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Hugo strengthens his grip on Lonan’s shoulder, and when the verse starts up again, he waves his spare hand like a conductor over the crowd. This time we all shout “balls!” as loud as we can. Roland stretches the word out, bellowing like an opera singer. And the students of Gossemort unravel in hysterics.

Finally, the walls, the floors, the chandelier overhead, all come to a halt. The walls are so close together now that people are shoved shoulder to shoulder, still clinging to the walls to avoid the open chasm. But a great cheer rises from the students. I grin broadly, and for some unfathomable reason, my eyes find Lonan’s again.

He’s smiling—not his usual cocksure, charming grin. This is a broad, dazzling, genuine smile, relief cutting crinkles in the corners of his eyes. I see something there in his gaze. I have to be wrong. I must be. Because the expression on his face—it’s almost like pride.

And then every flame, every torch, every twinkling light of the chandelier, whispers out at once.

Chapter Fourteen

No one is laughing now. We stand in the darkness. I shift instinctively toward Lonan.

“Clever, clever,” the trio of spirits echo above. “Congratulations, students of Gossemort. You think yourselves conquerors of the Darkness. But let this be the first lesson of this year’s Ridding—you cannot resist Fate forever.”

I call the Light to my scythe. Around me, other students do the same with their anchors. Then the doors of the hall finally swing open, and on the other side is a sight that makes my stomach sour.

First, I see a foot wearing a golden slipper, caught in the dim light cast from the Hall into the corridor from our anchors. It lies on the stone floor, unmoving.

I move toward the corridor as if drawn on a string. Lonan tries to grab my arm, but I shrug him off. I pass through the threshold and have to keep my knees from buckling. The leg stops just above the knee. The rest of the girl is gone, a smattering of blood and bone and entrails littering the floor. And beyond that, there are bodies everywhere.

They’re barely discernable in the shadows. Some of them lie still as death. But one or two are alive, barely shifting or groaning in the darkness.

We guessed.

We guessed that it was safer inside the Founders Hall when the doors shut. I assumed that what we were enduring inside was the consequence of guessing wrong. I thought that those outside the Hall had escaped. I thought wrong. Whatever they faced out here . . . it was far, far worse.

Lonan comes up behind me. I feel his presence like a solid wall. “What happened here?” I whisper.

He says nothing, but paces forward. The others follow behind us, but Lonan and I descend into the farthest part of the corridor before we find someone who is breathing. A student from our year, Renee, is propped against the wall. Her skin has lost its warmth. Her eyes are glassy. Lonan has to call her name several times before she looks at him. He places a hand gently against the wound at her neck, trying to stop the flow. She flinches and looks up at him.

“Are you all right?” he asks as I come closer. Some of the others are venturing into the hall behind us. Devastation is landing on us all. It’s hard to believe we were singing moments ago.

Renee swallows, tries to speak. Her eyes flit about in panic. Lonan shushes her. I come close beside him and place a hand on her cheek. Her skin is cold and clammy. “Renee, what did this?”

She struggles to clear something from her throat. Her eyes are wide and watery, staring blankly into the darkness over our shoulders. I’m not even sure she can hear me.

“Renee?” I repeat, trying to rouse her. A guttural sound comes from her throat, and her mouth bobs open and shut. She’s trying to say something, but blood bubbles through her lips.

“It’s all right,” Lonan says. “You don’t have to speak.”

She twitches, becoming more agitated. There’s fear in her eyes. She kicks her legs and struggles against the wall. Lonan has to hold her shoulders to keep his hand pressing against the wound on her neck, but I’m not sure it’s doing any good. Blood stains his hand, dark trails of it traveling down between his fingers.

“Focus on breathing,” I urge her. “It’s all right. We’re going to help you.”

She does not calm. Her eyes are developing a filmy whiteness. And still, they stare at nothing.

It is far too late by the time I realize what that means.

Her legs start to twitch erratically, half like she’s having a fit, half like she’s trying to fight us off. And then slowly, like it is taking every ounce of her strength, Renee lifts a hand. She cannot make a fist, but her hand is pointed over our shoulders.

Lonan and I turn as one. At first, there is nothing—just the dark corners of a cold, abandoned hallway.

And then a shadow. A shift near the ceiling. It has the eerie dexterity of a spider.

“Lonan,” I whisper.

Reflective white eyes flash toward us. It leaps. Lonan’s shadows shoot up around us just as the creature descends. A scream catches in my throat as a body falls on top of me. I can see nothing—the glow of my scythe fails to penetrate Lonan’s Darkness, his shadows as thick as I’ve ever seen them. I feel long, bony fingers dig into my arm. I’m wrenched to my feet, and it’s all I can do to cling to my scythe. But another hand seizes my wrist. Saints, it hurts. The bones of my wrist threaten to crumble. The hand is in the shape of a man’s, but no human has this sort of strength.

Rage burns through me. For some reason, while my shattered heart is numb and coldly logical in dire situations, the one emotion it does not temper is rage. Rage is my refuge.