Chapter 21

After the way I'd woken—and the way Tor kept me occupied for a whole hour—I needed a run, needed to clear my head in the way that only early morning exercise could. Not only did I have the curse and Nightmare to stress about, but my new marriage to three death gods, and the fact that one had woken me with oral1 and the other had dropped by to leave breakfast, a lime green tulip, and my phone. That gesture made my heart full.

I'd eaten the bread, delighted to find it filled with chocolate cream as I cleaned up as much as I could. I changed into activewear leggings, a loose vest, and a hoodie with my knife in the pocket, and then jogged down the stairs of Lawrence Hall, taking a direction at random when I was outside.

It wasn't raining yet, though I could have used a cold shower to cool the heat in my blood when I thought about Tor. I swore I could still feel his tongue on me, the sensation so much more intense than it had ever been before. Probably because Tor actually knew what he was doing. Honey's derision for Clay, my one and only boyfriend, made me smile as I jogged around the side of Milton Hall, curious about what lay behind the main building. I'd glimpsed graves from the windows while I took classes yesterday, so I was prepared for the graveyard with its weathered headstones. But I blinked at the massive circle of mausoleums, towering high above my head, each decorative and ornate.

"Wow," I breathed, unable to resist the urge to stop and inspect them. My family travelled three times a year, so I'd seen a lot of curious things, but I'd never seen a circle of mausoleums. I supposed the travelling would stop now I was at school. It hadn't been the same without Virgil anyway. Maybe we could all go to Sydney to snoop around his university.

I fished my phone from my pocket and snapped photos to send to Mum, Dad, and my brothers, stepping back to show the circle of mausoleums as a whole, then getting closer for the details—roses carved around the doorway of one, Ford's sea serpent motif recurring in most of the small, stone buildings, names etched above doorways, each one a Ford except for one: Caishen Malevollus.

"That," I said, "is one hell of a name."

Caishen Malevollus sounded like a Disney villain. I traced my fingers over the black dahlias etched into the stone around the doorway, leaning onto my tiptoes to see through the thick glass panels. Unlike the other tombs, this one was plain inside, lacking the luxury and details of the others—no gilding, no stars on the ceiling, no sea of serpents below. It was bare stone, almost austere. Lonely.

"I'd hate to be left to rot in one of these things," I said, as if the ghost of Caishen would hear me, and walked to the next mausoleum, peering inside. This belonged to Rosalind Ford, presumably the same woman the woods was named after—Rosalind Woods. She must have been well loved to get a wood named after her. The inside of her mausoleum was ornate and full of faded colour—enamel and frescoes that someone had taken care to paint.

As far as distractions from my problems went, this was a pretty good one. I must have spent an hour in the graveyard, going from mausoleum to mausoleum. There were thirteen in total, an eerie number that called to mind bad luck and Friday the thirteenth. I was just about to move on and continue my run, the path taking me around the side of Milton Hall towards the lake, but footsteps crunched a twig behind me, and I spun with a gasp.

I only realised I was expecting one of the death gods when I saw Alastor Carmichael storming towards me, his golden hair bright in the new sunlight and his long coat open, flaring as he rushed across the graveyard.

"Alastor?" I asked, a ripple of unease in my belly. "Is something wrong?"

He laughed, a sharp, stunted sound, and it was too late to back up when he came at me.

Rough hands met my shoulders. My back slammed into Rosalind Ford's mausoleum door, and I gasped at the shock of pain, the unexpected attack.

"What the fuck…?" I breathed, my unease turning to full panic when I saw the look in his eyes—sharp and bright with rage. Hatred. He hated me. But he barely knew me.

"I know it's you," he hissed, spittle hitting my face and making my stomach turn. I cringed away, trying to push off his rough hands and failing. "I know you summoned Nightmare. Summon her back, you psycho bitch, and get her to undo whatever the fuck she did to me."

Shock made me hesitate a moment too long and he wrenched me forward, slamming me back into the stone so forcefully that I cried out. My eyes burned with tears.

"I'm cursed too," I snapped, breathless, terrified. We were alone in the graveyard. There was no one else around, the campus deadly quiet. I suddenly felt so stupid for running alone, for lingering so long exploring the mausoleums. "She cursed all of us. I didn't summon her. I swear."

Alastor laughed, his handsome face hideous with anger. "You're lying. I know it was you, I can feel the evil in you."

I flinched, a lump pressing against my throat. "I didn't summon her. I didn't ask for this."

But Alastor could feel the wrongness in me. Could he sense that she'd ripped me apart and put me back together wrong? That what happened at the party had changed me in ways I hadn't even begun to understand yet.

His nostrils flared, fingers pressing bruises into my shoulders. "I know you did it. I know what you are."

"I don't even know what I am," I cried, my hands shaking fiercely where I pushed against him, straining so hard that my hoodie slapped my thigh, heavier than it should have been. My knife! "I didn't summon her, and I didn't ask for this, I swear to you. I want to undo this curse. I didn't call her here. I swear it. Get off me."

Alastor's laugh made me cold all over. "You're a good liar, but you are a liar."

His hands tightened until I cried out. I fumbled at my hoodie pocket, a raspy sob escaping when my fingers closed around the cool wooden handle. I whipped it out and pointed it at Alastor's throat.

"Back off. That psychopath killed four people; why would I bring her here? And why would I be cursed too, if I was one of her followers?"

Peel the skin from his bones, make him scream, make him afraid the way you're afraid. Teach him that no one will ever make you run, make you cry, make you beg. Not ever again.

The voice slid through my mind, seductive and compelling.

My breath quickened.

Alastor smirked and released me, but there was cruelty in that smile, and a mean glint in his eye that made my stomach knot. He didn't back up, only released me. I was still trapped between him and the mausoleum. I was going to throw up.

Both our heads snapped up when voices neared, along with footsteps pounding the path. Alastor took several quick steps back and smiled, his whole face transforming. He was a monster. With the easy way he flipped from threatening to friendly, he could be called nothing else.

"Darya!" I cried, spotting the friend Honey and I made at the costume shop. I shoved my knife back in my pocket, careful not to stab myself, and ran towards her. "Hey, I've been meaning to talk to you. How are you doing?"

She brightened at the sight of me. "I've been better, but I've been worse. You're another early morning jogger, I see. Meet the crew, Phyllis and Wilfrith—" She gestured to the tall, athletic brunette girl on her left, her clothes bright Barbie pink to match the ring pierced through her eyebrow, and the rugged blonde guy currently frowning at me behind aviator sunglasses, the only one not in athletic gear. Instead he wore a navy blue Ford hoodie thrown over sweatpants and a shirt that said I DON'T THINK YOU'RE READY FOR THIS JELLY, BABY with a cartoon of a Jelly Baby on it. I smiled at it even as he frowned at me.

"Oh!" he said suddenly. "We met at the party. I remember your…"

"Costume," I supplied hopefully.

"Heaving bosom," he finished with a wicked smirk that made me like him more than I had at the party. I thought he was a leering fuckboy then, but there was more humour to him now, and besides, that was a great T-shirt.

"It was heaving," I admitted, "despite my best attempts. Mind if I join you guys?" The back of my neck burned; Alastor was watching us, probably with his Golden Boy smile still in place.

"Sure," the brunette said easily, giving me a genuine smile as we all set off jogging again, Wilfrith with a husky groan of complaint. "And I'm Phil, by the way. Please do not, under pain of death, call me Phyllis."

I gave her a dry look, wrapping myself in humour to ward off the chill of Alastor's ambush. "You think that's bad? Try being called Cactus."

All three winced.

"Yeah," I agreed, forcing a laugh.

Wilfrith slung an arm over my shoulder, and I wondered if he was using me to hold himself upright—he wasn't, shall we say, a natural runner. "Welcome to the secret gang of awful names."

"Hey," Darya protested.

"Your middle name is Eunice, honey," Wilfrith quipped.

He gave me a kind smile. "You're gonna fit right in with us."

A weight fell off my shoulders—I had backup, I was safe—but when I glanced back, Alastor hovered, not taking his eyes off us until we rounded the corner of the building.