Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

OPHELIA ST. MAUD

W innie, Winnie, Winnie…

What sort of trouble did you get yourself into now?

From my spot against the far corner of the entrance to the school, just out of sight, I watch as my meek, sweet, little backstabber of an ex-best friend blanches down at her hand.

I can't for the life of me see what she's looking at, but there's no denying that horrified look on her cute mousy face.

Try as I might not to care, I find myself growing more and more curious by the second. Not only curious, but worried—much to my irritation—especially when a familiar purr of satisfaction scratches at my awareness.

What did you do? I find myself asking silently.

There's a quiet responding hmmm that tickles my ears, as if I was the one to make that sound. Then?—

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

And yet, a knowing, barely contained snicker trails the disembodied feminine voice, telling me that's a lie if there ever was one.

I stiffen, teeth mashing.

But before I get a chance to press for an actual answer and remind her of our deal, Winifred finally shakes out of her little panicked daze, and rushes up the steps to join the tail-end of students flooding into the school.

Taking that as my cue, I wait a couple seconds before doing the same, catching Sister Gertrude's attention right before she can close the doors on me.

When I brush past her, I don't miss the way she closes her eyes and lifts her rosary to her lips—murmuring a kiss into the Crucifix.

I have to choke back a snort, especially when the thing in my head spits, " Bitch!" all but shaking in her rage—thrashing against my skull.

My vision pulses red around the edges as pain shoots through my temples, yet my lips twitch with the makings of a rueful smile, one that is stiff, if only because it's mine … and not the workings of the puppeteer that lives inside me.

Behave, I think back cajolingly.

She huffs, before receding deep within the caverns of my subconscious. So deep, I can almost pretend she finally released me. Given me back my mind.

Breathing a little easier now that the crushing grip on my skull is gone, I hold my head high, and stride confidently through the foyer and into the hall, toward my locker, pointedly ignoring the dodging looks and hushed mutterings as the girls filling the hall all but throw themselves out of my path.

At my locker—the very same one I've had for twelve years—I twist in the combination on autopilot. After storing my bag and grabbing what I need, I make my way over to the bulletin board where homeroom assignments for the year have been listed.

Lovely, I think, when I see my name—along with the rest of the graduating class, made up of a whopping sixteen girls—listed under Religious Studies with Sister Christine, Room B3.

Just what I need first thing in the morning.

I suppose, on the plus side, at least it means I get to get it over with first-thing.

Hanging back, I keep a safe distance from the others as we all make our way toward B hall. Not surprisingly, Trinity and her little posse lead the way, ever the faithful sycophants. I'm sure God's favorites are just thrilled to start their day rotting what's left of their brains, devouring all things Good Book.

It's not until they round the corner, that I realize one of their own is missing.

After a brief sweeping glance over the others shows no sign of her, I glance back over my shoulder with a frown, only to find no one there.

Where is she?

It's not like Winifred to be running late. She's usually right on the heels of her blond bimbo of a bestie.

My mind travels back to outside—to the spooked state she was in. I know she didn't turn around and bolt—I saw her enter the school with my own two eyes.

Was she not at her locker?

Being that she's at the beginning of the alphabet, hers is right near the entrance. I would've walked past her.

Maybe she got an early start to class...

It is our senior year after all. If there's ever a time to suck her way up to the top of the brown-nosing food chain, it would be today.

But that thought is quickly squashed when I enter the classroom seconds later to discover she's not here. I even begrudgingly notice Trinity looking around with a frown, clearly as much at a loss as I am.

Interesting…

Stewing on this, I make a beeline straight for my usual spot in the back row, right next to the window. No one fights me for it, nor does anyone seem to be in any hurry to take the desk buddied up with mine. If anything, they scramble to fill the spots as far away from me as possible, until they have no other choice but to draw closer to me.

Rolling my lips together, I open my brand new composition book to the first page, pop the cap off my pen with my teeth, and jot down today's date.

Did she go see the nurse, perhaps? Her hand…maybe she injured herself.

It doesn't explain her fear though. Unless, maybe she developed some sort of aversion to blood in the last few years. She was never the queasy type, but I could've also sworn she wasn't the betraying type either, so…

I'm halfway through underlining the date when the bell rings, signaling the start of class.

And that's when I sense her. Not just in the abstract sense, but literally . Like a burning sensation racing across my chest, so unexpected, I slap a hand right under my collarbone.

A split-second later, Winifred blows into the room, startling a stern "Miss Chapel" from Sister Christine. My pen hovers just above the page, my eyes lifting to look through my lashes and the loose black curls dangling around my eyes.

At the front of the room, wearing an oversized brown knit sweater that is straight up fugly if I'm being honest, Winifred rocks to a stop, and turns just enough to give a pathetic, eye-roll worthy dip of her head. "Apologies, Sister." Her voice is soft, but because the room has gone utterly silent, I hear her just fine—we all do—when she says, "Got tied up in the restroom."

The second the words leave her mouth, her face flushes beet-red. Sister Christine arches a thin gray brow that practically disappears under the white band of her veil.

"Very well. You'll have to take the seat in the back next to Miss St. Maud."

I straighten at that. Wait, what?

Sure enough, when I look around, every other seat but the one next to me is occupied.

Winifred's gaze flits my way, widening, before she quickly turns back to Sister Christine. Spine rigid, face slackened with horror, she says, "But?—"

The nun is already turning away, dismissing her. "Please make haste so we can get started."

A moment passes before Winifred seems able to unglue her feet.

"Yes, Sister," I somehow hear over the white-noise of murmurs now filling the room. Turning, Winifred shuffles down the aisle, sharing a wordless look with Trinity who mouths what looks like an apology.

There's a loud thwack of a rod hitting the desk at the front of the room, followed by Sister Christine's barked, "Enough!"

A hush falls over the room as all eyes follow Winifred's walk of shame.

I huff a short laugh, and drop my gaze to my notebook, ignoring the sizzling anticipation stirring in my chest.

Winifred's sinking dread as she draws closer is a tangible thing I feel echoed in my own stomach when that thing inside me perks to attention—peeking out from wherever she hides when I have no choice but to visit hallowed grounds. Which, in a town like this, steeped in the Old Ways, happens more often than not. And is probably the only reason I haven't been completely taken over…

"Yet."

I still at the voice ringing out sharply, coldly in my head.

My throat swells with unease. School is supposed to be the one place I get a break—the one place I can count on to offer me some semblance of…protection. Sanity.

It's why I've been so adamantly against dropping out, despite how much it would please my teachers and peers to be rid of me.

The hardwood floor creaks, followed by the faint scraping squeal of metal chair legs as Winifred gets settled. A peek from the corner of my eye shows her sitting ramrod straight as far away from me as possible, pointedly facing the front of the room. The normally soft slope of her jaw sharpened enough to cut glass.

I only half pay attention as Sister Christine rattles off names to take attendance. A pointless use of everybody's time, seeing as it would be quite obvious if anyone was missing. Being that there are exactly sixteen desks for sixteen seniors.

When her name is called, Winifred's "Present" from next to me is noticeably strained..

Mine, several names later, is so soft I doubt anyone heard it, except for maybe my reluctant neighbor, who stiffens impossibly more. Unsurprisingly, Sister Christine rushes right to the next name.

The first half of class is spent going over the syllabus, and all the while, I'm acutely aware of the girl next to me, and the growing, palpable tension thickening between us. With her sitting so close, it's impossible to ignore the scent of her lavender soap, mingled with something else, something headier. Something that has my stomach doing somersaults, and my palms clamming up.

"She's grown up into such a pretty thing."

Gritting my teeth, I inwardly throw back, Leave her alone. You promised.

"That was before…" Her voice trails off into a hiss that quickly gets drowned out by the roar flooding my ears. Sweat breaks out over my neck, though I suddenly feel very, very cold.

What do you mean?

A long silent moment passes—too silent—and just when I'm convinced she slunk back to her hiding place, I get two ominous words:

"You'll see."

A vice grips my throat as it takes everything in me not to outwardly react and draw attention to myself. Sure, everyone already suspects that I'm infected. One of the so-called Tormented…

But to suspect it and have it finally confirmed and thrown right at their faces are two very different things.

It's no matter what the council voted three years ago, after my tests came back inconclusive for influence and I was more or less put on a watchlist. The tests could've come back clear as fucking glass, and I'd still be treated like a leper.

Because in Hollow Hill, there is no innocent until proven guilty.

There is only jury by mass hysteria.

And once you raise hairs, they never go down. Your fate is sealed. The rumor mill swirls and you are either locked away, never to be seen again, forced to undergo whatever medieval torture they deem necessary to cast out what plagues you…

Or you become the plague, shunned and feared in equal measure. Something to be gawked at and whispered about from afar.

I'm not quite ready to surrender to the former yet, so for now, I keep my head low. Keep the truth as buried as I can for as long as I can, and hope the day I finally lose the fight, I retain no lingering sense of awareness whatsoever.

If only I could talk to someone like me…learn what to expect…

But there is no one. Not a single damned soul. At least not in the last ten years. Even if there was, they likely would've been shipped up to the sanitarium immediately, never to be heard from, seen, or mentioned again. Forgotten and erased.

How I managed to scrape by that same fate…

To this day, it remains a mystery.

All I can do is make the best of the time I have left.

I only have that sobering reminder to blame for what I do next. Pulling my notebook close, I click open my pen, and bring the tip down to the bottom of the page.

At the front of the room, Sister Christine continues to go over the syllabus, writing down important dates on the chalkboard. Next to me, Winifred dutifully writes everything down in her notebook.

It's only when I slide mine across where our desks join, that she pauses. Her entire body tensing.

I know it's foolish, especially given what that thing inside me said only moments ago. Reckless. Selfish even.

But I'm angry. Resentful. And for a second, I let it all fester into impulse. Using what might be my only opportunity to say something…before I lose the chance forever.

After all, I can't imagine Winifred won't be begging Sister Christine for a seat change the second class lets out.

Whether or not she's granted this request… I suppose we'll find out.

But just in case… and for my own entertainment…

When she spots what I've written, her grip on her pencil turns white. A stark contrast to the fury igniting her profile red, radiating off her like she's a furnace.

My lips twitch as I wait to see what she'll do. If she'll respond to my casual innocuous question?—

How was your summer?

Unsurprisingly, she shoves the notebook out of her space, and hooks an arm around her desk as if to some sort of boundary between us.

I roll my eyes, and scribble another question, before slamming the notebook into her forearm.

Aren't you dying in that ghastly monstrosity you call a sweater?

This time, she makes a pointed effort to ignore me—not so much as even glancing down at what I had written. Rather than continue with her notetaking, she just seethes silently with her attention lasered on the front of the room.

With a sigh, I write, Still as stubborn and uptight as always, I see. Glad to know some things don't change.

I add a little kick to her calf this time around.

That does the trick.

Whipping her fiery hazel gaze my way, she curls a lip up at me, nostrils flared. She mouths, Stop.

Unable to help myself, my eyes drop to that pink, bow-shaped mouth of hers, tracing the silent word on them.

Her first word to me in three years.

I don't even realize I'm staring until a hitched intake of air has my eyes snapping up to find hers wide from behind her glasses. The second we lock eyes though, she's whipping her head to face front, a notable tick pulsing along her jaw.

Not so immune to me after all…

I don't miss when her attention flicks toward the notebook still shoved up against her forearm. Her brow furrows, and she ducks her head, long wispy strands of brown hair falling around her face.

My gaze darts around her head, my fingers itching with the need—the reflex—to loosen and redo her braid. Not that it won't make much difference, but I never minded when we were kids. If anything, I loved the feel of her long, silken hair slipping between my fingers as I wove braid after braid after braid. Practicing all sorts of types on her. She has such good hair for it. Pity, she can't ever keep them intact.

A clap rings out, and I force my attention back to the front of the room just as Sister Christine says, "For the remainder of class today, I'd like you to start brainstorming ideas for your first project. Your neighbor will be your partner. No exceptions." I don't miss the way her gaze flits this way, expression stern.

Winifred slumps, and mutters something I can't make out under her breath. Certainly not a curse…

Not from sweet angelic lips like Winnie's.

Chatter breaks out across the room—papers rustling. Heads bunch together, with only a couple curious, wandering sets of eyes darting our way.

Ignoring them, I close my notebook and stack it on top of my textbooks, before setting my novel on top—a weathered, well-read copy of The Bell Jar that is marked and tabbed and rabbit-eared to hell.

Winifred's fleeting wrinkled glance at the book reeks of about as much judgment and displeasure at the narrowed look she sends my way when I say, "So, buddy. Looks like it's just you and me."

Face tight, she juts her chin at my closed books, and says, "Aren't we supposed to be brainstorming?"

I turn my head fully her way, cocking it with a mock-gasp. "She speaks."

She responds flatly, lowly, "I'm going to talk to Sister Christine after class."

Matching her volume, I round my eyes and lean toward her conspiringly. "You do that."

Our gazes lock once more—for the second time in a span of minutes. A record for us—or, well, this estranged version of us. And I can't help but wonder what she sees when she looks at me now. What has that flush spreading over her cheeks, and that fine sheen of shimmering sweat forming around her temples.

I imagine it can't be all due to the ridiculous layers she's wearing.

When her glasses start to slip, she quickly reaches up to shove them back into the place, and lowers her gaze.

"So, how do you feel about the Book of Revelation?" I ask abruptly.

She's in the middle of tucking the hair behind her ears, when my words give her pause. Frowning, she says to her lap, "What?"

"The project. Weren't you paying attention?"

She shoots me an irritated look, but says nothing.

With an exasperated sigh, I proceed to explain the assignment. I tuned in just enough to grab the important parts. And unlike some people…I can multitask.

"Why that book?" Winifred whispers when I'm done.

"Why not that book?"

She levels me a distinct look telling me to cut the shit and be serious.

It's a familiar expression, one I used to get from her a lot. And for a brief moment, it has a pang shooting through my chest.

But I immediately squash it with contempt and a bitter smile as I recite from memory, "‘What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where to start from.'"

Winifred's eyes dim, her mind drifting elsewhere, as she reflexively responds, "‘Through the unknown, remembered gate, when the last of earth left to discover, is that which was the beginning…'" Her gaze refocuses on mine with a gentle blink. "T.S. Eliot."

One of our favorites, once upon a time. And as if recalling the same, her eyes drift toward my desk where The Bell Jar sits face-up.

Plath, Eliot, and Sexton—the only Holy Trinity that mattered to her before she traded them—and me—for her three-faced daddy in the sky whose only contribution to the world was fear and brain rot.

"Good girl," I murmur, arching an impressed brow. "Surprised there's anything of merit still left under all that religious nonsense you've engorged yourself on."

She flinches, a wounded look pinching her face, before she quickly replaces it with a glare. "I suppose I could say the same for you. Who would've thought there'd be any room left in that giant egotistical, bitter head of yours?

My brows fly up. "Me? Bitter? Gee, I can't imagine why that would be."

Her face reddens and she looks away.

That's right. Feel shitty.

"Anyway, back to the assignment," I grit out after several seconds pass without a peep, much less an apology. "While everyone else fights over Genesis or Job or one of the other easy and boring books we've gone over ad nauseam … we're going to spice it up a bit. Get morbid. Get?—"

"It's supposed to be a warning," Winifred cuts it tightly.

A pause, then, "You say warning, I say manipulation." I wave a careless hand. "But that's neither here nor there because I can appreciate good imagery and a thrilling tale as much as the next person, and if I'm going to be stuck working with the girl who broke my heart, I might as well get my kicks somewhere."

She snaps her head my way, eyes bulging, cheeks beet-red.

"By the way," I say drolly, looking all around her head, my nose bunching, "that braid is dreadful."

Fury blazes from her eyes, and fuck if it doesn't send a thrill down my spine.

"As I was saying," I begin, "I think?—"

"Why were you in the woods?" she blurts, catching us both off guard.

My brows fly up toward my hairline. "Why are you wearing that hideous sweater on a ninety-degree day?"

She fumbles for a retort.

I tilt my head, eyeing her curiously, if not suspiciously. My lip curls up. "You stalking me now, little bunny?"

Everything in her seems to solidify.

Eyes glazing over, her entire expression slackens as her mind clearly takes her elsewhere. I can imagine exactly where too, and while it pleases me to see that my taunt had its intended impact…

I can't help but feel a little sad too as my own shoved down memories threaten to rise.

"Why don't I ever get to be the snake?

"Because you're the cute and quiet one."

Movement has me pulling from my thoughts, and my attention dropping to her lap where she scratches at the side of her hand. Gently at first, but growing in intensity to the point where it looks as if she broke skin.

But just as quickly as that thought comes, I realize it's not blood smearing her fingers, caking around her nail beds.

But something else…something black. Oily. Unnatural.

And my heart skitters to a halt, my vision whitening. I'm reaching for her before I even realize what I'm doing.

"What the hell is that?"

She snaps out of her daze, ripping her arm away just as my fingers curl around her. Quickly shoving her sleeve back down so that it completely engulfs her fist.

Our wide gazes fly up to collide at the same time. Hers rippling with such visceral emotion, it steals my breath, drawing a similar outpouring from mine, I'd imagine.

Fear.

Shock.

A wordless longing that hurts too deep to look at too closely…

And then it's gone, quickly wiped away like it was never there to begin with. Just as quick as I imagine my own shock and fear and confusion must disappear, getting once more shoved back behind the steel wall I've been so meticulous in maintaining.

Until now.

Because now…

A tingle spreads across my collarbone, and in the back of my head, a quiet dangerous chuckle rings out. "Sssssee?"

"It's nothing," Winifred mutters, looking away. "A pen exploded when I was packing my bag this morning."

I clamp my jaw. "Liar."

She stiffens, but says nothing.

So I change tactics, going back to what she said earlier. "Why do you care if I was in the woods or not?" My voice strains with the effort to keep from showing my cards.

"I don't," she says quickly, too quickly. She clears her throat, and darts a paranoid look around the room, before whispering, "I just…it doesn't make sense. You have no reason to cut through that way. Not anymore."

My gaze drops at that, a familiar pressure building in my chest.

The silence that follows her words—the reminder, and the memories it conjures up—is heavy, thick with tension.

"You're right," I finally say in a whisper so that my voice doesn't crack, betraying me. "I don't." A mixture of grief and self-loathing has my stomach churning, acid building in my throat.

"But you do," I say tersely after a moment. "You have reason." Her knee bobs. "Is that why you're asking?" My pulse quickens. "Because you also went through the woods today."

Her fidgeting stills, and I have my answer.

I'm going to kill her.

I'm going to take that sorry excuse for a braid and strangle her with it.

And then I'll drag her to Hell and feed her to the flames myself.

In the back of my head, there's a snicker, and I have to bite back a scoff. You'd like that, wouldn't you?

The response is felt more than seen—a phantom push against the roof of my tongue. A low whistle between my teeth. " Yesssssssss."

"Did you follow me?" Again, the words tumble out of Winifred in a rush, giving me the impression she didn't mean to say anything.

Lips pursed, misplaced rage making my vision quiver, I study her for a long moment, before slowly shaking my head. "No. I didn't."

Clearly not believing me, she huffs a short, caustic laugh that belies her usual docile, reserved demeanor. "Now who's lying?"

My eyes widen, and I open my mouth to insist I'm not, and demand she stop being such an insufferable, thick-headed brat?—

But I never get the chance.

The bell rings, and rather than try to force her to talk to me here, I grab my things and shove out of my seat, bolting for the door.

I can feel myself unraveling, and the thing in my head might as well be doing a jig, stomping its hooves against the backs of my eyes.

My vision blackens around the edges.

Everything gets wobbly.

You promised! I seethe silently.

My words are met with an inhuman cackle that sends chills skittering down my spine.

Stupid, stupid, stupid…