16

The buffet is a colour board of fresh, hot food. Every shade on the colour wheel seems stuffed into tureens and jars and bowls and metal trays.

My mouth floods at the sight of it.

I scoop masses of carrots and grilled salmon and sautéed greens onto my tray, then a little serve of souffle.

I find my way to the empty table I always sit at, the one close to the door. Courtney and James are nowhere in sight this evening, not since James took a tumble down the stairs and broke his wrist, oddly right after my brother shouldered past him, and Courtney is keeping him company—by that, I mean she’s co-writing his assignments.

Wish I had someone to do that for me.

Just another thing I’m on my own with.

Like dinner.

I loathe it sometimes, the silence. There’s a thrum of chatter all around me, but no noise comes from my mouth.

Not until I stuff a whole broccoli floret into my mouth.

My chewing is moody, and I throw a glance up at the faculty table.

Eric sits with the teachers this evening. I’ve figured out that he has one day off, one day on, alternating between teacher and student. Now, he’s hunched over some papers, assignments that I suppose he is marking, and ignoring his plate.

I stab at the smoked, pepper-glazed salmon. My face wrinkles as the pink flesh peels apart—and I find that it isn’t as cooked as I prefer.

Tossing my fork to the table, I swap it for the spoon and drag the souffle closer.

I look up as my brother comes in.

He runs his hand over his face, and it looks like he’s having the same sort of I-can’t-take-another-day-of-this-shit evening that I am.

He drops his hand as he passes me and shoots me a glare.

My lip curls.

He just throws back a deliberate sneer, then makes for the buffet. Not a moment after he clatters a tray off the pile, another Snake comes in from the arched doorway. Two, more accurately.

Asta clinging onto Dray’s arm.

Her chin is low, her eyes swerving from under her lashes, and her silvery hair braided to rest over her shoulder. But strands and threads of hair are tugged out of the braid, distressed, and by the frozen scowl on her face, I sense something amiss.

Dray looks as though he hardly notices the witch hanging off him. His betrothed should spark more in the blue of his eyes, darker tonight in the warmer shadows of the mess hall.

And he looks put together, not frayed, not distressed at all.

The collar of his shirt rests neatly on the neckline of his black, cashmere sweater. His breeches are sleek, wrinkle-free, and pressed.

The shine of his polished black shoes glistens under the light of the hall. I guess the designer to be Louis Vuitton, but I never have been very good as picking the brands, unless it’s utterly obvious, like Gucci or Versace or Chanel.

Dray is more subtle than that.

Not a strand out of place, his hair is combed to the side, and set, firm.

Whatever has Asta in a mood, it might have something to do with the frequent glowers she aims up at the faculty table. Probably got a bad grade, or something. Had a fit.

Though, tantrums really are more my style and not so much Asta’s. She’s a sword in the back instead.

I watch the pair of them pass my table.

Dray casts a glance down at me.

I don’t see how long it lingers, since I am fast to flick my attention down to my bowl and scoop my spoon into a soft, fluffy mesh of souffle.

The cream and pastry wobble on the spoon as I lift it to my mouth. I scarf it down, as hungrily as though I have missed three meals in a row.

I’m scooping another chunk when a tray clatters, loud.

I jerk back with a fright.

I throw my glare upwards—and still, I don’t expect to see what I do.

Serena has tossed her tray onto my table.

And now, she lowers into the seat opposite me. Serena actually sinks into the chair, a glide of grace, then draws her tray closer to herself, at my fucking table .

I gape at her.

She spares me a small, tight smile, one that reeks of a warning, then sets out her cutlery. “Good evening.”

Still, I just… stare.

Disbelief has my lips parted and my blinks slowed.

I cast a look over at the Snake’s table, the one they always crowd around, the one that, if any poor first year thinks is free to sit at, a Snake will boot them clean off a chair.

Oliver has a furious stare pinned on Serena’s back. Guess that explains his mood: He and Serena are obviously fighting.

But what that has to do with me, I don’t care to know.

Dray looks just as lost as I am. Brow furrowed, he glances between my brother and Serena before his gaze lands on me. The frown fades and is fast replaced with a hard, schooled look.

I blink at Serena. “Can I help you?”

Serena arches a brow. “Doubtful.”

As she always does at Bluestone, before she eats, she uses a cloth napkin to wipe her cutlery. Like nothing has happened, like nothing is happening, like she hasn’t just parked herself at my table, with me, and turned her back on the ones frowning at her.

And she stays there.

I finish my dessert, not taking my curious, bewildered look off her, and then down my chamomile tea. Serena just stays seated across from me, not talking, simply eating in peace.

I finish, then leave her—and my tray—behind.

I have gone almost a full two weeks without Dray’s torture. Just his stares.

And his stares are constant .

Any time I turn around in class, the glint of blue eyes lures in my gaze. Each time I eat a meal (back to normal, with Courtney and James as my companions), he is watching me from across the hall. Sometimes frowning, sometimes glaring, but most often, just considering .

Probably conjuring up all the ways to get back at me for his own attack on me. Fucking psycho.

But I notice how closely Asta sticks to him, now.

Does she know?

No, of course not.

And even if she did, she’s never seemed to care before that he fucks his way through the school, and that his favourite seems to be Melody Green. Favourite, I wonder, or the most available and convenient?

Maybe he just cares little for pursuing a waste of time to him, to chase . Maybe he hasn’t ever had to chase before.

Whatever her reasons are, Asta is hanging off Dray Sinclair like a bad smell on shit. That’s what I think of the pair of them.

And always, even with her leaning on him, stroking down his chest, peppering kisses over his turned jaw, ignorant to his detached tolerance, he watches me.

Is it possible to claw one’s flesh off?

Asking for a friend.

Still, count my blessings and all that nonsense, right?

Because since that night…

I mean, I don’t know what he was thinking that night, but ever since…

Dray has left me alone.

It’s not reassuring, of course. Just a lull in his torture. There’s bound to be consequences for it. It’s just a matter of when, where, and how. Until he seeks revenge, I can’t relax.

And yet, I don’t want that moment to come.

I just want to be at peace.

Even now, as I pile in with the crowd into the dingy, musty mathematics class, my feet dragging beneath me, I feel his piercing stare burning into the back of my head.

James stalks ahead with Courtney right on his heels.

I take the only table that’s free, right in the middle of the room.

I’m left all alone, and though being with people hasn’t saved me from Dray before, being alone definitely makes me feel a lot more vulnerable, exposed .

I’m out in the open, a sitting toad.

Then it gets worse.

Lockwood, Master of Mathematics, announces a pop quiz.

Fuck my fucking life.

I bury my face in my palms as he dishes out the papers.

They move from one table to the next to the next, and I wonder how much trouble I’ll get in if I burn mine, or eat it.

I don’t do either.

I slump over my notebook.

The scratching of pens on paper is fast to fill the classroom. Sometimes, there’s a cough, or the creak of a chair, but it’s mostly silent as we tackle the questionnaire.

Gods, I can feel my mind rotting. Turning sour and bitter.

And when the timer chimes, a ringing that sets my teeth on edge, and we are dismissed, my mood has only worsened to the state of rotten pears.

I know I did horribly on that test.

Shame it’s graded.

Father will be on the phone in a matter of days about it. Depends on when he gets the results.

No doubt he’ll mention how well Oliver did.

My mouth puckers at the thought, the reminder of how much better my twin is. Maybe in the womb he ate my magic and my brains, and that’s how he’s bloody special.

Prick.

My mood is rotting the more I let my mind stew on it, on all of it. Oliver, the test, my father, Dray, even Serena sitting with me the other week has some meaning to it that I can’t figure out.

Wish I could lure the Snakes all onto one sled, then push them all off a fucking crevasse.

The rest of the day doesn’t help.

Brews and Theory is still in its relocation to the gardens—and I did not dress for the outside. I forgot, alright?

So now, I’m hugging myself on the stool, rubbing my cardigan-shielded arms and watching my breath mist in front of my face.

A dozen cauldrons and stools line the netted gardens.

Dray stands on the other side of the cauldron, I’m sure to have a direct line of sight to me, and he stirs in the warts and spider eggs. He can’t stop stirring, not for the rest of the hour. The potion has to congeal under the Hallows Eve moon in just a couple of nights, but before that, it takes a week to get the potion to the deep, rich shade of purple it must be.

I huddle up near the flames that lick under the cauldron and hug myself so tight my bones should snap.

If the gods thought they might give me a break, they then laughed at the notion, then fired more torment my way.

In Star Theory, I get my assignment back.

Graded.

Marked in red ink.

C-

I run my tongue over my teeth.

One grade away from a fail.

I’m just counting down the hours until a phone call comes in for me. Father’s going to have a conniption.

But my mood plummets to the pits of hell when, at the end of the week, I’m descending the stairs to the atrium—and a scream splits the air behind me.

Stumbling into the banister, I stagger around to glare up at the landing above. About six, maybe seven students come barrelling out of the corridor, then scramble onto whatever podiums or steps they can reach.

My insides turn cold.

A first year clammers onto the very banister I lean my weight on, further up, hanging off the edge.

Before I can wonder why, before that question can frown my face or tilt my head, it comes tearing out in two thick, green waves.

Green water rushes from the two corridors above, like violent waves roar up at the face of a cliff. But the water is tainted. Stained green, a neon shade that stinks of cheese and fresh sick.

Griffin bile.

The fright cuts through me in a gasp.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I scramble for the banister and make to hoist myself up. “ Oh, fuckkk .”

The waves collide on the landing—then turn on the stairs.

Thick, bright green waves roll down the staircase like it’s been projected by a fucking rocket.

I slip from the banister.

A cry shoves out of me before I scramble for it again.

Splashes of the bile hit the legs of my tights. I feel the burn, like acid that’s been sprayed from a distance. I know the burn will fade, the sores will heal after a week of salves, but the tights will be ruined.

It’s the shoes I’m worried about.

I get a grip on the wood of the barrier and press my midsection into it. The bite is sharp on my ribs. My shoes slip on the steps, but I push up—just as the fluorescent green wave comes thundering past me.

My inhale is sharp.

I dangle off the banister, but my Mary-Janes were hit.

I feel the bile leak into the soles of my shoes. Then the burn ignites, and a cry ribbons out of me.

The pain throws me over the edge of the banister, like I can get away from it, scramble and run. It follows me, poisonous flames lashing at my feet, and I topple over the edge of the banister.

The ground rushes up to meet me.

Distantly, I hear a cry, a shout—then a thump. Someone else fell. Someone else landed on the floor. And I can’t be convinced they didn’t break bones on landing.

I brace myself.

Arms crossed around my head, a scream splits me—

I land with a bounce.

My lashes flutter on white.

White feathers all around me. The tips tickle my nose, stems fall into my mouth. I choke on them, the rush of conjured feathers, but then I blink—and they are gone.

I thump to the ground.

And not the slightest ache from my landing springs up on my body. Someone conjured feathers—and broke my fall.

I sit up against the wall.

Eyes wild, I glare around the atrium.

It’s soaked in griffin bile.

The neon green liquid sloshes up walls and ripples down the stairs, then floods the wooden floor. Buried, the rug is eaten away to nothing.

Witches keep safe. They stand on pedestals, tucked beside statues and climbed up on bannisters and window ledges and the upper levelled floors of the corridors.

Booming laughter echoes all around me.

I home in on the loudest.

Standing on chairs pulled out of the mess hall, almost as though prepared for the show, Landon is doubled over, heaving with a deep, chesty laugh; Mildred folds over him, her creased eyes leaking tears.

The pair are in perfect sync with their wretched, heaving guffaws.

Behind them, at the mouth of a corridor, Serena turns a dull, disinterested look over the mess, then draws back into the corridor, the one that leads to the Living Quarter.

Asta is hot on her heels.

My flaring glare locks onto Dray and Oliver. Both of them balanced on the ledges of pedestals.

Dray’s smile is wicked, and he drags his tongue over his teeth. His gaze swerves around, delighted and dazzled.

Then it lands on me.

His tongue stills. He bites down on it, and a dark look settles over his smile. To stare into the face of pure evil…

I shout at it like a fucking child.

My face is hot as I throw everything I have into my scream, “These are Versace!”

My Mary-Janes…

The screech rips through me, feral. “You fucking ass!”

Landon’s roars grow louder. He and Mildred, they laugh harder—at me.

Feels like a hand reaches into my chest and just rips everything out in one swipe. The tears are brewing, itching at my eyes, but the rage is roaring up, stronger.

These shoes, they matter to me.

Not because they are pretty, shiny shoes with a brand name stuck to them, and not because of the gloss, the comfort, the quality.

Oliver bought them for me.

Didn’t pick them out a magazine either or point them out at a fashion exhibit. They weren’t some New Year gift or wrapped birthday present.

These shoes, I saw in the window when we were visiting the Vasiles, Serena’s family, in Milan. The heels I was wearing were too thin and too high. My feet ached, the soles were alight, my bones crying.

Oliver noticed. Noticed that I was starting to hobble, he noticed the shoes I was eyeing in the window. Pretty Mary-Janes whose slight heels were less than an inch, thicker, too. Practically flats.

Without a word, he halted our party and went in to buy for them for me.

These shoes matter because they are a glimpse into the heart of my brother, when he’s kind, when he is the Oliver I loved, not the one I loathe.

This is the Oliver I loathe.

But Dray gave himself away. On the pedestal, leaning back against a wooden pillar, he’s so obviously prepared to view a masterpiece of others’ pain.

He was involved in the bile.

Not my brother. I know that because, while Oliver grins, there’s a faint lift of his brow, a look of impressed surprise.

So my sights set on Dray.

And maybe it’s not just the shoes that have me clambering to my feet, wild gaze locked onto him.

Maybe it’s a lot more than some shoes.

Frankly, maybe I don’t give a fuck anymore.

A guttural sound rips through me, and I push into step.

I march for them, the Snakes, and my hands are flexing at my sides. The soles of my feet are searing hot, the griffin bile eating away at my skin, bubbling warts and boils.

But I’m storming now, too late to stop and wince.

Dray arches a brow as I advance on him.

Slowly, he uncrosses his arms and draws from the pillar. He takes a step off the ledge onto the cleared patch of floorboards that I am certain he makuted clean.

He stands straight, tall, a fucking tower I should run from.

Our gazes are locked, like hooks in the ocean. My legs move faster, and distantly I am aware of the hush that falls over the atrium, of those who drew in closer to see the cause of the screams and laughter.

If I paid any mind to anything else in this moment, it wouldn’t be the silence that steals everyone, and that they all watch me break into a run—aimed right at Dray.

I would pay attention to the thrumming of my heart, the bite of warning in my gut, like it’s pleading with me, please, no, don’t do this, stop, turn around !

I might even pay more attention to the ghostly sheen that washes over Oliver’s face out the corner of my eye as he steps off his pedestal, onto the safety of the untouched floor.

But I only look at Dray.

I only think of him.

And I barrel into him, hard.

I throw my entire body into the collision, turn it all into my shoulder, and it’s enough to have him stagger back a step.

Just a step, but I don’t care.

I’m in it now, the tornado of nothing but pure, utter rage that tears through me.

I shove at him again.

My hands smack into his solid chest, and I push and push and push, until my hands fist, and they are raining down on him.

“You fucker, you motherfucking prick, fuck you, you piece of shit— fuckkkkkkkk !”

He is unflinching.

I don’t stop.

Cheek turned to me, his lashes are low over his eyes, and it’s as though he’s either scraping for scraps of patience, or he’s waiting it out, waiting for me to tire, like I am nothing more than a child having a tantrum.

This is so much more.

A wild sound tears through me as I’m yanked back.

Oliver snatches me by the arm and hoists me with him.

The rotting, burnt soles of my shoes slip beneath me. Still, I yank free of him and throw a look at him so wild that he actually releases me—and shuts the fuck up.

I turn that lethal stare on Dray.

His head is tilted now, lashes low over the sharp and threatening gleam of his eyes.

Try it , that look tells me.

And I do.

I punch out for him. My fist aims for his face.

But it doesn’t connect.

Dray takes a swift step closer, and swipes for me. His hand catches my wrist and holds it, firm.

Diamond eyes flare down at me. A warning, a threat.

It’s punched by the press of his thumb into my wrist. “You forget yourself, Olivia.”

The press of his thumb digs deeper.

It aches the bone and tendons.

A wince is sharp between the bite of my teeth.

“I hate you,” I utter the confession in a teary mess, a groaned admission stained with poison. “I fucking despise you, you absolute piece of shit, you fucking monster—and I hope, gods I hope, Dray , you choke on a dick and die.”

He blinks. Lashes flutter once, twice. It’s a fleeting shutter of his mask. But he’s composed in a short heartbeat.

Jaw clenched, he lifts his chin and stares down his nose at me. His grip firms. The blood is pooling in my fingers, throbbing in my palm.

I utter a groan, but his answer is to lower his head. He brings his lips to the heel of my palm—and plants a chaste kiss on my skin.

His lips move against my palm, and I almost don’t hear the danger in his low murmur, “Such pretty words from a crooked mouth.”

Before I can react—

“Break it up! All of you!” Headmaster Braun’s booming voice bounces off the walls. Enchanted by his pentacle, the announcement will reach every corridor, every foyer, every classroom in this gods-forsaken prison. “The injured to the infirmary, and everyone else, get your warts out of my sight!” His voice snaps, then rips into a shout, “ Where are the damned cleaners ?”

Dray’s fingers spring from my wrist. A very deliberate release, and I don’t need to think on it a moment longer to know what that told me. I am at his mercy.

I stagger back from him, from the bloodshed in his gaze.

Sure, he released me, but the warning in his eyes doesn’t fade.

“Come on,” Oliver starts and reaches for me. “Let’s get your burns sorted—”

I whirl around and take my fist with me.

Oliver either isn’t as quick as Dray, or he’s not as focused on self-preservation. Maybe he simply allows it, my fist to connect with his mouth.

Because that’s what happens.

I punch him square on the face.

I feel the burst of blood on my knuckles, the instant swell of his lips and the cut of his teeth.

“Detention, Miss Craven!” Headmaster Braun screams at me. “Monday, detention for an entire week! Mr Harling, see her to the infirmary, now.”

Instinct has my shoulder tucking inwards, as though it’s my father advancing on me. But it’s only Eric.

That does little to lull the rage lashing through me.

I glare at my brother, my hands fisted at my sides, my chest heaving, and it takes everything not to go back in for another hit.

Oliver’s face is knocked to the side.

He leans away from me, crimson smearing his chin.

His death stare is aimed at the floor. He spits out a wad of blood before he turns that lethal look on me.

Fingers clasp around my arm.

Eric’s cheap musk is strong enough to merge with the stench of the griffin bile. So I know it’s him who takes me by the elbow.

I fall back a step.

Finally, I tug out of Oliver’s fierce stare.

Before I turn my back on them, I notice it.

Dray, the roll of his jaw, the masked rage that should warp his face. But he keeps it as schooled as he can.

This isn’t the place. Not the time.

But those two things will come.

And maybe then, I’ll regret it.

Right now?

Right now, I only regret that I didn’t sock Dray right in his pretty face.