Chapter 17 Amara
Slade walks towards us, arms dangling with the weight of two red gasoline cans, one in each hand.
He walks with the steadiness of a hangman on his way to the gallows, a bear of a man in a shirt torn open to the navel, blood up his forearms like he bathed in it.
Two men flank each side, also heavy laden with gas cans.
He sets the cans down with a grunt and wipes his hands on his pants, which are already so ruined it barely matters.
He says nothing at first, just looks at us—me and Julian, Bam and Dahlia, Colton and Eve, Rhett and Isolde—and there is an understanding that whatever we did tonight, whatever high-water mark we thought we reached, it’s not finished. He shakes Cai’s hand and nods.
It won’t be finished until there’s nothing left to bury.
Slade finally speaks. “The rest of the school’s waking up. Time to move.”
He tosses a matchbox towards me. The cardboard is sticky as I catch it; the blood on my hands makes it glue to my palm. I stare at it for a moment and tuck it into the pocket of my dress.
Suddenly, I’m hyper aware of the dress. The way it clings to my skin, heavier now that it’s soaked through and gone from white to blotched pink, a deranged tie-dye of my father’s blood. When I move, it tugs against my legs. I am covered in it, painted and baptized.
Probably the most honest baptism I’ve ever received.
I thought I’d feel something, watching him die.
But…
I don’t. I feel nothing. Nothing except hope that my brother will understand and leave me the fuck alone. My father never treated him right either.
Julian licks the blood off his lips and smiles, something ugly and beautiful in the same breath.
He finds my hand, weaving his fingers with mine, and the heat of his palm makes my bones feel real again.
The blood on his arms is not all his own, but he wears it like a king. Like every drop is a mark of victory.
The Feral Boys step forward, each grabbing a can of gasoline by the handle.
They carry them with ease, as if the weight means nothing, and fall into a loose formation.
The girls fall in beside them, dresses all turned the same ruined red, faces wild and unmasked by fear.
There is no symmetry to our group. We are a ragtag group with one mission.
We don’t speak as we move out, but I hear their breathing, the scrape of shoes on wet leaves and mud, the creak of bones stiff from violence. Bam walks up front, the can dangling in one hand, the other wrapped tight around Dahlia’s shoulders.
Colton and Eve follow, arms slung around each other’s waists, chatting to each other like this is a Sunday morning walk. It’s cute, if you ignore the fact that they look like they just showered in a blood waterfall.
Rhett holds the can in one hand, the other bracing Isolde’s elbow.
She walks slow, each step careful, but there’s a pride to her, a refusal to let her body make her a spectator.
She still looks perfectly beautiful but there’s a touch of sadness on her.
Like she was disappointed that she couldn’t participate.
Cai walks with Slade, his phone to his ear as he fills Ophelia in about how it went. There’s a sweetness to his tone, like he’s reassuring her that she’s safe. That their baby is safe.
Julian and I bring up the rear. His eyes never leave my face, scanning for something I don’t know how to name. Every so often he squeezes my hand, and I want to ask him what feeling numb that means. Instead, I keep pace, every step carrying me farther from the person I was.
We walk for what feels like hours but is only minutes. Time has stretched and snapped so many times tonight I no longer trust it.
When we finally hit the path, Westpoint sits ahead, a dark mass against the lightening sky.
The old part of campus—stone and slate, built by hands that thought they were founding something eternal—rises from the ground like a tombstone.
The new wings spread off from it, glass and chrome and steel, ugly as hell in the daylight but easy to burn.
We pause at the edge of the forest. There’s no one out, but lights are on in some of the dorm windows. I see a janitor’s golf cart cruise the service road, orange beacon twirling. I wonder if he’ll even notice when the flames start.
Julian stops me just short of the quad. He drops his can and pulls me in, so close I feel the heat coming off him, and tilts my head up with two fingers.
He uses his thumbs to smear the blood on my face, marking my cheeks and the bridge of my nose.
He does it slow, so I feel every trace, every little ritual caress.
When he’s done, he leans his forehead to mine, and I inhale.
I don’t know when it started, but his scent has become my drug.
“You know what to do?” he whispers.
I nod, though I don’t. I just know I have to be the one to do it. Maybe it’s the only way to prove—to myself, to him, to everyone still alive in this hellhole—that I’m not just the Dean’s bitch. That I am what I choose to be.
He smiles. His mouth is so soft it almost cracks me in half. “Go pull the alarm. Once you’re done, come out and we’re going to end this. I’m right behind you.”
There is no more talk. No more planning. We look like a wedding party marching to the altar, except the only vows we’re making are to never take shit again.
At the Academy’s front steps, I halt and let the others fan out. Bam peels off to the right, Dahlia hissing in his ear as she points to the admin building. Colton and Eve head for the chapel. Rhett, Cai, Slade and Isolde hang back, waiting for me to go pull the alarm.
Julian keeps his hand in mine until the last second, then presses something into my palm—a silver lighter, engraved with the crest of his family. “For good luck.”
I stare at it, feeling the weight of expectation settle on my shoulders.
“Be a good girl,” he says, voice so low only I can hear it. “Set us free.”
He kisses my forehead, then slips away, standing by the fountain with the others.
I stand on the steps, lighter in hand, matchbox in my pocket, blood drying stiff on my arms and legs. For the first time all night, I am alone.
It feels perfect.
I turn and look at the doors of Westpoint. I press my hand to the glass and watch my reflection—hair wild, face striped red, dress ruined. The girl I see is not the girl who arrived here, or the one who tried to escape, or the one who begged to be seen. She is someone new. Someone worth being.
The door pops open as I push against it, the sound masked by the wind and the shrieks of birds that sense something about to die.
Inside, the school is empty and echoing.
The lights are on in the great hall—always are, some timer programmed to welcome the lost souls of overachievers—but the air is dead, unmoving.
I walk the corridor, dress dripping behind me like a bridal veil, and I listen to the tick of my own heart. It’s slower now. Steady.
I move down the main hall, past the photos of every valedictorian and Hunt champion, their perfect faces staring out from behind glass. I pause at the Class of 2003, trace a bloody finger across my mother’s smile, then keep going.
The alarm box is at the intersection of the four main wings, hidden behind a glass panel. I punch through it with my fist, skin splitting open on the edge, but I barely feel the pain. The blood smears the panel as I yank down the red handle.
For a second, nothing. Then the world ends in a howl. The fire alarm shatters the quiet, a scream that pulses through the walls and vibrates the bones of the building. It is an animal sound, a warning, a challenge.
I stand and listen for a count of ten, then slip into the shadow behind the founder’s statue. The old man stands, granite and stern, clutching a book in one hand and a dagger in the other. He looks like every man I have ever hated, every man who thought his own rules would never burn.
The sound works fast. Doors slam open up and down the hallway. The first wave is faculty, already dressed, faces set in the blank efficiency of people who think emergencies are always for someone else. They don’t even glance at me. I am invisible, a ghost, just another stain on the wall.
The next is the students. They come in clumps, pajama pants and rumpled shirts, some sobbing, some laughing.
Some bring their phones and livestream the chaos, the screens glowing pale as they file past me.
I see girls in slippers, boys in boxers, a few in full prep uniform.
Some have their arms around each other, some move alone, some in packs.
The humanity of them is both sickening and touching.
No one sees me. I am not what they expect to see.
I recognize a few—girls who were sweet to me, boys who mocked me, faculty who wrote the notes that said “Amara is a promising candidate.” I don’t feel anything for them. Not anger, not joy. I just want them to be gone.
The last straggler is a man I don’t know, maybe a visiting professor or a Board intern. He trips in the rush, books scattering. I watch him try to scoop them up, then give up and flee, leaving the work of his life behind. When the corridor is empty, I step out.
The alarm keeps screaming. The statue’s eyes seem to track me as I move back the way I came.
Through the open door I see them—my army, my monsters, my family.
I step onto the steps and wave.
They surge in as a group, boots smearing red across the tile, gasoline already dripping from the lids. The smell is immediate—rich and danger, and the memory of so many summer barbecues my father never let me attend.
Julian moves to my side. His arm goes around my waist, tight and claiming, and for a moment I feel safe.
Then he leans down, mouth warm against my ear.
“Where to first?”
I know what he wants. I want it too.
“My dorm.”
He grins. “Lead the way, my lady.”
I do.
We skip down the main corridor, flanked by the laughter of my new kin, the promise of violence in every stride.
“Everyone fan out, let’s light this joint on fire.”
We are not quiet. We don’t need to be.
This is ours now.
We move like a disease through the veins of the Academy, each of us infecting the place that once tried to inoculate us against everything wild and real.
Taking the stairs two at a time, we head towards my dorm, Julian trailing a line of gas where we’ve walked. He pauses when I open the door to my room and head inside. There’s only one thing I need and it’s a picture of my mom and I when I was little.
I work fast, grabbing the picture and shoving it into my pocket. Julian watches, his eyes burning a hole in my back. He never rushes me, never tells me to hurry. He just waits, as if he understands this is the most important thing I will ever do.
When I’m done, he pulls me against him, hands hard on my hips, his mouth in my hair.
“Ready?” he whispers.
I nod. There is nothing left for me here.
He grabs the can, and together we upend it on the desk. The gas floods the wood, soaks the chair, drips off the edge and pools around my shoes. The stink is everywhere, saturating the air, biting my nose and throat.
I take the matchbox out of my pocket. The matches are soft, the cardboard sticky with blood and gasoline. I hold them, trembling, until Julian covers my hand with his. His thumb strokes the back of my wrist, soothing and steady.
“Step back to the door, it’ll light fast and chuck it in as far as you can… then we run.”
I nod and do as he says, a gasp escaping me as the flame takes root against the side of my bed, spreading rapidly.
“Let’s go,” he says, and leads me out.
We meet the others in the corridor. The walls and floors are ready, the shine of gasoline gleaming on marble and wood, every surface slick and ready.
“Together.” Caius says.
Julian nods, and everyone takes out their matches, getting ready to strike them. I hand him my box and flick open his lighter.
“That’s it, baby girl, burn the legacy. ”His eyes are molten, pupils wide.
“This is yours to end,” he says.
The words hit like a bell.
I flick the lighter, a small flame bursting to life as big ones race down the hallways upstairs.
I stare at it for a long time, watching the way it dances.
Julian leans in, mouth to my ear. “Now, Amara. Be free.”
I toss the lighter deep into the corridor, onto the marble.
The fire catches in an instant, blue at first, then yellow and orange, the heat surging up and out.
The flames race along the lines of fuel, up the walls, under the doors, down the hallways where the portraits and plaques already wait for their own erasure.
Everyone else lights and drops theirs and we all watch for a moment.
Fire is as beautiful as it is deadly.
The room fills with the sound—hissing, popping, the greedy roar of the beast we have birthed. The windows blacken in seconds, glass cracking from the heat. Smoke billows up to the chandeliers, then down to the floor, choking the past and every lie it ever told.
We back away, to the doors, to the place where the air is still safe to breathe.
Outside, the sun is finally up, the world lit with a gold hue that feels unreal. We walk far enough down the quad that we can watch Westpoint burn safely. The flames lick higher, devouring the roof, turning the spires to torches.
I laugh. I can’t help it.
Julian’s arm finds my waist, pulling me tight against him. His mouth is at my temple, his breath in my hair. I feel his pride, his joy, his absolute confidence in me.
I feel it too.
Bam and Dahlia howl, a long, wild note. Colton and Eve clap, whooping and hollering. Rhett kisses Isolde, kneeling to press his face to her stomach, a promise for the future that no one will ever touch.
We watch the building burn.
The fire eats everything, old and new, sacred and profane. The heat paints the world red and black, the smoke a ribbon twisting up to the sky.
I am not what they made me.
I am what I choose.
I lean into Julian, feeling his heart thunder against my back. We are a single animal, two souls fused in violence and devotion.
He whispers, “You did it.”
“So did you.”
He laughs, soft and low. “We’re free.”
The word is strange, but good.
We stand there until we get bored of watching, until the only thing left of Westpoint is the memory of what it tried to be.
When we finally turn to go, the windows have shattered and the roof has splintered and caved in.
I know, as we walk away, that the world will never forgive us.
But it will never own us again.
I am Amara Roth.
A woman reborn by a monster chosen to be mine. A monster who was never really a monster, just a man trying to do right in a world where all he was taught is wrong.
A man who will only become the monster he holds at bay if he needs to protect me.
I emancipate myself from my lineage and choose the only person who ever gave a shit enough to make good on his word.
And I am never going back.