An Academy for Liars

Chapter 28

The elevator ascended for some time before it came to a stop at Drayton, behind a pair of golden double doors. Lennon staggered through the lobby to the secretary’s desk. The woman’s eyes went wide at the sight of her, and it was only then that Lennon registered the fact that she was covered in Benedict’s blood. Both of her hands were sticky with it, and her shirt was stained too. “I need to speak with Eileen. Can you show me the way to her office?”

“I—I’m afraid the vice-chancellor doesn’t receive guests without a formal appointment. Perhaps you could speak to your advisor?”

“My advisor is tending to the dead body of one of my professors. Benedict Barton, who we found dead at his own desk.”

“Professor Barton is dead?” The woman’s gaze tracked down to Lennon’s bloodied hands and shirt. “That’s not his…is it?”

“I need to talk to Eileen,” said Lennon again.

Upon reaching the doors of Eileen’s office, Lennon was commanded to wait outside. The secretary went in ahead of her, and she was gone for what felt like a long while. When the door finally opened again Lennon was surprised to see Eileen behind it. “Come in.”

Her office was wide but long, a bit like a bowling alley, complete with a run of windows and an expansive view of the Twenty-Fifth Square. There was a large desk that looked more like a banquet table on the far wall of the room. On it, a few personal effects—framed photos and an ornate pen stand—but what caught Lennon’s attention was the bust of a little boy—wide-eyed and young, cast in brass—which acted as a paperweight. The child looked somehow familiar to Lennon, something about the set of his mouth.

“What happened?” Eileen demanded. “Tell me all of it.”

Lennon, in a shaking voice, recounted the details of what had happened in Amsterdam, the thing—less than human, or maybe more—that had appeared in the club and attacked them. Eileen’s face grew drawn and very pale, but she asked no questions, so Lennon kept on talking, telling her about the elevator she’d summoned in the street to escape, and their arrival in Idaho. She told her too about the motel, and the trip down to Benedict’s house in Utah. Here, she began to stumble over her words—stuttering in her haste to get them out—her throat swelling with tears, feeling like it might seal shut if she didn’t stop fighting them and allow herself to cry.

Eileen digested all of this with her arms folded over her chest, leaning against her desk, legs crossed at the ankles, staring at some fixed point on the floor. When Lennon’s story was finished, she said, without expression: “Where is Professor Lowe?”

“He stayed behind. I don’t know why. I didn’t want to leave without him but he made me.”

“That’s all right,” said Eileen. “You’ve done nothing wrong. And Dante’s tough, I made sure of that. He can handle himself.”

“I’m not sure that he can,” said Lennon, close to crying now. “He’s hurt. Badly. I’m worried about him. There was so much blood.”

Eileen raked a hand through her hair. “Thank you for telling me all of this. I want you to go back to your dorm, have a shower, and find yourself something to eat. Okay?”

These instructions were relayed so tenderly that Lennon felt, for a moment, confused. It had been a long time since she’d been mothered, and the last person she would have expected to be mothered by was the vice-chancellor. “But what about Dante? Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Will you send someone for him?”

As quickly as Eileen had turned soft, she became cold. “What I do in my capacity as vice-chancellor is none of your concern. Nor is the business that Dante keeps. I understand your concern, but right now my primary responsibility is ensuring the safety of the students and faculty I have here. Do you understand?”

Eileen stripped off her cardigan and wrapped it gently around Lennon’s shoulders. It was heavy, but strangely cool, as though it had been hanging in the back of a closet, never worn. Eileen buttoned it up to Lennon’s throat, like she was a child too young to do it herself.

“To replace your shirt,” she said, referring to the bloodstains. “I don’t want you alarming anyone as you make your way across the campus.”

Lennon nodded. Made for the door.

“And Ms. Carter?”

She faltered, turned back to Eileen. “Yes?”

“Break the news to Claude, will you? He and Benedict were so close.”

“I—I will.”

Lennon walked back to Logos House, aware of the stares that trailed her as she went. Upon entering the foyer, she climbed the four flights of rickety, creaking stairs up to Claude’s room in the attic. She knocked on the door. Claude answered, squinting at her as though staring directly into the sun. “Lennon? What the hell happened to you? Is that blood?”

Lennon had prepared a speech on the way back from Irvine Hall, but in the moment all she could think to say was: “He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Benedict.”

A half beat passed in silence. Claude faltered—his expression frozen somewhere between a smile and a frown. “Come in. Have a seat by the fire.”

Lennon was stunned silent for a moment. She had expected yelling and tears and tearing at clothes, a barrage of questions about who and when and where and how. But what she hadn’t anticipated was Claude’s complete and utter composure. She stumbled through the door after him. “Claude, wait—”

“What would you like to drink?” he inquired, cheery.

“I—I don’t want anything,” said Lennon, carefully lowering herself into one of the two armchairs that stood in front of the hearth. “Listen, Claude, I have to—”

“How about something sweet?” He went to a well-stocked bar cart and began to mix what appeared to be two amaretto sours. He took a long time stirring up the cocktails, staring at some fixed point on the wall with a furrow in his brow. “So, you said he’s dead?”

“Yes,” said Lennon, crying now. “And I’m so sorry. Dante and I found him this morning. His wrists were cut.”

Claude turned to face her, his expression blank. He passed her the cocktail with a mechanical motion, and some of the drink sloshed over the edge and spattered the Persian rug. He sat stiffly in the empty armchair beside Lennon. “Benedict wouldn’t slit his wrists. He always told me if it came down to it— when it came down to it—he’d use a gun. He had one, you know. He kept it in his tea cabinet. An antique, belonged to his father.”

Lennon’s hands began to shake around the cocktail glass. “Listen, I don’t know what happened. That’s just what I saw. He’s dead, Claude. I’m so sorry—”

Claude hurled his glass across the room. It struck the far wall and shattered on impact. “Fuck.”

Lennon sprang to her feet, but Claude remained seated, staring at a nothing spot on the floor, his shoulders heaving.

She edged toward him, extending a hand. “Claude—”

He stood up so suddenly that Lennon, startled, staggered back and fell into a nearby bookshelf. Claude caught her by the arm and dragged her out of the bedroom, down the hall, and several flights of stairs until they reached the rickety elevator on the second floor. By this time, those who were in the house had already come upstairs or out into the hall to investigate the sound of breaking glass. Blaine emerged from Emerson’s room.

Emerson came out after her. “What the hell is going on, you two?”

“We’re going to Benedict’s,” said Claude, pulling Lennon to the elevator. He dragged the grate aside, stepped into the cabin, and mashed the button on the control panel that corresponded with Benedict’s house. He pushed it again and again, but the cabin didn’t move.

It didn’t seem like a random malfunction; the timing was too perfect. There was no way the elevator to Benedict’s home just conveniently stopped working directly after Lennon told the vice-chancellor he’d been found dead. Perhaps Eileen had shut it down, a power that Lennon didn’t even think was possible until this moment. The way she saw it, the elevators in the school were reliably simple. They went back and forth between their designated locations on a fixed and unstoppable track. As far she knew, there was no gatekeeper responsible for them who could change their routes or stop them from working. But if that was true, Lennon wondered, then who had stopped the elevator from running now?

“Fuck,” said Claude and he kicked the wall of the cabin.

Blaine cocked her head. “What’s the rush?”

“Benedict is dead,” said Lennon, choking a little on the words. “Dante and I found him today with his wrists cut—”

“Shut up,” said Claude and he stepped out of the elevator, dragging Lennon with him. His grasp was so tight her wrist was beginning to hurt. “Open another,” he said, motioning to a bare spot on the wall. “I know you can fucking do it. Open an elevator to Benedict’s house.”

“I’m not supposed to—”

“Do it, Lennon.”

“Claude,” said Emerson. “Get ahold of yourself.”

“I need to see him,” said Claude. “And the elevator isn’t working. I can’t get to him, and I need to, and she’s just standing there fucking useless—”

Lennon tried to open a gate, but Amsterdam had exhausted her. Even with her new approach—the commanding nature of her power—she knew she shouldn’t call an elevator. She was far too spent, and Dante had warned her about the dangers of depleting herself. For once, she chose to listen to him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t.”

“Fuck,” said Claude, and he slid down the wall in the middle of the hallway, landed hard on the floor, and put his head in his hands. The tears came then, great racking sobs that shook his whole body. The sound of his crying drew more people upstairs. Sawyer came up and sat beside him, drew the shaking man (though in the moment, he seemed more like a broken boy) into his arms, as Lennon fielded questions from Emerson and Blaine and everyone else who wanted to know what had happened to Benedict.

“Who would do something like that?” Blaine asked, searching Lennon’s face for an answer. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Who would just murder someone in cold blood like that?”

“We don’t know that it was a murder,” said Kieran. “Maybe he’d just had enough.”

“Ben wouldn’t have left me,” Claude snapped, his face flushed a hot and angry red. He spit when he spoke. “Someone did this to him, and I’m going to find out who.”