The Los Angeles Lighthouse | ✔

Chapter 8: The Don'ts of Diner

     THE moment the conference call ends, Damas throws Brooks against the wall.

     His eyes are dangerously narrowed, chest rising and falling with shaky breaths. "Brooks, I've seen a lot of stupidity in my life, but this takes the crown."

     She doesn't blink. One moment, the younger Warden has Brooks immobilized, forearm violently pressed against her collarbone. The next, he's his knees, clasping his wrist and spewing curses through clenched teeth.

     Unfazed, Brooks squats over Damas's withering form. She tilts her head to the side and rests her hands upon her knees. "Do not forget who's in charge here, Aaron." Damas flinches as she spits out his name like an insult.

     Nguyen and I scramble out of Brook's way as the Warden approaches the door. Leopold remains off to the side. Startling blue eyes darting towards Damas, but managing to restrain himself from rushing to his side and further provoking the coiled haired leader.

Brooks' fingers hover above the door handle. She pauses, then, with her back to us, half heartedly adds, "Quit your worrying, Leopold, I can feel it from here. Nguyen, check if Damas's wrist is broken."

Nguyen doesn't hesitate to do so; she slips a hand under Damas's shoulder and helps him to his feet. He winces and waves her off.

     "And Marks," Brooks starts, glancing over her shoulder. "Don't screw this up—" Her sentence is cut short by the faint creaking of the door handle. The room falls silent, memorized by the slowly opening door.

     "Ah, this isn't the the dining room, is it?"

     It's difficult to make out the slender figure drowning in the flood of outside light, gushing from the now opened doorframe. Eventually, the lights dull and the intruder comes into focus.

Brooks is the first to respond. "Who are you?"

He blinks, taking a minute to register the question. "Oh. I thought... the dining room or Triclinium or something? Someone said the Juniors we're supposed to meet up there for orientation."

A muscle in Brook's jaw twitches. "You didn't answer my question."

"Wait, Brooks." Damas grimaces, tucking his hand into his pocket. "He's one of mine—one of the two Somnium transfers. Quinton, correct?"

Quinton nods with wide eyes. "Yes. I mean yes, sir. Sorry, am I supposed to call you sir?"

A spark of amusement dances in Damas' eyes. It disappears as quickly as it came. "Warden Damas or just Warden will do." He brings up a hand to rub his temples. "You couldn't have picked a worse time to get lost."

"Yeah... I'm starting to realize that, Warden."

"You're from Somnium?" I interrupt.

Quinton looks at me oddly before nodding. "Born and raised."

My mouth drys. He doesn't look like a monster or godly. He looks... normal. Like the kid who'd sleep through math class. I blink. His clothing choice is unsettlingly average: loose sweatpants hugging his waist and white sleeves rolled up just above the elbow... and a pair of oddly bold blue sneakers. But other than that, he looks normal. No fangs. No halo. No nothing.

"Not that I mind the attention, but you're starting to creep me out," Quinton says. He threads his fingers through his hair, further tousling the already well-tousled warm blond strands.

I open my mouth to respond but Brooks beats me to the punch. "Well, Quinton, I'm sure between the two of you, you'll figure out how to get to the Triclinium."