Chapter 7
I didn’t stop running until I was safely inside my room.
But because my room had been shut up, the stink of the dead thing hit me quick, and I almost vomited.
Opening the window and breathing in fresh air to calm my racing heart and nausea stirring in my stomach.
I gazed across the green park, noticing the neatly pruned hedges at the far end, and made a mental note to consult the map to see what lay beyond.
I grabbed my orange trolley bag, checked the outside pockets, and found nothing.
Then, I opened it and ran my hand along the lining, feeling no lump.
Ripping the black lining, I discovered a false panel and slid my fingernails into the edges, pulling it back.
A Glock handgun with a box of bullets and a knife in a scabbard were heavily taped to the shell of the bag.
The first thing I did was take the knife out of the scabbard and go into the bathroom where the smell was, then crouch down at the vanity cabinet and slide the blade into the wooden seam of the base. I remembered earlier that it was a little loose, and the seam was wider than it should be.
The base panel popped open, revealing the source of the stink— a large rat in the process of decomposing, which explained why it smelled so bad. I covered my nose and mouth to avoid inhaling too much of the stench, as it would probably linger with me for days, even after the rat was long gone.
I used the flat of the blade to lift it out and then paused to consider what to do with it. It was a mystery as to how the poor rat got into that space in the first place because there was no way in, and obviously no way out, because the poor thing would’ve escaped.
Which meant it was placed there when it was already dead, and the only people I could think of who would do that were the Warwicks.
So, did that mean they had a key to my room?
Or did they persuade the dorm’s maintenance to do it?
And who was our assigned hall director? Do we have one here at Morgana?
Now that I was armed, perhaps I should confront them if they know anything about a dead rat. I wonder where their dorm is? No, they’re likely to have a frat house with all their drug-induced fucktards that party all night and prise their eyelids open with toothpicks all day.
Luckily, for that camel piss jock, I won’t be gifting them the rat on this fine day, as I need to get rid of it immediately, and I don’t want it hanging around while I try and find out where they live.
So, I did what any sane girl would do: I flung it out of my bedroom window, and it landed on the grass just as two students were walking past. Fortunately, I missed them, but they let out a horrifying squeal once they realized what it was that landed by their feet.
Focusing back on the gifts left hidden in my trolley bag, I swiped for my father’s number and sent him a thank you for the gift.
Several moments later, he messaged back with: Use them wisely. Did you find the instructions?
Me: lol. I don’t need instructions to use them?
Dad had taken me to the shooting range since I was sixteen because he thought it was wise for me to know how to defend myself, so his comment was quite odd. But we were the kind of family that attracted people who pretended to be your friend while stabbing you in the back.
I haven’t needed to defend myself yet because I was good at staying under the radar, but an opportunity had now arisen since I was stuck here on Warwick territory.
I ripped the tape off the handgun, checked that the gun was clean and working, then loaded the cartridge with bullets before putting the safety cap on.
I slipped the gun under the mattress of my bed, while the knife could be strapped to my upper arm or thigh, or in my bag.
After Ezrah Warwick roughed me up earlier, I needed to be prepared for fear that he would do it again.
And what the hell was he on about when he told me to stay away from our Finance lecturer?
Our finance lecturer? It looks like I’ll be sharing a class with a Warwick.
No worries. I will become an expert at pretending that he didn’t exist to his face, but plot his demise behind his back.
Not that I would actually kill him, but if he dared try to pin me against the wall again, the Warwick will receive a short, sharp shock.
A notification from Dad came through on my phone, and I opened it just as footsteps echoed along the hallways from the stairs.
I couldn’t resist checking to see if it was a new resident, only to find a man wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt.
His hood was pulled over his head, and all I could see was his nose poking out.
When he turned slightly toward me, his facial features looked exaggerated and grotesque.
An extra-large, warty, bulb-shaped nose, narrowed, empty eyes, and it took me a few seconds to realize it was a rubber mask.
I stepped back quickly and quietly closed the door, snorting with laughter at the guy’s strange sense of humor.
He was probably at a costume party last night and didn’t bother to remove the mask.
Anyway, whoever he was lived upstairs, not on my floor, and I expected to see the trickle of more students filling the halls as the days went on. Retreating into my room, which smelled cleaner now that I’d removed the rat, I opened my father’s message.
Dad: Check again.
Opening the trolley bag again, I ran my hand over the inside and discovered a small folded piece of paper.
Immediately, I unfolded it because it was so out of character for Dad to do this, so it must be important.
It was highly unlikely to be an affectionate note from a father to his only daughter, as that was not his style.
I want to surprise Leslie for her birthday. Can you find old school photos of her while you’re there, take pictures with your phone, and save them for when you come home? Also, look for anything else you might find about her. Please keep this a secret. Thank you.
Weird. Why did he feel the need to write a note and hide it in my bag rather than tell me in person, out of her earshot, if he wanted to keep it a surprise?
Me: Sure. If I have time.
Dad: Thank you, Addie.
Me: Why write a note? Instead of phoning or messaging me?
Dad: No reason.
Maybe she checked the messages on his phone, as that’s the only explanation I could think of. Either way, I wasn’t eager to make an effort for her, but I will put in effort for my father because that’s what good daughters do.
Me: Fine.
Dad:
Classes didn’t start until Monday next week, so I had time to search the libraries for old records of her.
She said she played volleyball in high school and college and thought it was strange that I had no interest in sports, even though I like to run.
So, looking through the volleyball team photos would be a good place to start.
I scrolled through the map and discovered that the main library was on the first floor of the castle.
This library held historic records, while the texts I needed for business studies were in the business school.
I had to go back to the business school to pick up my books that had been purchased and paid for, but I wasn’t eager to do that today after running into the Warwick. What’s his name? Ezrah.
I could still feel the burn from his hands on my wrists and cheek, and the scent of cologne and natural sweat embedded into my senses, which urged me to take a shower to wash him off.
The heat from his skin and incredible strength in his grip.
I couldn’t compete strength-wise, but I had a gun and a knife to fight him off with, and it only takes one squeeze of the trigger to fell that enormous oak.
With my handgun snug under my mattress and a knife in my underwear drawer, I grabbed my keycard and ran down to the kitchen and social room to look for a poster or leaflet with contact info in case we had a problem.
I’d say someone entering my room and leaving a dead rat was enough reason to change my locks.
Again, the whole hall felt empty, not because students were out exploring, but because it lacked life. Empty rooms without bags, clothes, or perfume. Empty of spirit.
There was a community corkboard in the kitchen, and as I searched it, I noticed that most notes were outdated from last season. I then stepped into the common room where old, worn sofas sat looking as if they hadn’t had an ass sit in them for weeks.
The front door swung open and shut, accompanied by quick footsteps and excited, breathless chatter. I peeked out to see two students who looked panicked, as if this hallway was unfamiliar to them.
“Can I help you?” They had no luggage with them, so I assumed they weren’t new residents, unless they had moved in without my knowledge.
“Mila,” the girl with blond hair and large almond eyes said, panted, hand pressed against her chest. “Her room?”
“I don’t think she’s here,” I assumed, even though she was two floors above me, so I might be mistaken.
“No,” she shook her head. “She’s in the medical chambers, cut her mouth. She gave us her keycard to get her asthma inhaler and a change of sweatshirt because she got blood all over it.”
I pointed skyward. “Third floor. How did she cut her mouth?” I asked, concerned as it sounded as if she had lost a lot of blood.
The girl with the pixie haircut answered as they backed away to go upstairs, “Razorblade,” she said, only for the blond girl to hush her.
“A razorblade? Gosh, I hope she's okay,” I was perplexed because how do you cut your mouth with a razorblade?
The pixie cut tugged on the blond, trying to stop her from talking to me as if they saw me as evil. As they ran up the stairs, I heard the pixie cut say, “I think that’s her. I think that’s the one that gave Mila the cupcake.”
What?
I ran back up to my room and found my phone resting on my bed, so I messaged Mila: What happened? I heard you cut your mouth.
Mila:
About ten minutes later, I heard the girls' footsteps coming back down the stairs, and I went out to confront them.
“Please, have I done something wrong?” I was begging because they seemed to be accusing me of something.
The pixie rested her hand on her hip and shot me a dirty, snappish look. “Mila said you swapped cupcakes,” she hissed at me, and I was taken aback by the venom in her tone.
“Yes,” I replied, confused, shrugging. “It was her idea to swap flavors. I received two chocolate cupcakes, and she received two raspberry cupcakes, and we swapped one each. I’m failing to see what the problem is.”
“Don’t act dumb,” the pixie argued heatedly as she barged past me, moved out of the way for them, knocking me against the stair rail. “Your cupcake, the one you gave to Mila, had the razorblade in it.”
I was aghast, horrified. “Oh my, that’s terrible,” but they ran down the bottom of the stairs, dodging a dark, sullen figure who was coming up, as his dark, narrowed eyes were fixed on me at the top of the stairs.
But I ignored him as the floor beneath my feet seemed to wave.
The metalhead spoke, but I didn’t hear what he said as my head spun.
“It was supposed to be for me,” I breathed, almost passing out. “That cupcake was supposed for me.”
“What?” he asked, confused.
My hands were trembling. “Ah, sorry, ah, a friend ate a cupcake with a razorblade in it and ah,” I turned away from him to walk to my door, “it was supposed to be for me that cut my mouth.”
I slammed the door shut and fell onto my bed, hugging my stomach, serenaded by the sound of the metalhead’s heavy footsteps running down the stairs.