Suddenly, I’m gripped by alarm. I’ve never had something like that happen to me before.
“If you are, can’t blame you. I’ve got a test to cram for. Instead I’m stuck listening to Hart get his rocks off about all this bullshit.”
As an Amherst heir, Kaitlyn is often dismissed as a nepo baby, but she’s a genius. She’s written two papers published in medical journals, and she’s working on cell manipulation to stop disease growth.
Wiping my hand across my mouth, I squeeze my eyes shut as I respond to her, “He might have a point about how serious we’ve all been.”
Which is lacking. Half of us seem to think the House of Eights gives us carte blanche to indulge in excess. Parties, hook-ups, trips, money.
The other half of us knows there is truth to what we’ve been told. Just no idea what to do with the limited information.
“Dead? Fucking dead?” Rippley Maxwell asks, his eyes wide.
“That’s clearly what I said,” Mya replies.
We have two female members, Mya and Kaitlyn, and I wouldn’t want to be on the bad side of either one. Mya is cutting in all she says and does. Kaitlyn is emotionless.
The door at the end of the long, open room isn’t quiet. It sticks, forcing whoever is entering to pull it open. When it finally gives, all attention shifts as Eric lopes into the room.
Soren half stands. “I thought you were…”
“Great punctuality,” Hart says, turning to look his way.
Eric stops abruptly, his eyes fixed on the wall of art beyond us. “When did it start?”
What? I follow his gaze, scanning the wall, its corners and crevices, until I see it.
Hells bells and wishing wells.
That’s new. And fucking terrifying.
Hart swears under his breath, while Laird makes a weird squawking noise beside me.
“The clock… when did it start keeping time again?” Eric repeats, more sternly.
A large clock at the top center of the art wall draws all our attention. It hasn’t worked since I’ve been a member, maybe even long before. There was no fixing it, as it was part of the stone itself. But today, it’s moving. Keeping the correct time.
The skulls carved beside it have their jaws open, as if screaming. They had always been closed.
I grip the back of my chair as I stand.
Each one of us is paying attention now.
“Mother fucking no way,” Ellis says. “This is a prank, right?”
Hart stares, open-mouthed.
Rett shoves his chair back and moves closer. “What does it mean? What’s happening?”
From somewhere behind me, Eric says, “It means…it’s started. Whatever the hellitis.”
Chapter Seven
Bizzy (Elizabeth)
Even with the demands of my five classes, I’ve spent my evenings at D’Ornay’s for the past two weeks.
Not only do I get to surround myself with creativity, but I’ve grown attached to JJ. I love the way his accent gets stronger when he’s tired or upset, listening to his rants about his frenemy, Hart, and watching him geek out over drawings by his favorite artist, E.B. Houseman. He keeps stacks of them stowed away in an old green hatbox.
