Something isn’t right here.
Also, I hate myself for thinking like this, so cold, so practical, but the truth is, no one… explodes like this from a three-story jump.
There’s just not enough distance between the roof and the ground. Which sounds like a morbid fact to have on hand, but when you’ve seen someone plummet from the top of Centennial Wheel at Navy Pier, you have more data points about falling deaths than you might like.
Plus, this wouldn’t be the first suicide attempt on Beecher campus in my tenure here. Freshman year, three girls in a pact took pills and never woke up. When I was a sophomore, a boy tried to jump—or fly, depending on who you talked to—off the bell tower. It’s at least two stories taller. He ended up with two broken legs, a severe concussion, a ruptured spleen, and a fractured spine. But he survived.
Nothing like what I’m seeing here.
Though, there was another last year—
“There’s a girl with blood all over her face,” Not-Chessa says from her position on the path, but her voice is more muffled than before, as if she’s turned away from me. “No, a different one.”
Sirens in the distance are a ticking clock, getting louder with every second that passes.
Frowning, I edge closer, taking a step onto the rocks, carefully. The faintest impression reaches me then, like the scent of perfume left in the air after someone has departed the room. Except it’s not a smell or anything so tangible, it’s more just the sensation, the feel of it, a barely there ripple across my skin.
Magic. Motherfucking magic. Damnit.
But who would dothis? And why?
Whoever it was is powerful, powerful enough to leave a tracebehind. But it can’t be one of the Old Ones. They wouldn’t have bothered with Lennie—they would have come straight to me.
As I watch, the blood on the stones beads up and rolls off, disappearing into the crevices, like rain vanishing into the thirsty ground.
Definitely magic in play. And nothing like what I could do—or even Devon. So, not Death or Lust. Maybe a War spawn.
But from what I knew of the Children of Ares (and yes, the ones who knew their heritage really did think of themselves that way—as a unit and in capital letters), they weren’t exactly subtle. They even had their own sigil—they signed their deaths.
The announcement.Dread fills me like bags of quicksand. Could this be related to that, whatever the hell it is?
In my experience, Old Ones don’t makeannouncements. That would imply some sort of systemic communication. They simply act and expect everyone to get out of the way or suffer the consequences. The more-involved spawn chatter among themselves, and word spreads, distorted and inaccurate. Occasionally, it even reaches the outer rings—conspiracy websites devoted to the idea that humans aren’t alone—where I pick it up.
It’s never anything that affects me. A successful territory challenge from one spawn, killing another. A declaration of resumed hostilities between two Old Ones that I don’t even know.
So the fact that thereissupposedly an announcement, one that is somehow connected to me, is frightening on a level I don’t know how to process.
Andthis, coming on the heels of said announcement? I stare down at Lennie’s lifeless form, refusing to let myself look away.
It does not seem like a coincidence.
“No,” Not-Chessa says, sounding nervous. “She’s still here.Uh. Dark hair, bloody face, white shorts, green and white T-shirt. I don’t know, maybe five foot seven.” She gives a shaky laugh.
I dash the back of my hand across my damp cheeks.
But none of this makes sense. If this is a spawn challenge of some variety, why kill my friend right below my window without calling me to witness it? And then not even bother to feed? Instead, the life energy reached me, the next available recipient.
Then again, spawn sometimes entertained themselves by coming up with petty ways to mess with others. Direct confrontations were over too fast, leaving no time to show off. To torture.
The sirens, screaming loud, cut off abruptly, but tires screech in the sudden silence.
“Okay,” Not-Chessa whispers. And I look up in time to see her backing away on the jogging path, eyes wide on me, as if she expects me to whip out a machete or a chainsaw from somewhere.
Tromping footsteps, accompanied by the jangling of equipment, signal the arrival of the police, coming around on both sides of the building. Campus or town or a combination of both, I’m not sure.
“Down, down, down!” “On the ground!” “Hands above your head!” Voices scream at me, all at the same time, speaking over each other.
Shaking, I lower myself to the soaking ground, struggling to keep my balance with my hands up. Seconds later, metal handcuffs only slightly warmer than the freezing air close around my wrists.
