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“What happened?” I asked, yanking his head left and right and pulling him into me so I could inspect him for injuries. “Are you hurt?”
He didn’t answer.
A defined smell of woody spice and strong-bodied liquid hit me just as I found his eyes on mine. I leaned in to sniff him. “What’s that smell?”
He laughed so hard his head tilted back and his fangs were flashing. Serious fangs. Brantley has teeth that would appease any dentist, but his canines are naturally pointed. Not a bad thing. Just adds to his eccentrically handsome face.
“Why are you laughing? Brantley, you have blood all over you, you’re shirtless, you smell weird, and now you‘re laughing.”
His lips twitched, but he kept his head tilted up to the ceiling. “I don’t know.” When the words left his mouth, I watched as his head came back to eye level with me, all smiles gone.
He brought his finger up to my face and I froze. “Don’t speak.”
I didn’t. I barely breathed.
“You read. Ever read Hunter S. Thompson?” he asked, and the question was simple, yet I still struggled to construct the right words to answer.
“I’m familiar with his work, yes,” I whispered softly, though I was barely breathing because the tip of his finger was tracing the outline of my lip. Why was he touching me the way he was?
“Have you come across his saying ‘Too weird to live. Too rare to die’?”
I swallowed, sucking in a gulp of air while I was at it, and nodded.
His tongue flicked out over his bottom lip, his eyes passive on mine. “Well, I’ve got a new one for you. Hmmm, wanna hear it?”
“You’re drunk,” I said, grabbing at his arm, but it was useless. I’d break my fingers even attempting to pull him to his feet.
“Nah uh.” He tugged away from me, smirking. “Wanna hear it?”
I didn’t answer. One, because whatever he did tonight was bad. There was a lot of blood on him that whosever it was wouldn’t have survived, and two, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. Hunter S. Thompson was a brilliant writer, but he was controversial. He wrote on the other side of literature. The side with no rules. Of course Brantley would be familiar with his work.
“I’m telling you anyway.” He lay down on the floor, his eyes drifting closed as his arm shaded his eyes. All I could see was his mouth, which curved in a half-smile. “Too rare for earth, too doomed for Heaven.”
“Is that you?” I asked, entranced in the moment and not caring that I shouldn’t show interest.
He burst out laughing. “Fuck no. You won’t ever find the word heaven anywhere near my name.” He turned his head now, lifting his arm just enough for me to see. “It’s you. But you’re fucked now anyway.”
“Why?” I said, and again, I didn’t know why I kept engaging with him.
He smirked. “Simple, really. Because you’re owned by me.”
Present
I still don’t know what it was that he did that night, and when Tillie and I reach the top of the stairwell, I find myself turning to face her. “Do they do bad things?”
Tillie pauses. There are another two staircases that go up. I crank my head up and see that they go on for at least another four levels. “What do you mean, bad?”
I fidget with the button on my jeans. “I mean, do you think—I don’t know. I don’t know anything about them or this circle.”
“Yeah, well, you’re about to find out a lot.” We don’t take the next level. Instead, Tillie leads us down the long hallway, passing the lockers and doors that probably lead into classrooms, until we’re outside a room at the end of the hallway.
“Wonder what’s in here,” she murmurs. “Though honestly, a fucking werewolf could jump out at me by this point and I‘d totally believe it. Spoiler alert, he would also be a King.”
I can’t stop the giggle that leaves my mouth as she twists the handle and pushes it open. The room is dark, so I search for a switch on the wall and flick it on once I feel the nub. Lights flicker on after a few seconds. Chairs lead up to the back wall in a tilted fashion, with a large whiteboard at the front.
Tillie moves into the room. “You’ve never been to school or anything, right?”
I shake my head. “No. I had three tutors who would have a rotating roster every day of the week. On the third day, I would have all three of them and on the fourth, I’d—” I pause.
“You’d what?” Tillie asks, but I’m too focused on the guitar that’s sitting in the corner of the room, completely untouched. She follows my line of sight as I move toward it.
“Well, I’d do music. Piano, mainly, but also guitar. Their keys are similar, only a different instrument.” I can’t take my eyes off it. I don’t know why.
