Page 124 of Divine Oaths

Inside, books littered the president’s desk, as if a violent storm had struck only the inside of his office. The computer screen was smashed, and the floor was covered with torn pages. A bottle of gin was half empty, and a stack of student files lined the desk.

Behind us were footsteps.

“This way,” Jojo said, and he pulled me into a standing wardrobe in the back corner of the office where the president kept his coats, wrapping his arms around me and tucking my feet away just as the president returned.

His footsteps were loud, a distinct thump, thump, thump of a military march. He sighed when he entered the room, immediately reaching for a drink and settling in his seat. He was mere feet from where we watched him through the tiny crack between the wardrobe doors.

“Oh, there you go again. I’m sick of your complaining.” He slammed the desk, his voice booming.

“Please spare them. They’re innocents.”

“They are human waste. A blight on the earth. Look at how they tarnish the legacy of this school I rebuilt with their vile disregard for tradition.”

He was talking to himself. Arguing with someone who wasn’t there. My stomach dropped, all my fears and suspicions confirmed.

“Have mercy. I will not let the Westfield estate go to his lineage. One of them has already completed the ritual of disinheritance. The other will be dead soon. Why go to such extremes? Poisoning the students. The staff. Members of the board of trustees. How will we ever repair the name of Westfield if so much blood is tied to it?”

President Saint James screamed, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, the second voice, the one he’d been arguing with, speaking now.

“How dare you defy me? Never again tell me what I should do with my school, my land. My bounty.”

Silver oozed from the president’s mouth; bloodred veins bore into his skin and eyes. One of the rings on his finger gleamed gold. And then the oozing silver goo manifested into the form of General Winhall.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

These delicate creatures

WHEN I’D WITNESSED LUKE’S WRAITH, his spirit had been a distortion; something eerie and uncanny. The presence of the general was an echo of that, a mutation of life and death. The general’s figure looked nearly human, as if he had bones, and flesh, and blood. But against his form, light reflected from him like a mirror, the tendrils of his soul dripping red with blood.

This was the truth, the terrible secret Jojo had been forced to keep. All of the changes at Westfield, its attempts at uprooting its abolitionist lineage, how Theta and Sigma altered their own traditions to discard their mission, and the growing power the board of trustees held over Westfield as an institution—here was the ventriloquist behind it all.

At the desk, President Saint James slouched in his seat. He reached for the gold ring on his hand, and just as he tried to pull it off, Winhall was there, slamming the president against the desk, choking him.

“Remove it,” the general said. “I dare you. If it wasn’t for my curse, my diligence in removing the threat of your cousin’s offspring, your family would have nothing. How weak must you and pathetic Alaster be if you can’t maintain all I have done?”

I turned to Jojo. His eyes were wide, trapped in a state of paralysis.

“But the boy survived,” President Saint James said. “You couldn’t finish the job. And midnight approaches.”

“He will die,” the general said. “You will ensure it.”

President Saint James stood.

“Yes, General. It shall be done.”

There was a knock on the door and suddenly, the ring began to glow, filling the room with its radiance. Heat surged around us, and when at last the light faded, Winhall’s wraith dematerialized, returning to possess the body of the president.

The president’s normal voice was back, but when he spoke, it was clear that General Winhall was his master.

“Come in,” he said.

Alaster emerged. He carried the silver vulture mask in one hand and the engagement ring he’d given to Honey in the other. He looked desperate, like a helpless child in the midst of chaos.

“They’ve been poisoned. Honey, the members of the board who attended tonight’s vigil, all of them. I don’t know how it happened. But Father, I think there is an entity on campus causing this destruction. I think there’s a wraith Sigma and Theta haven’t been able to banish.”

The president was silent for a moment. “That’s grave news,” he said. “Grave indeed.” He tapped his fingers on his desk. “What about Kasem? It would be unfortunate if he was poisoned, but I’ve been talking with the Board, and given Ojore has renounced his inheritance and Kasem is the last of his side of your—our family,” the president said, correcting his mistake, “the Board has decided that you will inherit the estate.”

Alaster stared at his father, his gaze shifting between the man standing before him and the door. “What you’re saying is ridiculous. The line of succession is the last of our concerns. We need to help them. Kasem’s already in the medical ward with Honey and the others.”