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She’s been so quiet. I’d forgotten that the Ridding hasn’t tested her yet. But paint floods toward her, tiny teeth biting in the flow. Hugo, free of the floor, is before her, holding her up by the arms. And she’s weeping.

I don’t understand what’s happening. Poppy is bawling, and Hugo is speaking softly to her, doing everything he can to calm her. Ollinde is at her side as well, saying something, while Orla is at Hugo’s back, watching the encroaching liquid.

Lonan can handle Galvin for the moment. I release him from the pressure of my scythe and go to Poppy. She’s breathing heavily, unable to even form words as the river of teeth stream closer, closer. They tear at the hem of her green skirt, moments away from ripping at her skin.

“Poppy!” I shout. “Breathe! It’s all right. Whatever it is—it’s all right.”

She doesn’t seem to hear me. Hugo smooths her hair back from her forehead and takes her face in his hands. As I approach I hear him whispering to her. “Poppy, Pop, it’s all right. I promise. Whatever it is . . . you can say it. What could be so terrible—”

Hugo is cut off mid-word.

It takes me a moment, a full heartbeat that feels like it happens in slow motion, to realize what has happened. One moment, Hugo was holding Poppy’s head in his hands, their foreheads pressed together as he spoke softly to her. And the next, her hands were gripping his collar and wrenching him toward her. Hugo’s eyes bulge, his breath cut off, as Poppy’s teeth sink deep into his throat.

Chapter Thirty-Five

I’m screaming. Hugo’s eyes find mine, fear blanketing his face. I see a burst of red. Orla’s and Ollinde’s hands around Poppy, trying to pull her back. She’s turning him.

I rush forward and try to pull Poppy off him as well, but she’s too strong. She’s a siphon caught in bloodlust.

“Poppy!” I shout, pulling on her shoulders. She doesn’t respond.

I meet Hugo’s eyes. And a new horror falls on me. They aren’t turning white . . . they’re growing dim. She isn’t turning him. She’s killing him.

“Poppy,” I plead, my voice strangled and breaking. “Poppy, please.” I look to Lonan. “Help. Don’t just stand there—help her.”

Galvin’s laugh breaks through the room. “You cannot stop a siphon in the middle of feeding. It’s impossible.”

“Ves . . .” Hugo can hardly speak. His eyes are unfocused.

No no no.

“Poppy!” I scream at her. “Poppy, you’re killing him!”

A hundred memories flash in my head. Laughter late in the common room. Kitchen raids and heart-to-hearts. Sitting in tree branches, feet swinging, doing absolutely nothing. The taste of chocolate.

Poppy releases him.

And he falls.

His eyes go still, and there is a crater as large as an orange in his neck. There is no conversion from this, no recovery, no life after death. Hugo’s blood pours across the floorboards, and his body is motionless.

Poppy’s lips are bloody. Her eyes are bright, burning white. And in that moment, I have never feared or hated another person more than my best friend.

Every ounce of my magic burns within me all at once, my scythe igniting lavender and a verse burning at the ready on my shin. I reach for my timepiece, torn by grief and rage and the chaos of this night.

There’s a hand on my arm. Lonan drags me back, folds me into him, clasping my arms tight against his chest so that I can’t move. And then Galvin is on him, white eyes matching Poppy’s, trying to tear us apart.

The room—and the Ridding—have had enough. The floorboards shift, sliding against each other like they did before, as the walls recede and fold and move. I’m carried along helplessly by the school, pulled by the floor. I struggle to stay standing. Lonan still has his arms wrapped tightly around me, riding the movement of the floor as we’re propelled right, left, right, right, up, down. The school is rearranging itself for its own purposes, until finally, the planks beneath our feet slide to a stop, and we tumble onto the floor.

My face is buried in Lonan’s chest, and it’s several breaths before I realize I’m screaming.

Hugo.

His smile is tattooed on my brain, the way his eyes crinkle and his curls bounce when he tosses his head back in laughter. I want to be sick again. But there’s nothing left in my stomach.

Lonan holds my head tightly against his chest, gripping my hair between his fingers. His chest heaves, and my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. I need him right now. I need him, and I’m not sorry. The scent of him is comfort—pine and old leather books and every bit of belonging I ever needed—damn the bloodbond. This is home. This is refuge. I need him. I need—

Something pulls on the back of my dress, wrenching me away from him. A monstrous rage overtakes me, turning my vision white, but then I’m met with the stern face of my stepsister.