Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

CAT

N o one came to hold me when I cried in the shower this time. Three weeks of agony came pouring out, a riptide I had no hope of holding back. I rested my head on the cold tiles and cried until my chest hurt, until my throat was raw and my eyes were dry. I missed the curse so much it hurt. I'd hated being at Nightmare's beck and call, but the only thing that had changed was no one knew when pain crushed me, when I was barely holding it together.

I wanted them back, wanted my husbands. But they were never mine to keep. I'd known that, had told myself that so many times, but there was a difference between knowing and experiencing the crippling loss.

I shut off the water and wrapped myself in a towel, and even though anxiety would have killed me before the numb took over, I walked back to my room with my washbag slung over my shoulder and the only protection between me and nakedness a flimsy pink sheet of towelling.

I'd almost made it to my room—my new, carefully blank room, where I knew Nightmare couldn't watch me through her cameras—when a wolf whistle ripped down the corridor.

"Putting on a show, Cactus?"

My shoulders tightened, a ripple of discomfort moving down my body. I didn't bother turning but I recognised the voice of Fashion Magazine. I'd never bothered to learn his name; it wasn't worth my energy.

"Shut the fuck up," someone snapped, vehemently enough that I hesitated, that I turned to see who'd spoken. "She just lost her friend, you insensitive shit stain."

Duncan Ford was the one who'd leapt to my defence. Huh. I remembered him in Ford House the night we'd been cursed, remembered the look of abject terror he'd worn, the shock and true, soul-deep horror. He was one of a very small number of people I knew wasn't one of Nightmare's followers. Honey. Duncan. Alastor fucking Carmichael.

"Ignore him, he's a piece of shit," he said, catching my eye.

I glanced from him to Fashion Magazine, whose golden, superior beauty came too close to Alastor for me to like him. Plus, I'd heard him speak enough times to know his sort. Better than everyone else, judgemental, quick to condemn. If cancel culture was a person, it'd be him. Maybe I should rename him.

"Good to know," I said, and got the hell out of there before my skin crawling encouraged my darkness and I hurt anyone else. Alastor deserved it, but what happened when my darkness aimed itself at someone who didn't deserve it? I flexed my hands, my knuckles stinging as I unlocked my door and let myself inside.

It wasn't a relief to be in the room. After moving twice, it didn't feel mine. I hadn't bothered to personalise it; it was the same blank white canvas as when I got it, but the single concession I'd made was the duck plushie Miz got me, sitting on the chest of drawers opposite my bed. When weakness crushed my heart, I took it to bed with me and held it close to my heart.

I wanted my numbness back. The plaster had ripped off my pain when I argued with Death, letting everything flood my chest until it felt like the pressure would crack my ribs. I dressed robotically, pulling on soft leggings and dragging the first shirt I found over my head. When I realised it was a shirt Byron had given me, a sob ripped from my lips, filling the silent room.

I looked at that stupid shirt through blurry eyes and remembered giving Byron a look that questioned his sanity. It had a giant cartoon popcorn bucket on it with the slogan YOU POP MY CORN. Because the only thing I love more than you is popcorn, he explained.

My face crumpled, and I ignored my throbbing shoulder to curl up on the bed, pressing the phone that contained my only lifeline to Virgil against my chest.

The phone…

My breath caught, and I wrestled my sobs under control. Nightmare had given me a phone, and while I wasn't a tech genius I knew there must be something on here I could use to track her, to find where the photo had been taken and track it to my brother. I wouldn't have to follow her orders. I wouldn't have to hurt anyone else.

But the only person I knew who could navigate a phone like that was Torment. He'd blocked the numbers hounding me, shutting out the creepy silence on the other end, and made it so no one else could call me, either. If he could do that, he could find where the photo of Virgil was taken.

I flung myself off the bed and grabbed my jacket, ignoring the way my shoulder ached, and my hands shook, my knuckles bleeding. I didn't acknowledge the way my heart leapt at the thought of seeing Tor again.

Trying and failing to quash my hope, I slipped out of Lawrence Hall towards the domain of Death.