Page 51 of Bound By Fury

But one thing is certain. Tonight, when I went desperately into the woods in search of answers, something responded in kind.

And Malachi was there to intercept me once again. My gut tells me it’s not a coincidence. What does he know about the history of Black Mountain Academy? And why is he prowling around after dark?

If I want to figure out what’s going on, I’m going to have to play the game. Sighing, I reach over and grab my phone.

I’m determined to get to the bottom of this, and I’m going to start by figuring out exactly what Malachi Matsoukas has been up to since I saw him last, and his social profiles are the perfect place to start.

The first thing I notice? He hasn’t posted since May. The second? He doesn’t have tattoos in any of his pictures.

Third? He has, like, an eight-pack, and I definitely, one hundred percent, hate it.

Obviously.

EIGHTEEN

DESPITE THE TENSION AT HOME, I never used to lie to my mother. I would merely withhold the painful truth, disguise reality so that it fit within the bounds of her comfort. But things change. Gigi was right—whatever this is, whatever is haunting me, whatever is turning my blood to fire and ice, my mother can’t know about.

So earlier this morning when she called and asked how everything was going, I didn’t mention the static or the nonsensical letter about the stars and the Mother, nor the ghosts or the lightning or the missing girl. Instead I gave her a series of platitudes and anecdotes about school and Daisy and Sam and the pep rally.

We’d been avoiding it, but she finally asked about the boys, her tone laced with disdain. She never quite disliked them the way Gigi claimed to, at least not until she saw how badly they hurt me. I know, though she won’t say it, that this was a large part of why she never wanted me to come here. So I gave her platitudes about that, too.

Now, Daisy, Sam, and I trek across campus on our way to our shared English class. The navy-blue and marigold uniform is snug against my curves, the knee-length skirt only hitting halfway down my thighs—thank god for built-in shorts. It’s kind of nice, everyone wearing the same thing. No need to stress about how they’ll look on the first day.

And at least this is, like, traditional-boarding-school-core, dark academia vibes. If I let my eyes blur, I could almost believe I’m in an A24 movie and not some Blumhouse horror version of my actual life. The grass is almost too green today, the trees too full, too fragrant. It’s almost enough to cover the cloying scent of decay. As we pass the fountain in front of Biltmore, a singular red bird dips its beak into the water before chirping happily. It’s black around the eyes and throat.

It’s funny how trauma and loss change perspective. A few months ago this bird wouldn’t elicit a second glance from me. But now I turn and meet its beady eyes. I watch as the cardinal’s head follows us as we pass. It’s almost as if it knows what it symbolizes. It’s almost as if it knows me. I touch the pendant at my throat. A cardinal sign for a cardinal bird. Gigi is everywhere and nowhere, it seems.

In class we sit in a semicircle and introduce ourselves. I ignore the curious stares. All I can do is hope that whatever rumors are likely spreading about me die down soon. There’s bound to be some new drama cropping up any minute now. Hopefully.

This semester we’re reading The Crucible, which is terribly ironic, but Gigi did always say the universe has her own sense of humor.

Afterward Daisy heads to the Maxwell Building across the way for her statistics class, and Sam and I walk together to the social sciences wing of Rosewood. We split up when we get to my classroom and promise to meet later for lunch. Missy stands just outside the doorway, stapling a paper to the bulletin board. When I get close enough, I see that it’s another missing-person flyer for Fiona.

“So, did you get in trouble?” I ask.

Missy’s lip curls when she looks at me. “What?”

“For the T-shirt cannon? The,” I curve my fingers around my words, “ ‘girl-on-the-milk-carton confetti?’ ”

“Oh,” she mumbles, turning back to the board. “Three weeks’ detention with the head counselor. They think I could use an ‘emotional outlet.’ ”

“Damn.” I lean against the wall. “They should be thanking you.”

Her head snaps to me, coal-lined hazel eyes narrowed.

“Seems like no one’s taking her disappearance seriously but you.” I shrug. “What’s up with that, anyhow? She your girlfriend or something?”

Missy slams the next staple into the cork. “No, she’s not my fucking girlfriend,” she spits. “Not that it’s any of your Jesus-fucking business. Why are you even here?”

I speak through gritted teeth. “If one more person questions my validity here, I swear to god I’m gonna—” I suck my lips into my mouth and bite down, swallowing my words.

Her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t look at me again.

Pushing off the wall, I walk into the room and immediately groan. Of course he’s in this class.

Malachi sits in the very back, his absurdly long legs stretched out in front of him, blocking the aisle. I squint at his tattoos as I find a seat. His blazer is draped over the back of his chair, and the cuffs of his white button-down are undone and rolled up to his elbows.

That’s a lot of ink to get over one summer. Even now in the harsh light of the classroom, I can’t make out exactly what they are. The swirls twist and turn in a series of lines and loops. Every time I start to think I recognize a shape, I lose focus, and I swear it’s like they’re moving. As if he can feel me looking, he slides the sleeves down to his wrists.