Spy Girl (Spy Girl #1)

I stand up and smooth out my uniform—which, not surprisingly, is all black—grab my backpack, and head down the hall, my dream still at the forefront of my mind.

X has been my name since I came to Blackwood eight years ago after my parents were killed. I slide my hand down the thick chair rail and take in the polished beauty that is Blackwood Academy, the stately mansion that has been my home since then. Although to the outside world it appears to be an elite college for only the wealthiest of students, it’s not really. If Hogwarts was for young wizards who show talent with magic, Blackwood is for students who show exceptional skills in espionage. Disciplines like martial arts, languages, computer hacking, and rule breaking. Talents that our government can harness and train.

As I descend the grand iron staircase, I start to worry.

Last night, I may not have actually been studying. I may have been hooking up with S, who told me his real name is Josh Bentley after we first slept together. He wasn’t my first, by any means. At Blackwood, dating isn’t allowed, but we aren’t expected to deny our sexual desires. As long as we are not in violation of other rules like curfew, sex is fine, even considered a great way to release tension—which means the standard pickup line here is, Wanna blow off some steam? And that works for me.

I know I’m going to have to end things with Josh because last night when he held me in his arms, he dared to whisper those three little words—sweet words most girls long to hear but are the death of a relationship at Blackwood. Here, we’re taught to thrive on our own. To not crave emotional entanglements.

But last night, I failed in that respect. I liked hearing it.

But I’m chalking up my emotion to the events that preceded his words. All the students had been woken up yesterday at 0500 for a mission enactment. Twelve hours later—muddy, hungry, and exhausted—I used a sniper rifle to kill the target and retrieve the stolen data. Josh and I had worked together all day using our tracking abilities while being hunted. Just staying alive—as in not getting hit with a rubber bullet—is a feat. Completing the mission is a rare thing. Our enemies were Special Forces instructors who had never been beat.

After we’d scarfed down food in the mess hall, Josh and I celebrated by sneaking out with a 1974 bottle of Bordeaux I nicked from the school’s wine cellar.

And I have a feeling someone is missing that bottle.

I’m only a few weeks from graduation, and although it’s not that unusual for me to get sent to the Dean’s office for various misdemeanors, I’ve been particularly careful lately because after graduation I want to be a field operative for a covert agency. Because it’s my best chance of finding the man from my dream—and killing him.

When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I turn right then lift the brass knocker which contains a retinal scanner. My eye gets scanned and then the door responds with a click, letting me know I can open it.

“Hello, Xanthamum,” the Dean’s perpetually cheerful assistant says to me. She dresses like a grandmother and makes up a new name every time she sees you, but we all know it’s just a ruse. The woman retired from the CIA over ten years ago and is still a crack shot. “Go on in. He’s waiting for you.”

I give her a smile, hoping she will say more. She likes to gossip about the goings on at school. But in this case, she gives me a wave toward the door.

“Hello, sir,” I say to the Dean, by way of announcing my arrival.

He looks up from his book. “Have a seat.”

I sit down in a well-worn leather chair across from his desk. If I’m being honest, I love the Dean’s office. It’s a former library and is loaded with shelf after shelf of books. And the Dean has been a sort of father figure to me these last eight years, like if your dad was the type of guy to push you to do better at holding your breath under water, hitting a target the size of a peanut from one hundred feet, hacking into the Pentagon, and kicking the shit out of your jiu jitsu instructor.

“It’s my understanding that you are a good dancer,” he says.

Shit, he definitely knows I was dancing with Josh in his room after curfew. And by dancing, I mean having sex. But spies are trained not to follow the rules. To complete the mission whatever it takes. We are trained liars. So I reply coolly, “Of course, all of Blackwood’s students take finishing class.”

“I’m referring to the fact that you can actually dance well, like at a club.”

Crap. He knows my friend M and I sneak out to hear DJ Magic whenever he’s in town, which would be a worse offense than the wine.

I’m so dead.

“Uh, sure. I can dance.”

“You’ve been called out.”

Called out? Who ratted me out? Probably M’s roommate. She hates that M and I sneak out. It’s not our fault we don’t require much sleep and like to have some fun once in a while.

“And you’re popular with the young men of Blackwood,” he continues.

So I’ve maybe had short-term relationships with a few of them.