Page 54

“New orders, ladies,” Galvin says, removing the coat of his uniform. “Vesper has dealt with my disloyal brother. But there’s the matter of the headmaster. I haven’t been able to find him. And I have reason to believe he is just as treacherous as Lonan.”

He lays the coat on the back of a chair and turns to face us. The shirt he wears under his uniform stretches across his body, muscles bunching as he folds his arms over his chest. His face—the cut of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the intensity of ocean-deep eyes—is just as stupidly perfect as Lonan’s. That pull toward him is still there, like an unbreakable chain between us. I hate him—I hate him so much. But Lonan and Galvin have both taught me one thing—hate is not incompatible with desire. With Galvin, I hate wanting him, forced into desire by the power of the bloodbond. With Lonan, I want to hate him, and I can’t.

“While the students of Gossemort—the ones who aren’t dead anyway—continue to be tested by the Ridding, we will find that headmaster. Once he’s been properly interrogated, I’ll decide whether he deserves a chance at conversion or a traitor’s death.”

“You lay a hand on my godfather, and I’ ll—”

“You’ll what?” Galvin says, grinning. “You hold no power over me, Vesper. Except perhaps to irritate me by becoming a shrew of a wife.”

That’s the first time he’s used that word—wife. Now I definitely might be sick. “I’m going to make every moment of the rest of your life fucking miserable,” I promise.

His eyes narrow. “No doubt. If this is the way you plan on continuing, that doesn’t make for a happy eternity. Chin up, darling. It’s not all bad. You wanted to dedicate your life to Gault, remember? Didn’t your father die at war? You’ll accomplish what he couldn’t and honor his memory in the process.”

“Nothing about this honors my father.”

He shrugs. “If that’s how you feel. You’ll be my queen, Vesper. You’ll wear the crown, just as the old woman said. But I’ll look elsewhere for companionship if I need to.” He glances at Poppy, just a brief shift of his eyes, but it makes my blood boil.

“Don’t you dare.”

He snorts. “Really? Darling, believe me, you don’t need to worry on that front.” His gaze scrapes down Poppy’s body again, this time with more scrutiny, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

I will kill him. The Dark boils in my bones, harsher, stronger.

Galvin commands us out of the room. I hate how he compels me, how my muscles obey his orders like they recognize him—sire and bloodmate. How can so much of me bow to him while my mind stays repulsed?

But at least Poppy and I are together. We keep sending each other glances as we walk the halls ahead of Galvin, offering each other what reassurance and comfort we can.

“We’ll start in the staff offices,” Galvin says. “Perhaps he’s hiding. Locking himself safely away while—”

The floor begins to move.

The three of us halt in the middle of a hallway while the ground beneath our feet shakes. This is one of the upper stories, where the floor is made of polished wood. The planks begin to shake and bend, and Poppy and I grab hold of each other’s hands to steady ourselves. And then the planks slide, backward and forward against each other, like a puzzle rearranging.

“What’s happening?” Galvin shouts.

We’re carried against our will by the floor—forward, back, to the side. And the walls shift too. The school itself is rearranging like a house made of a child’s blocks. Walls fold against each other like the pages of a book and open again to reveal different walls from different halls. I’m knocked to my knees as the floor moves us. My body bangs against floorboards and walls. I have to lunge away from a wall collapsing like an accordion. But I don’t let go of Poppy’s hand. She and I cling together as Galvin cries out somewhere nearby, carried along with us.

Finally the floorboards shift into place, sliding against each other and stopping with a jolt. I look up, and through the dust lingering in the air, I realize we’re in a circular room no larger than one of the dormitory common rooms, and on the other side, prostrate on the floor as though they’ve also just been tossed about by roaming hallways, are Hugo, Orla, Ollinde, and Lonan.

Chapter Thirty-One

This is the Ridding. It has to be. And I want to laugh—Galvin can kill and infect and command, but he cannot undo the laws of his own damned test or the vindictiveness of the Saints of Gossemort.

But of course, I don’t laugh, because in a moment’s breath Lonan is on his feet, sword drawn and glowing, and he’s charging at his brother.

Galvin hisses like a serpent, fangs bared and ready for a fight. I move toward Lonan without thinking, without even consciously deciding to, because my throat is still dry as dust and I don’t care about anything, anything but quenching that thirst. I can smell the blood of the others, tempting in their own way. But his—it has a smokiness that makes my mouth water.

All of us are in motion—Orla toward me, knife in hand, ready to intercept me. Hugo toward Poppy, Poppy away from him, and Ollinde putting themself between them.

And then, all at once, we stop. Each one of us stumbles as our feet are caught. I look down to see my feet sinking. Panic rises in me as the floorboards beneath us turn liquid. I’m sinking. The floor is swallowing me, liquid wood like molasses between my toes. It rises so quickly, consuming my ankles, my shins. And then it stops.

Galvin is the first to speak. “What is this?” he demands. “What’s happening?”

I try to move my feet, but the floorboards have resolidified into hard wood, and I’m anchored in place.

I take stock of the room. The walls are curved, and hanging on pinstriped wallpaper of deep burgundy, seven portraits surround us. Their faces are familiar—an elegant lady with an exceptionally long neck, a man with a beak-like nose, another man with two streaks of white working up into his dark textured hair—these are the founders of Gossemort. There is something deeply unsettling about the portraits, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Above them, around the edge of the domed ceiling, there are words carved in gold foil—falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus.

“It’s the second trial,” I breathe.