Dragonslayer

Chapter Two

They come for me at half past ten. By which time I'm on my fifth cup of coffee. When Cherila enters, I start guiltily and try to slip it under the table, but it's no use. She says anyway.

"Kai!" she rebukes. "You're not meant to be having caffiene."

"I needed it!" I protest, setting the cup back on the tray. About a year ago, I had a crazily hyperactive phase from drinking too much coffee. I'm well through it now, but I've been banned from coffee, a restriction I normally follow.

Cherila rolls her eyes. Today they're lined with luminous pink and framed with shimmering blue lashes. Her shock-straight brown hair has been wrestled into curls and when she purses her lips, I notice the new plum lipstick.

"Love the eye make-up," I joke with a laugh. Cherila is well known for her interesting take on fashion.

"Thank you," she says with a smile. "Although when I reported to Markus he thought I was insane. But let's face it-"

"Markus thinks everyone is insane!" I finish, jumping up from my armchair. Cherila is one of the offical wardrobe managers of my campus, but when I started becoming more and more famous, she became my personal stylist. It's funny because she's the sort of person I thought I'd hate, but I really like Cherila because she's not afraid to speak her mind and unlike most people in the fashion industry, she isn't hell bent on following the fashion trends.

"That he does." She spins around on her black heels that add five inches to her height. "Let's go."

I follow her out of the dining room and up to the lifts. "Am I getting new clothes?" I ask as Cherila swipes her card and the lift doors slide open silently.

"Yes," she answers. "But you need to check it all fits properly."

I bite back my grin. For parties, interviews and meetings, Cherila does what she likes- but when it's a fighting outfit, I have to be completely comfortable with it, or I won't be able to move properly and complain to Markus. "I'd be happy to."

"Kai's dressing room," Cherila orders the lift before rolling her eyes at me. "Yes, you'd better be, Kai. I expect you'll like it, though."

"Is it black?" I ask as the lift stops going up and turns right, along the familiar route. I've worn black since my very first day fighting, when I was eight. Most of the young ones wore white, because it looked more gory when they were splattered in blood, but they'd run out by the time it was my turn, so I had to wear something different. They didn't think it would matter, because they didn't think I'd live.

"Yes," she reassures me. "As long as it fits, you're wearing it, though."

"We'll see," I mumble as the lift halts. All of the lifts have mirror walls, which I find a bit creepy, but of course Cherila loves them as she can top up her eyeliner. I swear I have the vainest stylist possible.

The doors slide open silently and I step foward, letting my feet sink into the white fluffy carpet. I love my dressing room, it's beautiful and luxurious and everything I definitely do not deserve. I walk over to the huge white dressing table and rifle through the selection of make-up. I normally wear none, but today Cherila has already set out eyeliner, concealer and a clear sheen lip gloss. "Am I putting concealer on?" I turn to look at her beseechingly. "You know it itches."

She shrugs. "Need to hide those huge circles under your eyes." She strides over and plucks the brush out of my hand. "You look like a ghost. And I've got you a special weaker version. If it itches, I know you're lying."

I mumble something unintelligible. I'm not going to lie, I do like it when Cherila does my make-up nicely for parties and makes me look pretty, but I hate concealer.