"No," I said. "We can't fight him head-on. He's too strong. He'll eat us."
I looked up at the Tower, where Marrow was watching.
"He gave me twenty-four hours."
"To surrender?" Kai asked.
"To decide," I corrected.
I looked at Lucien. "Gather the others. Ivy. Jax. Stone. Amelia. Everyone."
"Why?" Lucien asked, his violet eyes widening.
"Because I've made my decision," I said. "I'm not going to join him."
I grabbed Rhett's hand. I grabbed Kai's. I grabbed Lucien's.
"I'm going to starve him."
11
The Archives smelled of old paper, binding glue, and the specific kind of despair that came from scrubbing a century’s worth of dust off a floor made of imported Italian marble.
I technically wasn't supposed to be here. The Archives were "closed for reorganization" by order of Dean Marrow, which in Northcrest speak usually meant "we are hiding something incriminating."
But I wasn't looking for incriminating documents. I was looking for a book onNull TheoryArthur had mentioned last week, before the world went to hell.
I was crouching behind a towering stack of "Pre-War Elemental Treatises" when I heard the scrubbing.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
It was a rhythmic, miserable sound. I peeked around the leather-bound spine of a grimoire.
There, on her hands and knees in the center of the aisle, was Amelia Vance.
She looked... wrecked. Her platinum blonde hair, usually pulled back in a severe, perfect chignon, was fraying at the edges.She was wearing a gray "Student Worker" jumpsuit that looked like it was made of burlap and sadness. And she was scrubbing the floor with a ferocity that suggested she was trying to erase her own existence.
I froze. Amelia Vance. The Ice Queen. The girl who had made my freshman year a living hell. The girl whose family had tried to sell me to the Brotherhood.
I should have felt smug. This was karma in its purest form.
But looking at her—sweating, broken-nailed, and vibrating with silent rage—I didn't feel smug. I felt... pity? No. Not pity. Recognition.
I knew what it looked like to be trapped in a life you didn't choose.
"Missed a spot," a voice chirped.
I flinched back deeper into the shadows. Arthur.
The Head Archivist walked into the aisle, carrying a stack of books and looking irritatingly cheerful. He was wearing a tweed vest, because of course he was.
Amelia didn't look up. "Go away, Arthur."
"Actually, you didn't miss a spot," Arthur said, crouching down beside her. "I just wanted to see if you still had your fire. You've been quiet for twenty minutes. It's unnerving."
"I am plotting your demise," Amelia muttered, dipping her brush into the bucket.
Arthur grinned. From my vantage point, I could see the way his eyes crinkled. He liked her. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Arthur Penhaligon—the kindest, most human person on this campus—likedAmelia Vance.
