousand miles on her," I say, unclipping my seatbelt, "but she gets me here safely. That is the entire purpose of a car."

"She also makes a noise in third gear that sounds like a dying goose."

"She has character."

Sam gives the ancient gearstick a doubtful wiggle. "She may not survive her next MOT."

I pat the dashboard. "Do not listen to her, Bertha. You have another thirty thousand miles in you. Minimum."

"You don't believe that."

"I believe in morale."

"Lyra."

I look at her innocently.

"Stop stalling," Sam says. "Get out."

I give her a look and climb out. She pops the boot, and I haul my overstuffed suitcase onto the gravel, followed by the battered sewing-machine case.

"Cool goodbye," Sam asks, folding her arms, "or the emotional one where I pretend I won't miss your hair clogging the shower, then admit the house is boring without you?"

She is not my mother. Not quite. But she has always been something close enough to hurt.

I do not answer. I just step forwards and wrap my arms tightly around her.

"I am forever sorry about the hair," I mumble into her shoulder. "And when have I ever been exciting?"

"You're not. My life is simply that dull."

I laugh, but it fades quickly as I pull back and look towards the school.

The large oak doors stand open, swallowing students, suitcases, parents, noise. Everything familiar. Everything waiting.

"I'll see you at Christmas?" I ask.

Sam's expression softens. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You need to stop checking, Lyra."

My throat tightens.

"I'll be here," she says. "I'll come back for you."

I swallow. "This could get emotional if you're not careful."

She folds her arms and nods towards the entrance. "Get going. You've probably got a lot of s**t to unpack."

She is, unfortunately, correct.

I grip the handle of my suitcase, give Bertha one last longing glance, then drag my things towards the doors before I can think too hard about turning around.

The red brick looks cleaner than before, as though someone attacked it with a pressure washer over the summer. The old mansion rises beyond the car park with its turrets, tall windows and careful newer wings, grand enough to impress someone who has not spent years learning exactly where all its sharp edges are.

I drag my things inside and join the small queue at reception to collect my room key and timetable for the last time.

"Name?" the woman behind the desk asks.

She is not the receptionist from last year. That one had smiled as though she meant it.

"Lyra Grey."

The murmuring starts behind me almost immediately.

Of course it does.

I keep my face still and my shoulders straight, because I have had years to practise both.

The receptionist's fingers move quickly over the keyboard. After a moment, she reaches into the row of labelled envelopes behind her.

"Block C. Same room as last year." She hands over a plastic keycard and a folded sheet of paper. "Timetable revisions are on there. Welcome back."

I murmur my thanks and step aside.

Beneath my timetable is a list of clubs, societies and social events.

Normal things.

Completely normal things.

Around me, the entrance hall hums with start-of-term chaos. Wheels bump over old stone. Parents issue last-minute advice to children who are clearly not listening.

A first year clings to a trunk nearly as big as she is, staring up at the high ceiling and the iconic artwork of the original Golden Lycan dominating the back wall of the grand staircase: a huge gold-eyed wolf, half-shadow and half-light, painted like a legend rather than an animal.

The Golden Lycan was the founding symbol of the Golden Lycans pack, the largest pack in the country, and the Landrys had run Exton for centuries. Their legacy was everywhere.

Which made Joshua Landry feel like a fairly damning argument against good breeding.

The first-year eventually drags her gaze from the painting and shuffles forwards with her trunk.

I remember doing that once.

The looking up, at least.

Exton has that effect on people. It makes you feel small in a way that can either be awe-inspiring or oppressive, depending on your mood.

Today, it is definitely the second one.

The woman on reception reminds me of Eliza from the pack haberdashery, Astraea comments. Same warmth. Same likelihood of biting.

She gave me her old sewing machine, I remind her.

And will you actually use it?

Attempt to, yes. Not every pursuit needs to involve throwing people at walls.

Finally, Astraea sighs. I have only been suggesting that since we blended.

She is not wrong. Astraea has been trying for years to push me towards things that make me more than efficient, more than useful, more than a weapon with good posture.

I turn down one of the corridors, the sound of my footsteps changing as old stone gives way to newer flooring. Exton had expanded over time, its living quarters adapted around the students who needed them.

I had never been fussy about where I stayed, which had probably worked in my favour. Low expectations were occasionally useful.

My room was on the ground floor, with its own narrow private garden. It was not large, but the concrete walls between each garden sloped steadily down towards the lake, giving us something quieter than most students had.

Ours was one of only two rooms like it in the girls' block.

Astraea was not especially fond of being wet, so shifting still required the old-fashioned route outside. Even so, the little garden was worth having. There was room for two sun loungers and a mint plant, which I mostly kept alive so I could steep the leaves in hot water and pretend it counted as a hobby.

Really, the room had been designed for my roommate.

I could not pronounce Jen's actual name. No one could. Jen was as close as any of us had managed, and she accepted it with the weary grace of someone surrounded by linguistic incompetence.

She was one of my favourite things about Exton.

Sirens on the mainland were rare. Exton had only ever had three, and Jen was one of them. On land, she looked almost human, if you ignored the vivid teal hair and the sort of face people stared at before remembering they had manners.

In water, that changed.

In water, Jen changed completely: gills at her neck, dark eyes, pearlescent tail, the whole terrifyingly beautiful siren arrangement. People sometimes called sirens mermaids, which Jen found personally offensive.

Her voice could persuade when she wanted it to, put me to sleep when I needed it, and sharpen my focus during exam season. Mostly, though, she was fun, relaxed, supremely intelligent, and one of my favourite things about Exton.

Our room looks exactly as it did when I shut the door behind us in July. Only the hoover lines on the navy carpet suggest anyone has been in since.

I pause on the threshold, reminded again of a theory I have had since first year. I have never proved it, but I am fairly sure the rooms are enchanted. They seem bigger on the inside than the outdoor walls should allow.

Maybe I would find out before I left this place for good.

Enchanted or not, the room worked well enough for two people. Bathroom by the door, a bed, desk and wardrobe on each side, and a sofa at the far end beside the doors to the garden.

More than enough space for us.

And now, apparently, a sewing machine.

I set it on the floor beside my desk and begin unpacking everything else.

I am halfway through when the door opens and Jen walks in behind a suitcase almost as dramatic as she is.

"Lyraaaa!" Jen sings, leaning over to hug me across my pile of clothes. "Look at your hair. Very woodland heroine. Slightly tragic. Excellent length."

"Thank you. I think."

"How was your summer? Please tell me you did something scandalous."

"I did a personal best for a half marathon."

Jen pauses with a long, colourful dress halfway out of her suitcase. "That is not scandalous. That is a cry for help."

"I also learned to use a sewing machine."

"Somehow worse."

"And helped Sam at the pack house."

"Ah." Her expression softens, but only briefly. Jen is kind enough not to look kind for too long. "So, running, working, and becoming suspiciously competent at domestic tasks. Thrilling."

"I kept busy."

"Lyra."

I start folding a jumper that does not need folding.

"What?"

"You know you are allowed to exist without earning the oxygen first, yes?"

"Sounds inefficient."

"That is not a no."

I glance at her, then back at the jumper. "Sam has done a lot for me. I like helping."

"I know." Jen hangs the dress in her wardrobe, its sleeves drifting dramatically around her. "But helping is not the same as paying rent on being loved."

"I kept busy," I say again, because it is easier than saying anything truer.

Jen sits on her bed and gives me one of her looks.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"That was not a nothing face."

"It was my deeply restrained face."

"Disturbing."

Her mouth curves, but her eyes stay soft. "You know you don't have to earn your way into Sam's life every summer, don't you?"

I look down at the jumper in my hands.

"I like helping."

"I know. But helping and proving you deserve to stay are not the same thing."

My fingers still in the fabric.

Annoyingly, this is the problem with Jen. She can sound ridiculous for forty straight minutes, then say one thing so accurate it feels like being struck with a small, elegant brick.

"I'm not proving anything," I mutter.

"Of course not."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." She stands and turns back to her suitcase, giving me the mercy of not looking directly at me. "Sam has loved you for nine years, Lyra. I doubt a few unwashed mugs are holding the arrangement together."

My throat tightens.

"That was dangerously sentimental."

"Horrifying, I know." She pulls out another dress, this one somehow louder than the last. "Quick, say something rude before we both recover."

I huff a laugh.

"That dress looks like a tropical bird lost a fight with a curtain."

"Excellent. There she is."

The ache in my chest eases a little.

Then Jen adds, far too casually, "And don't let certain alphas make you feel like you're less than terrifyingly competent either."

My laugh fades.

The knot in my stomach tightens again.

After Jen finishes telling me about her summer in the warm waters off the Greek coastline, we head down to the great hall for dinner.

The first evening back is always a Sunday roast, and Exton does not waste an opportunity to show off. The potatoes are legendary, every kind of meat is on offer, and Jen's plate soon contains a roast potato sitting cheerfully beside a wedge of raw beef.

"That still looks like a crime," I say as she carries it towards our table.

"It's called culture."

"I'm fairly sure it's called a biohazard."

"You eat rare steak."

"Rare. Not recently conscious."

Jen gives me a sweet smile and heads for our usual table while I join the queue.

The great hall is beautiful, annoyingly so. The domed glass ceiling catches the last of the evening light, turning the sky above us soft gold and bruised pink. It should make me feel glad to be back.

It does not quite manage it.

I wait behind a gaggle of fourth years who often come to training, exchanging polite greetings as the queue shifts forwards.

Just as my thoughts drift to tomorrow morning's classes, and whether I should still wear my now much longer hair up, the air changes behind me.

It is subtle at first.

A tightening across the back of my neck. A prickle over my arms. The sudden, instinctive awareness of something larger moving too close.

Alpha.

My fingers close around the edge of my tray before I have decided to hold on to it.

Some alphas carried their rank cleanly. Like warmth. Like gravity. Like something you could lean towards if you trusted the person wearing it.

This is not that.

This is jagged. Restless. Power with nowhere useful to go. The sort of presence that makes the air feel too thin and every sensible part of me go still.

Astraea rises inside me, alert in an instant.

Landry.

My stomach drops.

Of course.

The first night back at Exton, and the Goddess has apparently decided I do not deserve roast potatoes in peace.

I do not turn around.

I do not need to.

My ribs tighten around an old memory. The ghost of impact. The awful, breathless shock of hitting the mat too hard. Of pain blooming where his foot had landed. Of everyone watching while I tried not to look as damaged as I was.

My body remembers Joshua Landry before my mind can do anything useful with him.

That is what I tell myself, at least.

Fear.

Anger.

Bracing.

Sensible things.

But beneath them, something else flickers, faint enough to dismiss and sharp enough to notice.

Not want.

Absolutely not that.

More like a warning tugged through the centre of me. A thread pulled too tight before I even know it exists.

I hate it. Immediately.

Careful, Astraea murmurs.

I am always careful.

No, she says. You are usually prepared. There is a difference.

A body joins the queue behind me, close enough for his scent to cut through roast potatoes, gravy, perfume and old polished wood.

Clean. Warm. Cedar beneath something darker and unsettled.

He feels different.

Not better.

I do not want to give him better.

Just different enough that some stupid, traitorous part of me notices before I can stop it.

Then his voice comes from behind me, low and familiar enough to drag every ugly thing from last year straight back to the surface.

"Typical."