Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

CAT

W hen everyone finally stopped flitting around me like worried moths, I returned to the grave. The sun had given way to darkness hours ago, so only the stars watched as I crossed Ford's campus where I'd been cursed, stalked, threatened, terrorised, attacked, and now trapped. If Nightmare hadn't used her sick, twisted power to lock down Ford's End, I'd have been miles away. Countries away.

I wanted to get a ferry and race as far away from this heinous place as possible. Maybe I'd escape to Australia where there was sunshine and beaches instead of creeping fog and ominous storms, where Virgil would keep me safe. Except Virgil wasn't in Australia; he was locked away, at Nightmare's non-existent mercy. I couldn't stand to think about what she was doing to him, how she must be torturing him, but I couldn't seem to stop thinking about it.

Mist hung in the darkness around me as I crossed the graveyard behind Milton Hall, the spire barely visible in the darkness and the moon hidden by clouds that promised rain. I didn't care if a downpour soaked me. I didn't care about much these days.

Do you still care for Death, Cat?

Say yes, or Virgil dies.

Grass crunched, barely visible underfoot as I passed the mausoleums of Ford's founding family, the dampness in the air clinging to my coat, ruining the suede. My hair clung to my cheeks, still as white as snow and streaked with pink, a lasting reminder of the curse Nightmare wrought. Honey had already dyed her hair back to its normal gold, but I didn't have the energy. I didn't want to erase this mark and pretend everything was back to normal.

Byron was dead. Misery and Torment avoided me like I carried the plague. Death was… worse. Delicate and tentative but distant. I didn't need to ask to know he resented me for driving a wedge between him and the other men.

And do you still care for Torment and Misery?

Say no, or I'll carve Virgil into a hundred different pieces and leave a new one for you to find every day.

Nightmare wrecked every relationship I had in one fell swoop. I didn't have the guts to speak to Mum, Dad, or Tannie, even though I needed to hear their voices more than anything. Things were weird between Honey and I. Both grieving, both broken, but she hadn't been there that night. She had no idea what it was like, and I refused to speak a single word about it. And Byron…

I knelt in the wet grass when I reached his grave, ignoring the burning between my shoulder blades. Someone was watching me. I tried to summon the urge to care if it was friend or foe and failed. I was dying inside, if not already dead, so what did it matter if someone took advantage of my weakness and murdered me?

Deep down, I didn't want to die; I knew that. But it was buried under all my numbness and grief and rage and hurt.

I only wanted you and Misery because of the curse, but what Death and I have is real. Why would I want you when I have Death?

Nothing was real after Nightmare took control of Miz. She might have made me say my feelings for Death were genuine, but I'd lost him, too. The warm, sweet, loving man who made me smile, made me feel safe—that man was gone. In his place was awkwardness, a relationship of tiptoeing and eggshells

I opened my mouth to speak to Byron, to ask him why he did this, why he didn't tell me he'd had to buy his way into Ford, why he didn't confide in us even when Nightmare blackmailed him but… I didn't have the words. Only a rasp came out. I closed my mouth, sat back against the cold marble grave with my knees to my chest, and tried to cry.

Byron was dead. So many others were dead, buried across Ford's End, and all because Nightmare had a feud with Death no one had bothered to tell me about.

They'll regret that.

"They will," I agreed, husky and hoarse. I stared vacantly into the dark, a few scattered lights from Milton Hall diffused in the silvery mist like ghostly spectres. I almost hoped whoever was watching me came out from the shadows and confronted me. The darkness in me surged, eager for a fight, and for a moment the soft ambience of the ocean around the island and the wildlife and insects in the woods was drowned out by ringing screams.

I'd heard these screams for years. The screams of the mother whose despicable son I killed. Now I heard Byron's mum screaming. I heard my mum screaming, too. Was Virgil even alive? Nightmare could make me do whatever she wanted with a simple threat, and I had no way of knowing my brother was even alive.

"This is your fault," I told Byron, struggling to feel the cold that must be bleeding through me. My bones shuddered and my body shook, but I couldn't feel the chill.

Byron killed Erika. Dean Fairchild was dead because of him. The only person brave enough to protect us, to shield the school. Dead, because of Byron's lies and secrets. I scrubbed a hand down my face and wondered again if I might cry.

I waited for long minutes, but no tears came. Only numbness and rage.

Somewhere across the island, a creature howled, a lament of misery and grief. Hairs stood on end along my arms, but I didn't move, letting the mist soak into me, the droplets cold on my cheeks.

Hunt them. Hunt every person responsible for this and make them pay. Make them suffer .

"Yes," I murmured, tilting my head back against Byron's gravestone. "I think I will."