Page 65 of Coveted

“Hurry up,” calls Juliette from the living area. “I’m so hungry.”

Clara giggles. “You were just going to bed.”

“Exactly,” says Juliette with a dramatic sigh. “I was about to eat my night snacks.”

“I’ll be right out,” I say, closing my door to pull on a sweater and leggings.

After applying tinted lip balm and brushing my hair, I’m ready.

We set off through the deserted halls of Darkbloom in search of the Founder’s Table.

A small hand-drawn map was supplied with the keys. There was also a command to leave our phones in our dorms, which makes me smile. Lucan can’t track my movements for once. I’m with my friends, so I’ll be perfectly safe.

Juliette holds the map to the opalescent moonlight.

“The directions seem to lead to the Lost Library,” she says. “It’s been under renovation since forever.”

“Maybe the Founder’s Table is inside,” says Clara.

We climb through rickety scaffolding in a lonely part of the college.

Through the shadowy gloom, I make out the crumbling library entrance. A gaping crevice in the floorboards stops us from getting inside.

Wind whistles up through the chasm, which is deep and dark enough to appear bottomless. The walls around us creak and groan.

“I guess we jump over the gap,” says Juliette with a note of uncertainty. “There’s no other way in.”

“I’ll go first,” I say.

With a short run-up, I leap across the whistling void.

My sneakers land with a thud on the other side. The floorboards hold, and I notice they’re covered in fresh footprints. Other people have been here.

“This is the right place,” I say, beckoning. “Come on.”

Clara and Juliette sail over the gap in turn. Treading with care, we enter the library.

Musty books and tipped-over shelves cover every walkway, as if a furious giant tossed them. A charred smell drifts through the thick air. Some sections are blackened with soot.

“It’s said the head librarian lost her mind, back in the eighties,” whispers Clara. “She murdered two students, a colleague, and then set fire to herself.”

Juliette hisses. “It’s said because people keep saying it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” replies Clara.

I point to the map. “Looks like a suit of armor conceals the entrance to the feast.”

We pick our way through drifts of old books to a cramped room. In the corner, a dusty suit of armor stands guard, its helmet slouched forward.

“Is the entrance behind it?” asks Juliette.

Clara feels around in the dark. “Wish we had our phones for light.”

A distinct click comes from behind the armor.

“I undid a latch,” she says.

The door she released opens into a narrow, pitch-dark tunnel.