He assessed her for a moment. “I assure you, Miss Calla, that we will do everything in our power to bring Miss Van Arsdell back home safely. We have a strong team of officers, and our hellsehers are tracking her—”
“Have they figured out where they’re keeping Sabrine?” Loren felt a spark of hope in her chest, and she found herself sitting up straighter. It was something the city needed more of: hellsehers working as local law enforcement officials, using their Sight to track down suspects and people who went missing. The process of remotely tracking someone certainly wasn’t foolproof, hence why there were so many unsolved crimes, but it couldn’t hurt to have more people who were gifted with the Sight looking out for innocent civilians. Most hellsehers either chose not to use their Sight at all due to the Tricking or decided to chase after the fat paycheques that came from illegally tracking down bounties.
The officer merely shifted in his seat. The look on his face told her everything.
“They can’t find her,” Loren concluded hollowly. She slumped against the backrest of her chair. “Does that mean she’s dead?” Her heart was bleeding out in her chest. “She’s dead, isn’t she? They killed her.”
“Loren—”
“It’s luh-ren,”she retorted. He pronounced it likeLauren,and it wasn’t the first time she’d corrected him. Just as it wasn’t the first time that she had explained the night’s events to him, only to be received so disrespectfully. “I would like to be excused now.”
As finished with her as she was with him, the officer led her out of the interrogation room. Loren limped after him in silence, barely registering the pain that crackled through her cut-up feet with every step. Although he didn’t say anything else to her, he no longer looked at her with disdain.
He must’ve realized that she was standing on a ledge. She was about to break, and not in any way that benefited them as a person of interest in Sabrine’s case.
Her friend was gone. And the worst part about it was that it was her fault.
4
Orientation for the first-year students of Angelthene Academy who were sorted into the House of Salt took place at seven in the morning.
The rain was drumming a steady rhythm on the umbrella that was propped up on Dallas’s shoulder, shielding mostly Loren from the downpour than herself. Loren sagged against Dallas’s side as they waited for the last of the Salt freshmen to join the group and announce their names to the upper-level half-vampire student holding a clipboard in his milk-white hands. The roster fluttered in the wind, threatening to break free of the measly spring-clip that held it in place.
Loren hadn’t slept a wink last night, and she didn’t think Dallas had either. After Dallas’s mother had picked them up from the holding centre, they hadn’t said a word to each other. And Taega hadn’t bothered to offer her condolences for their missing friend. In fact, she hadn’t uttered so much as a word to either of them until they’d entered the penthouse.
“Clean yourselves up in the spare bathroom and sterilize it when you’re done,” she’d told them as she swept into her immaculate foyer, the lean muscles in her golden thighs straining against the white fabric of her pristine pencil skirt. “The smell of you both is making me sick.”
It would’ve been better if Taega simply hadn’t said anything, but nearly nineteen years of living in the Bright penthouse was long enough for Loren to know what to expect from someone like Commander Bright. Loren had let Dallas clean up first, and when she was finished, Loren had locked the door and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees on the marble floor of the shower. For a long time, she had cried in silence, analyzing the events of the evening. She was so lost in trying to remember any details that might help her find Sabrine that she hadn’t noticed when the hot water ran out.
Sometime during the hour in which she’d slumped beneath the stream of water, Dallas must’ve had an argument with Taega. When Loren had gone to bed afterward in the room they shared, Dallas’s back was facing her. But when Dallas had reached over to flick off the lamp, Loren had caught sight of the purple mark on her cheekbone. Dallas hadn’t been willing to talk about it, which came as no surprise; she never talked about the things that hurt her. She preferred to swallow her pain like a big pill and pretend she couldn’t remember how it’d felt going down.
Loren blinked away the recent memory and surveyed the cluster of students talking animatedly as they awaited the tour of the grounds.
All students at every campus in the city were divided into Houses, the process of which was based off their heritage and the most dominant type of magic in their blood, if any. The House of Mercury was for water, the House of Salt was for the earth, and the House of Brimstone was for fire.
As one of the very few humans whose application had been accepted at the academy, Loren had been put into the House most connected to the earth—to the cycle of life and death. Loren tried not to think about that rain-damp roster; the surnameVan Arsdellat the very bottom of the alphabetical list. The only name with no checkmark beside it. Or perhaps it had already been crossed off, for by now the news channel and the front page of the Daystar would’ve certainly notified the whole city of Sabrine’s abduction.
Loren tried not to think about it. Law enforcement would find Sabrine and bring her home. Theyhadto.
The professor who was tasked with directing the orientation meeting for the new students of the House of Salt was Professor Grayson Phipps. A pure-blooded warlock, he was golden-haired and handsome, with the kind of sharp jaw and five o’clock shadow that made heartrates increase and toes curl in shoes.
Professor Phipps joined the group of chattering witches, warlocks, half-breeds, humans, and vampires and gave a brief introduction of himself.
Something sharp struck Loren in the ribs.
She drew in a hiss through her teeth, staggering away from the elbow she was certain had left a nasty bruise. “Ouch, Dal!”
“He’s hot,” Dallas hissed. “I would ride that broomstick any day.” Loren felt her cheeks turn red. She shushed Dallas and ducked back under the umbrella.
The muggy air was frizzing her space buns. Not that she’d spent much time on her hair that morning; the usual things she cared about had taken a backseat. It would be a miracle if she had remembered to bring all her textbooks and grimoires.
Dallas followed Phipps across the lawn, alongside the rest of the students. Loren hurried to keep up with her, the soaking wet grass squeaking against the leather of her uniform shoes. The white button-up blouse—the left chest embroidered with the crest of Angelthene Academy—and mid-thigh-length plaid skirt did nothing to keep her warm. Her teeth were chattering so loudly that Dallas eventually shushed her.
The tour was long and detailed, but Professor Phipps explained the academy’s history in a way that held the attention of every student as they made their way from landmark to landmark.
“I wonder if he’s married,” Dallas went on. Professor Phipps slowed before a statue of a warlock and proceeded to give a brief history of the founder of the academy.
“I’m trying to listen,” Loren whispered. It really wasn’t true, but she wanted Dallas to shut the heck up before she got them both kicked out.
