Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

CAT

I flicked the tears off my cheeks, cursing myself for wanting to feel something. Now all I could feel was the crushing weight on my chest, pain splintering through the fragile organ that hunched behind my ribcage. I wanted to undo everything that happened three weeks ago. If Nightmare had the power to lock down Ford's End so no one could get in or out, maybe magic could turn back time. My throat tightened at the thought of having Byron back, hearing him bicker with Honey, and complain grumpily about a lack of coffee or having to scale multiple flights of stairs to get to Circulation and Breathing class. I'd give anything just to listen to him whine about how much he hated shopping.

Remembering his scowl when Honey and I dragged him shopping before we came to Ford made me smile for a split second until I looked up and realised the path had snaked around Guinevere Ford's elaborate mausoleum and brought me to the austere resting place of Caishen Malevollus.

I swallowed hard, wrapping my arms around myself. A fine layer of snow had settled on the mausoleum's roof, drifting into the black dahlias carved around the sealed stone door. I kept my distance but traced the angular shapes of the mausoleum with my eyes, always returning to the name.

Cai, take the knife and kill Byron.

A shiver went down my spine that had nothing to do with the snow. Nightmare had been controlling Misery for years—hundreds and hundreds of years. I pressed my hands to my thighs as a tremor moved through them. The date on Caishen Malevollus's tomb said 1476—that was a lot of hundreds.

"It's you, isn't it?" I whispered, the cold spreading through me.

I'd touched Miz. There was no way his body was inside this mausoleum, and yet… I had no doubt a part of him had died here. Or maybe I was just in denial, and becoming a death god gave him form, but his body laid beyond this solid door.

Or was Misery already dead and a death god when he came here the first time, when Nightmare took control of him, possessing him like a parasite?

Parasite was a good word for that bitch. A worm that invaded good people and made them commit unspeakable acts.

I'm hurt, my terror. That's how you think of me?

I staggered back a step, clutching my head as her voice speared my skull. It didn't even hurt, but the shock of hearing her, the sudden violence of her sultry voice in my mind, was as bad as any stabbing ache.

Where's Virgil? I demanded. Is he okay?

In perfect condition, I promise you. Would you like to see him?

Yes! I agreed immediately, the circle of mausoleums fading as I focused on the voice in my head. Reality hit a moment later, and I held myself tighter as I asked, What's the catch?

Only a little task, she replied. Haven't you missed our fun little quests?

The last fun little quest led Darya to her death, made me a killer, and gave Nightmare untold power over me.

I'm not killing anyone for you, I protested warily, jumping when something brushed my knuckles. My eyes focused back on the real world and I expelled a ragged breath when I realised it was only fluffy flakes of snow brushing the backs of my fingers.

No murder, Nightmare assured me with a mock graveness. I want something perfectly innocent from you. I have a gift basket I want to give to an old friend, but those dreadful death gods of yours keeping barring me at every opportunity so I can't deliver it myself. All you need to do is come collect it from the edge of the shields around Ford, then take it to room fourteen in Everard Tower.

Who's your old friend? I asked, well aware of how perfectly innocent her tasks were. 1

She made Honey and I throw a bag of hay into the lake, playing her mind games so we didn't realise we'd actually moved the dead body of Dean Fairchild. Did Byron know about that? He helped her kill the man, so I had to presume he knew all about her little task.

Elaina Jackson. Very sweet woman, completely oblivious to her family's ties to my beloved cult but still useful.

Ford's administrator? Was she like Darya, with a family who'd been asking how high when Nightmare told them to jump for years. For generations.

I'm not helping you recruit followers, I snapped, colder with every word she said.

Suit yourself, Nightmare replied amiably. I suppose you can wait a few weeks to see Virgil…

Bitch. I ground my teeth, my arms wrapped so tightly around myself that they began to tremble. Fine, I hissed, and knew I would regret caving to her demands. But my brother was fuck knows where, and she was doing god knows what to him, and if delivering one gift basket meant I could see him, hug him, tell him everything was going to be okay and I'd get him out of there… it was worth it.

No matter the consequences. No matter who else died.

Where's the damn basket?

Manners, my terror. That's no way to speak to your goddess.

You're not my goddess, you're my blackmailer. Where is it?

On the edge of Ford grounds. Walk beyond the graveyard into the southern edge of Rosalind Woods and keep going until you reach the brook.

I didn't acknowledge her knowing my exact location. I didn't want to think about her being able to find me wherever I was. Even freed of her curse, I felt every bit as watched. Haunted.

I didn't reply to her. I pictured a solid stone wall slamming down around my mind for all the good it would do and strode out of the circle of mausoleums into the thick canopy of evergreens. I'd never gone into the woods on this side of campus, and I didn't like the way the light was immediately suffocated by the tall trees, the way all sounds were muffled, not even wildlife stirring.

It could be paranoia, but after everything I'd been through since stepping foot on this accursed island, paranoia was a synonym for common sense. I scanned the woods as I walked, waiting for a student cursed as a werewolf to jump out and attack me, or for Darya's ghost to drift through the shadows of looming tree trunks.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and my skin crawled with the feeling of being watched. It showed how scared I was—for myself and for Virgil—that I hoped it was one of the death gods, even if two of them hated me for breaking their hearts.

Not that they'd said as much to me. They hadn't said a whole lot. Tor said it wasn't my fault, that he didn't blame me, but I saw the look in his eye—I hurt him so badly there'd never be any repairing the damage. Miz wouldn't even look at me. I bet Nightmare was fucking thrilled.

Another ten minutes and I found the brook, the soft whispering of the water usually a balm to my nerves but only ratchetting them now. It cut across my path, trickling slightly downhill and disappearing around the sturdy roots of an old tree. I scanned the banks for a basket, a bright flannel blanket, or a brightly coloured selection of murder jams and poisonous mushrooms. I couldn't imagine Nightmare filling a basket with fruit, cheese and finger sandwiches. Unless the filling was literal fingers.

I turned on the spot, squinting through the dim light at the tall, leafy trees with their intimidating high branches, the gnarled roots at their bases spreading out, taking over the loamy earth. No picnic basket, nothing at all out of place.

"Looking for this?"

Ice dripped down my spine. I froze. I almost reached for the solid wall I'd built around my mind to ask Nightmare to take care of this problem, but there'd be a price. There was always a price with her.

Instead, I turned, slowly enough to scan every little thing in the woods, making sure the bastard hadn't brought backup. He stood in a patch of dappled cold winter sunlight a few metres away, looking golden and perfect and utterly harmless in khakis and a polo shirt, except for the twist of hatred on his face. 2

"Alastor," I muttered, choking back my fear and grasping for the numbness I'd been wrapped in for weeks. I needed it now, needed a shield against whatever Alastor Carmichael was about to do with me, alone in the middle of the woods with no one for half a mile.

"Figured you had to be looking for this," he told me, a nasty smirk on his face as he lifted a perfectly ordinary looking wicker basket. Inside I could just about see bread rolls, a hunk of cheese, sliced meat arranged into roses, grapes, and a thermos of what I had to presume was wine. "But who are you here to meet, Cat? Secret rendezvous, is it? Are you fucking one of the professors?" He laughed. "Bet a snivelling bitch like you would settle for old, wrinkled cock. Gotta get that passing grade somehow, right?"

"Give me the basket, Alastor," I demanded, darkness swelling inside me, hissing and coaxing, encouraging me to take a step. To rip his fucking throat out.

He snorted. "I know what—"

"You don't know shit, Alastor," I snapped, my patience worn thin. "You think you have all the answers, but you don't know anything so back the fuck off."

"Or what?" he challenged, matching my step, his broad shoulders tightening in his white and mint striped polo, his square chin cocked out.

I sighed roughly, striding across the loamy ground, carefully sidestepping roots that wanted to trip me. A little shiver went through me, equal fear that he'd attack me and eagerness to hurt him, to damage that golden face until everyone saw how ugly he was.

"I don't have the time or energy for this." Any time I wasted here, Virgil was suffering. I didn't know what was happening to him, but my imagination was happy to provide a smorgasbord of torture. "Give me the fucking basket."

"This basket?" I didn't like the curve of his mouth, the way dimples cut into his cheeks. Misleading, and every bit as much armour as my numbness. The difference was I used my armour to hide the fact I was breaking down, and Alastor used his to hide the poison that rotted his soul.

When I was three steps away, he snagged the block of cheese from the basket and bit into it with gleeful satisfaction. I froze. Shit. I was supposed to deliver that to Everard Tower; what would Nightmare do when she found out some jackass had taken a bite out of her offering?

"Why are you so obsessed with tormenting me?" I demanded, my hands curling into tight fists. "Accusing me of working for Nightmare was an excuse before; you just want to scare me. Does it make you feel big and strong to intimidate me?"

The darkness inside me whispered louder. He's nothing, a shrew to your mighty lioness. Snap his fragile bones and snuff out the poisoned light he calls a soul.

"Is this you standing up for yourself?" Amusement made Alastor's eyes sparkle. "That's all you've got? God, you're so pathetic, Cat."

"I'm pathetic? I'm not the one stalking a girl through a forest to steal a picnic basket, you fucking loser."

I strode closer, anger making my posture sharper, pulling my skin tight over my bones. End him, end him, rip out his spleen and bathe in his blood, the darkness sang. "Give me the fucking basket."

Like he existed just to piss me off, Alastor uncapped the silver thermos and took a deep swig. I was the one smirking when he spit it out, spraying the grass with red wine.

"That's fucking vile."

"Too refined for your cheap tastes," I said with sweet venom. "Give me the basket."

There was a droplet of wine on the edge of his chin, more staining his striped polo like a spray of crimson blood, but that didn't stop him giving me a mean smile. "What are you gonna do if I don't?"

My hands started to shake, my breathing faster, sharper. "What's your game, asshole? Drive me to madness? Force me out of Ford? Get me away from Honey so you can have her all to yourself?"

His nostrils flared on the last one. Bingo.

"So that's what this is about," I mused, and watching a muscle twitch in his eye. He hadn't planned to give that fact away.

With a sneer, he threw the basket and thermos to the ground between us; I scrambled to pick it up, catching as much wine as I could with the lid and screwing it on tight. It was only half-full, but I prayed Nightmare didn't notice.

When I put everything back in the basket and looked up, Alastor was so close that I fell back with a sharp gasp.

"I don't know why she likes you anyway," he said with disgust. "Anyone can take one look at you two and see you're bringing her down. Honey's beautiful and smart and free, and you're like a black hole sucking all her happiness away."

I swallowed, holding onto my rage by the tips of my fingernails. Every anxiety I'd ever had rose, ready to devour me. I couldn't blame him for wanting Honey to herself; she was amazing, and she was all the things he said, but she was my friend, and I wasn't about to let some closet psychopath isolate her from her friends.

"Our best friend just died, you heartless piece of shit," I spat, satisfied when flecks of saliva hit his face. Good. It was gross and he deserved it.

Alastor laughed as he wiped his face on his shoulder, his sneer deepening. "She's better off without that fag anyway—"

I was moving before I'd processed the intent, my hand swinging, knuckles crunching cartilage until blood sprayed and Alastor cried out. More, the darkness whispered. He deserves so much more. End him, lioness.

He did. He deserved death. But not a quick, merciful death. Alastor deserved to suffer the way he'd made me suffer, and the way he'd no doubt made others suffer before me. Monsters like him never had a single victim.

Pain cracked up my hand like a lightning strike when I hit him again and again. Blood splattered. His rough cries echoed through the woods like dark, twisted music. A chorus of victory and justice. I would have kept hitting him if he didn't drive his elbow into my gut and shove me away.

I landed on the floor hard enough to jolt pain up my elbow into my shoulder and neck, my own shout joining Alastor's chorus of pain. I gritted my teeth against a hiss as I scrambled onto my knees, the darkness swelling, hungry, eager for more—but the bastard was gone.

My upper lip curled back. Coward. "Don't pick fights you can't finish, asshole," I muttered, holding my shoulder awkwardly to my side as I got to my feet and retrieved the gift basket.

Alastor might have interrupted me, but I still had a job to do, and my brother was relying on me.