Page 51

We pass under Preston’s stone arch, through the gaze of watchful, wolflike gargoyles. In the morning hours, this place is merely ancient feeling instead of draconian, the cold air bracing instead of alienating.

Lacie murmurs, “I wanted to apologize.”

“Oh?” We cross the street together; her heart picks up.

“I was horrid last night. I … I don’t know.”

I warm to her, humming. “Please. It was late.”

“It was, and I was horrible. Those situations … they tend to make me feel like I’m fifteen again, sunk onto a kneeler inside a confessional. There are only so many bad memories I can take at once. Doesn’t help that I can’t keep up with the coursework.” She pauses, her voice soft. “I would like to go with you to the ball. Not just because of the whole … dead friend thing, and not just because every second on Preston’s campus, I feel like I’m being hunted for sport.”

I pause beneath a streetlamp, toeing the uneven, icy bricks. I soften and bring my hand to her cheek. “Little lamb, you don’t have to explain yourself to me, or to anyone. Understand?”

She tips almost imperceptibly into my palm, her breathing evening out. But her gaze misses mine, chasing down the alley to my back.

Her face changes from relief to panic, her eyes widening, her expression brittle. “Marcella,” she breathes.

Her heart turns to panicked riot, sweat bursting along her hairline. The bitter smell of adrenaline laces the air, wriggles its way between my teeth.

“What is it?” I turn and I see it immediately. In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t smell it, feel it. By all accounts, I should have. That’s strange. I can usually sense a dead body.

Lacie’s throat bobs and she goes too pale. I steady her with a hand. “Let’s go. Unless you’d rather take a moment to breathe?”

“No.” The word rips from her, a pellet of ice. “No, I’m fine.”

“Then let us see.”

We walk to the alley, my eyes immediately adjusting. A huddled, broken shape presses against the far wall. Blood spatters the alley, gone icy and dark in the December morning. Lacie falls back behind me, a tremor in her step.

“Wait. I—”

And I know how she feels. The shroud has been thrown off her eyes. She has stayed inside her safe little den for so long that every single incursion on her reality is a knife to the ribs. She’s bleeding out, and there’s nothing I can do but watch her die a little each time.

“You have to do this. You must keep walking, because you’re teetering on a precipice. If you stop, if you so much as look down, you’ll know just how far you stand to fall. Better to keep your eyes ahead.”

She hesitates, then comes closer, biting her lip open. That I can taste on the wind, the coppery scent of pure blood. It’s all I can do not to press my thumb to it, to slick her hurt away.

“It’s the same as before,” she says, her voice trembling. “God.” Her throat sticks with a sob. “Why does this keep happening?”

I wish I could take the hurt from her, but that would only prolong her pain. Better to rip off the Band-Aid. “Let us see who we have here.”

I kneel over the crushed body, careful, so careful, not to disturb the way it lies. My fingertips graze the coat, damp with melting frost, thrown haphazardly over its face.

Beneath, the skin is a slurry of shattered orbital bones and twisted nose. But it’s clear who it is now: Therese. Lacie takes a fast breath, her pulse jumping.

“Take a slow breath, Lacie. You’re going to pass out.”

“How—”

“You’re hyperventilating. I’m strong but I don’t think I can carry you if you drop to the ground right here and now.” That’s not true. I could, but I would look ridiculous and I’m wearing my favorite heels.

As with Laurel, her skin is a mottle of bruising, bones snapped clean in half. Here, her ribs were shattered—probably by a blunt object. My fingernails trail her throat and I close my eyes, prodding with the tools I have in my arsenal. I can see a torn jugular, but they weren’t taking blood this time. No, she’s been strangled. When I open my eyes, I check hers to see burst vessels. Subconjunctival hemorrhages, they’re called. She died awake and staring at her assailant, and it’s a shame I can’t rouse her to ask who did this. Who throttled her silent.

“Sh-she was at that party at th-the dean’s house,” Lacie stammers. “With us. Oh god,” she groans. “Poor Lyle.”

“He likely doesn’t know yet. And we shouldn’t say a word. Remember, we were there, too. We’re automatically suspects.”

“Fuck. No. Why is this happening?”