RWBY YA Novel #3 Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE: IMAGINARY FRIENDS

  CHAPTER TWO: LIE

  CHAPTER THREE: PAINTING THE TOWN PINK

  CHAPTER FOUR: STEAL

  CHAPTER FIVE: HARD LESSONS

  CHAPTER SIX: CHEAT

  CHAPTER SEVEN: FALLING OUT

  CHAPTER EIGHT: SURVIVE

  CHAPTER NINE: ARRIVAL

  CHAPTER TEN: RIVAL

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: TRIVIAL PURSUIT

  CHAPTER TWELVE: DOUBLE TROUBLE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: NEW GIRL

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TEA FOR TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: FIGHT AND FLIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: PARTNERS IN CRIME

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: BREWING TROUBLE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: PANOPTI-CON

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: TORCH SONG

  CHAPTER TWENTY: BOSS FOR A DAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: FURY ROAD

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: TWO FOR TEA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: MEETING THE PARENTS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: FALLING IN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: SMOKE AND MIRRORS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: FRIENDS TO THE END

  COPYRIGHT

  Early in the morning on her eighth birthday, Trivia Vanille chased the wild, pink-haired girl through the still, dark rooms of the mansion.

  The quiet time belonged to them.

  The best friends often played Tiptoe Tag at night after Mama and Papa went to bed. One of them, who was “it,” had to catch the other girl, both of them moving as silently as they could. Not making noise wasn’t just part of the game, it was essential, because if anyone heard them, they would have to stop playing.

  There were other rules, which they made up as they went along. Trivia caught a flash of bright hair heading into the family room. She wasn’t allowed to go in there. But those were her parents’ rules, and Neopolitan never cared about those. Trivia darted inside with a sense of dread, just as Neo, in a frilly princess dress as pink as her hair, hopped lightly onto the antique coffee table. Neo raised a white-gloved hand to halt Trivia. Then she leaned over and poked her index finger at the floor. As soon as she touched it, she yanked her hand back, shaking it and blowing on her finger dramatically.

  Trivia gasped and jumped backward to the doorway. They were adding a new rule to the game. Her eyebrows rose. The floor is lava?

  Neopolitan nodded and stepped backward onto the cream-colored couch. She bounced up and down on the cushions the way she wasn’t supposed to, a taunting smile on her face.

  Trivia backed up several feet into the hall so she could get a running start. She took a deep breath before she dashed and sprang from the threshold to the embroidered Mistrali rug. It slipped beneath her on the smooth floor and she almost tumbled into the lake of molten rock, but she caught her balance at the last moment, arms windmilling comically. It was only safe to stand on things that covered the floor without touching it yourself.

  The girls moved around the room in an acrobatic dance. They remained the same distance apart, like mirror images of each other. Neopolitan bounced gracefully from sofa to table to piano bench. Trivia followed more slowly, more cautiously. Less steadily.

  Neo crouched on the edge of a console table to allow Trivia to catch up. But when Trivia reached from the arm of a wingback chair to tag her, Neo backflipped out of her grasp—so she missed the girl’s ankle and slapped something solid instead.

  The vase tipped and rolled. Trivia lunged, but her fingers only brushed against the vase as it went over the edge of the table and plummeted into the darkness.

  The floor was not lava. It was hard, made from the oldest redwood trees of Forever Fall forest. The vase shattered. The sound of tiny glass shards scattering around the room reminded her of rain tinkling against the roof.

  The silence, too, had been broken.

  Neopolitan, balancing with one foot on an end table, covered her mouth with both hands in shock, her mismatched pink and brown eyes wide.

  Trivia froze. Maybe her parents hadn’t heard that. She hoped that they hadn’t. But the footsteps overhead and then on the stairs, the light filling the house, told her it was just a foolish hope.

  Neopolitan twirled around and retreated into the shadows, behind a small mountain of wrapped and ribboned boxes of all shapes and sizes: birthday gifts. Trivia scrambled to find a hiding place of her own. She slipped her small body under the sofa just as the lights came on.

  Heavy steps. Her father’s slippered feet stomped into view.

  Papa sighed. “She broke the Akaibara vase.”

  “Trivia? Trivia, where are you?” Mama called out.

  Trivia folded herself smaller under the sofa, eyeing the door. When she pressed a hand against the hardwood floor, she felt a sharp pain. She gasped. A sliver of glass glinted in her palm. How had one of the fragments ended up here, clear on the other side of the room?

  “Sweetheart. It’s okay. We aren’t mad,” her mother went on.

  “Get out here right now, young lady.” Her father’s tone of voice hinted at his barely controlled anger. His feet moved out of view.

  “Trivia. Please.” Mama’s voice trembled. “Jimmy, I’ll check the other rooms.”

  It was her mother’s concern that convinced Trivia to come out. She stuck a hand from under the sofa, but before she could emerge, firm hands gripped her ankles and yanked her backward. Her hands squeaked along the floor as she tried to hold on. Her palm left a thin streak of blood in the varnish.

  Her father dangled her upside down from her ankles. The brown tulle of her dress gathered around her shoulders. She stared up at her father.

  He looked calm, wearing the same poker face that served him so well as city manager for the Vale City Council. But there was rage behind his shadowed eyes. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?” He shook her up and down, punctuating each word.

  “Jimmy. That’s enough,” Mama said.

  He dumped her onto the sofa she’d just been sheltering beneath and she sat up, smoothing her dress out anxiously.

  Mama knelt beside her and put her hand over hers. “What happened?”

  Trivia shook her head.

  “If you’re ever going to speak up for yourself, now is the time,” Papa said. “Say something, anything, and we’ll forget any of this happened.”

  Trivia opened her mouth. She wanted to tell him, but the words didn’t come. All she could manage was a horrible rasping sound, like she was gasping for breath. Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned with tears. She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head.

  He tossed up his hands. “What are we going to do with her?”

  Mama stood and retrieved Trivia’s communication board from the coffee table. She handed it to her daughter. “What were you doing down here? How did the vase break?”

  Trivia glanced at the empty spot behind the pile of presents. Mama turned to follow her gaze.

  “You came to sneak a look at your birthday gifts?” she asked.

  Trivia shook her head and slapped the communication board in frustration. With shaking fingers, she moved three letters around on the board. She held it up to show her mother.

  “N-E-O,” Mama read. “So your ‘friend’ broke the vase.” The weariness in her voice had nothing to do with the late hour.

  “Don’t encourage her, Carmel,” Papa said. “It’s all in her head. Something she makes up to avoid responsibility.”

  “She just has an overactive imagination,” Mama said.

  “It isn’t normal.”

  “Don’t use that word,” Mama whispered harshly. “Dr. Mazarin says we have to give her space.”

  “She has plenty of space. This is what we get for i
t.” He gestured at the broken glass on the floor. “That was an expensive accident.”

  “It’s only money.” Her mother’s voice had a cutting edge to it.

  “And the things I have to do for that money. For my family.” He shook his head and looked upward. “Clean this up.” His order didn’t seem to be directed to anyone in particular. He left the room.

  Mama sat next to Trivia on the sofa and put an arm around her. Trivia snuggled in. Her fluttering heartbeat slowed, and she soon started to get sleepy.

  “Talk to me,” Mama said softly. “Please.”

  Trivia’s eyes snapped open. She stiffened in her mother’s embrace.

  “You know, Trivia, a friend who does something bad and then leaves you to take the blame isn’t a good friend. Is she?” Mama brushed Trivia’s hair away from her face. Trivia looked into her mother’s big brown eyes and was disappointed when her mother flinched and looked away.

  Trivia edged to the side of the couch and crossed her arms. Her mother’s expression hardened. She stood abruptly. “Fine. Clean this mess and go to your room. Go to sleep.”

  Mama walked away. She paused in the doorway and stared at the spot where Neopolitan had been. “Be careful of the sharp pieces. I don’t want you to get hurt.” She left Trivia in the room. Alone. Again.

  Trivia picked at the sliver of glass protruding from her palm. The bright red spots on her finger and thumb blurred from the tears in her eyes. When she had gotten the shard out, she wiped her bloody hand on the cream-colored couch. She picked up the communication board from the floor. The “E” had tumbled off, transforming “Neo” into “No.”

  Trivia heard glass crunching. Neopolitan was stomping on the remnants of the vase, her hands balled into fists. Trivia waved for her to stop. Neo put her hands on her hips and glared at her.

  Trivia knew it was wrong, but she felt angry, too. And that had looked like such fun. She hesitantly stretched out a foot and placed her shoe over a chunk of glass. Neo clapped.

  Trivia slowly pressed down. The glass splintered satisfyingly under the heel of her shoe. She kept pushing and turning her heel, grinding the glass into dust. Neo sauntered out of the room, hands clasped behind her back.

  Trivia looked down at the mess she’d made, which Papa had told her to clean up. She shrugged and followed Neopolitan again, back to her room. Someone else would pick up the broken pieces later.

  Roman Torchwick sat on a bench in Sakura Park, huddled behind a crumpled, day-old newspaper. He was pretending to read under the flickering lantern, but he was really keeping an eye on the swanky nightclub across the street—always looking for opportunity.

  As with everything in the city of Mistral, the Luck of the Mountains was more than it seemed. You went there for the live music and overpriced, watered-down drinks, you stayed for the illegal gambling in the hidden basement.

  Or maybe people just liked the entertainment.

  The star attraction of the club, Honey Wine, was to die for—or at least she was capable of leading you to your death. She had a powerful Semblance, one of those special abilities some people had that often seemed like magic. Her sultry voice had an intoxicating effect on others, especially when she sang. It lowered people’s inhibitions and made them feel good, even while they were being taken for everything they had. Just the brief snatches of song Roman caught whenever the door opened filled him with longing for something he couldn’t put a name to, and conviction that he would find it in the club.

  That was why he was hanging out on the other side of the street, so the music didn’t lure him inside like the hapless pedestrians who passed by the club—or tried to. As beautiful as Wine and her voice were, Roman planned to keep a safe distance from both of them. Though he was only eighteen years old, he’d already heard enough empty promises in his life.

  Ah, another red-faced sucker was stumbling out of the club now. His green overcoat looked expensive and comfortable. Warm. And just about Roman’s size.

  He wanted that coat. Winter had come to Mistral, and the nights were getting colder. At this rate, he would freeze before he starved to death, but it would be a close race to the end.

  More than that, Roman was itching for action. He’d had enough of sitting around waiting for something to happen. He needed to be out there, making things happen. He dropped the newspaper to the ground and grabbed his wooden cane as he got up to follow his mark.

  The man just missed getting hit by a car as he crossed toward the park side of the street. He was the perfect victim: disoriented and oblivious, wealthy and stupid. Roman altered his course to leave the park and cross paths with the man just as he would pass the exit.

  Roman’s timing was impeccable. He roughly bumped into the man, using the brief, distracting moment of contact to lift his wallet with him none the wiser.

  “Watch it,” the man muttered, and stumbled on toward the stairs leading to the upper levels. The city elevator didn’t come down this far, to keep more of a buffer between the haves and have nots. It was your business if you wanted to engage in illegal activities in Mistral Below, and people from the base of the mountain had no business topside.

  “I sure will,” Roman said cheerfully.

  This guy was one of those snobs who spent his nights and his money on the lower levels, but had no respect for the people who actually lived there, like Roman. That sort of attitude was one of the things that made the rich so easy to steal from: They held their noses so high, they didn’t notice what was right under them.

  Pickpocketing was low risk with a high reward, only this time it wasn’t Roman’s main goal. Aside from identification and credit cards, the wallet only contained a few Lien, as he had anticipated. At Luck of the Mountains, the house always won. The man might have been lulled into buying too many drinks, or he’d had a bad night at the tables. Which was about to get worse.

  Roman waited until the man had just turned the corner onto a less busy street and then hurried after him. The man weaved back and forth unsteadily on the road. When he reached the entrance to one of the many blind alleys Mistral was famous for, Roman called after him. “Excuse me! You dropped this!”

  The man whirled around, alarmed. The sight of Roman waving his wallet, a friendly and urgent look on his face, put him more at ease. The man patted his pockets. Surprise turned to dismay.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  “I found it back by the club.” Roman held the wallet out. The man grabbed for it, but Roman yanked it back out of reach just before he could take it.

  “Hey, it’s getting kind of cold. Think you could help a fella out?” Roman asked.

  The man scowled. “I bet you stole that from me in the first place.”

  Roman sighed. “Instead of being rewarded for a good deed, I get accused of committing a crime. What is this world coming to?”

  “I’ve dealt with people like you before. I’m not falling for your con. Return my property or I’ll summon the authorities.”

  “Fine. Here you go.” Roman extended his hand with the wallet, and then casually tossed it into the dark alley. “Oops,” he said.

  The man glanced from Roman to the alley. He sized Roman up: a tall, scrawny teenager with his dirty orange hair tied back in a ragged ponytail. Roman knew he probably didn’t seem like much of a threat. But that had worked in his favor plenty of times.

  The man turned away from him and went for the bait.

  Roman looked around to make sure there was no one else nearby and then followed him into the alley. The man stooped to pick up his wallet. When he stood up, Roman walloped him in the back with his cane.

  The man went down and face-planted on the grungy cobblestones. Another thing that made the rich such good targets: They didn’t know how to fight.

  The man moaned and rolled over, blinking and confused.

  “That’s a lovely coat.” Roman twirled his cane casually but menacingly. He had practiced the move for hours in front of a cracked mirror he had dragged to his
shelter under the Switchback Ridge suspension bridge.

  The man started scrambling backward away from Roman, deeper into the dark alley. The only light was from the windows of the buildings on either side. A shadow passed in front of one of them, and then the light went out. The occupants were clearly used to the kinds of things that happened in this alley and were smart enough to want no part of it.

  “Don’t crawl around like that. You’re getting my coat dirty,” Roman said.

  The man pulled the coat tighter around him. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for help or a way out. “You can’t have my coat.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You probably have a closet full of coats at home. You can buy a new one tomorrow.” Roman snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

  The man’s expression shifted, showing Roman’s words had hit home. The man was weighing the cost of protecting something he wouldn’t even miss.

  The man jumped up and pushed past Roman with surprising speed and force, screaming “Help! Help!”

  Roman sighed. Why did they always run? Why did they expect someone to come to their rescue?

  In Mistral, everyone minded their own business—unless knowing other people’s business was their business. It was the only way to survive. If someone did hear the man’s cries, they would be sure to head in the opposite direction, grateful that whatever was going on wasn’t happening to them.

  Roman had learned that lesson early on, a year ago when he had first come to the city. He had helped a woman he’d thought was being mugged, taking a beating from her attacker before driving him off. Then Roman had been arrested, and the ungrateful “victim” fingered him for the crime. It turned out she was a criminal, too. Roman had interrupted a shady deal that went wrong. But she took advantage of the chance to shift attention away from herself by accusing Roman of a crime he didn’t commit.

  He wouldn’t make that mistake again. On the streets, on your own. You only watched out for yourself. Anything else was a weakness. Anyone else was a liability.

  Roman drew his cane back and hurled it after the man like a javelin. It traveled true, tripping him and sending him sprawling just short of the alley’s entrance. Roman walked over and picked up his cane. He loomed over the man. The man stared up at him with frightened eyes.