Chapter 38

My phone buzzed on my bedside table, one text after another. I barely glanced at them, but they were all of the same ilk.

I know what you did

How long will your secret stay secret?

What happened to the body, Cat?

Poor Darya

I flipped it over so I couldn't see the screen and dragged my hands down my face. Someone knew what I did, and it didn't take a genius to figure out who. Nightmare's cult. Her followers. It was probably Alastor Carmichael texting me, pushing me to breaking point.

That was the one good thing about hiding in my room for a week—I hadn't seen his vicious face in days. I'd ventured out today to use the shower, but only because Tor was with me and my death god promised to kill anyone who so much as looked at me.

I was alone for a few hours now. Death would come soon, and spend the night with me. Maybe Misery would come too, and they'd use their magic to make the bed big enough for three. I wished someone were here to take my phone away, to hide the awful texts from me or—in the case of Tor—reply with threats so viciously detailed and bloody that he never got a message back.

I'd blocked every number the texts had come from, but they always returned. Every time my phone buzzed, I saw Darya's empty eyes, and a spiral of thorns cut deeper into my chest. But it wasn't just fear and grief now—I was angry. Not only had Nightmare forced me to murder my friend in cold blood, she'd made her followers harass me, as if the whole thing had been my choice.

I didn't deserve this. The pain, the anguish, the guilt? I deserved those. But I didn't deserve to be hounded by a cult for it.

I laid there for an hour, my mind racing fast but my breathing faster, this time with anger instead of panic. She did this. She killed Darya, and now she was torturing me over it.

"Fuck you," I whispered into my silent room, and then snapped louder, "Fuck you!"

Two days later, I was just as angry, and I found the anger gave me enough strength to get me dressed, clean, and out of my room. I stalked to the staircase and up to the third floor, rapping on Erika's door before I lost my nerve. All week, I'd gone over and over Dean Fairchild's words, holding them like a life raft while guilt and grief tried to drown me. He'd never realise just how much his kindness had saved me when I was at my lowest.

When there was no answer from within, I knocked again, and jumped when the door swung open, not fully closed.

"Erika?" I asked tentatively, peering into the room.

Her bedroom had a lot more personality than mine, probably because she'd been here for two years to my six weeks. Her books were on a neat shelf above her desk, a poster of a punk band beside it, and her room was decorated in shades of pink and grey. Erika sat in a swivel chair at her desk, her back to me.

"Hey, it's Cat. Do you remember me from orientation? Dean Fairchild told me to come speak to you about changing to online classes."

I took a step inside when she didn't reply, figuring she had earphones in. "I'm sorry to disturb you," I said, tapping her shoulder and startling when the chair spun.

"Oh god," I cried, jumping back when I saw the slack scream on her tanned face, and the gaping cut across her throat. Blood soaked into her baby pink shirt, a fatal amount.

She was dead.

Someone had killed Erika.

My hands shook as I lifted them to cover my mouth, my legs shaky when I stumbled back. Someone had killed Erika.

I was back in the corridor before I'd realised it, tripping down the stairs to my room—and stopping dead in the middle of the hallway when I realised a black-cloaked figure crouched in front of my door, feeding something under it.

I saw red.

"Hey!" I yelled, all my stress, my grief, my rage bubbling out as I launched down the corridor. My head filled with buzzing and violence, adrenaline burning off my shakiness until I was ready to fight.

The robed figure jumped to their feet, clearly not expecting to be interrupted, and after a frozen hesitation they lurched towards me. I was ready for a fight, ready to beat the shit out of these people who thought they could torment me even if I wasn't quite sure how to beat the shit out of someone. I widened my stance, lifted my fists.

But the robed figure shoved me aside instead of attacking me, and I lost my balance. I slammed into the wall hard as they fled down the stairs, a sharp ache exploding through my shoulder, shooting across my ribs, until I had to grit my teeth against a whimper. But I sucked in a pained breath and raced after the robed bastard.