Chapter Twenty-Eight
TWENTY-EIGHT
The world had thinned.
Andrew felt it as he sat in class, as if he could press fingertips against the air and the gossamer threads separating this world from the next would part. A small push, and anyone could fall through.
Or maybe they’d already fallen.
His mouth felt full of graveyard dirt, his head bent over his notebook as he wrote feverishly. He needed to change their story. He needed to think up an ending cruel enough to appease the monsters, but soft enough so when this was all over he could fit himself against Thomas’s side and be safe.
cut out a heart—
and bury it in the woods.
but you already
knew that, prince.
There had to be another way.
Class had been going on for fifteen minutes and their history teacher still hadn’t arrived, but no one complained.
They clustered in groups with their phones and talked about the principal’s lecture during assembly hall that morning.
Food poisoning after a senior prank gone too far.
Wickwood was bent on convincing themselves nothing was wrong with this school, that no goddamn monster had ripped out of the wallpaper.
It seemed impossible they would stick to this story, but then maybe everyone had only been blacked out for a few minutes.
It had felt like hours. Andrew alone had been suspended in time, choked on shadows and vines and forest decay, and if he told the truth, he’d sound like he’d lost his mind.
“Happy Samhain,” Thomas muttered. “Pretty sure that means all the ghosts and demons and monsters will be at their strongest tonight. And probably their most hungry. We’re so screwed.”
Andrew shook out a hand spasm and kept writing. “The Halloween dance is still on.”
“Of course it is. Can’t have kids whining to their loaded parents that the school is creepy and, worse, boring.” Thomas’s fingers subconsciously pressed against his stomach.
Andrew should have asked about the wound, checked if the hole had grown or changed.
His headaches had grown almost unbearable, and part of him knew that was because the forest had gone deeper inside him, nested down and rooted into his darkest places.
If he put fingers in his mouth, he could feel it—moss growing at the back of his throat.
The kids in the desks in front of them were whispering about an after-party and who had smuggled alcohol. Listening gave Andrew a disjointed, untethered feeling, as if it was impossible everyone else planned to have fun tonight while he and Thomas would be fighting for their lives.
He flipped back a few pages to the story he’d written last night.
A melancholy thing; he wasn’t going to let Thomas see it.
A poet with his chest held together by rose vines climbed a tower to kiss his true love, but as their lips touched, a monster with a charming smile snaked into the room.
It tore into them and stole a piece of their lungs, a liver, a cracked rib to gnaw on.
The end only came when the poet sent his rose vines down the monster’s throat to strangle him.
But when the poet tried to kiss his true love once more, he couldn’t.
Thorns grew in both their mouths. All they could do was bleed.
He should have ripped it up. All his focus had to channel into figuring out the perfect story for tonight.
Cheek still on his desk, Thomas watched Andrew with a kind of hollow, aching want. “Are we…”
“We’re fine.” Andrew bent over his notebook.
They didn’t need to talk about it, not when he should have apologized as much as Thomas had for all the foul things that had been said yesterday.
There would be time enough to figure it out later.
All that mattered was the way Thomas had held him last night, reverent and desperate and terrified all at once, and how he’d pressed his mouth to Andrew’s head. It felt right. It felt perfect.
I want you always.
The history teacher finally hurried into the classroom, frazzled and stressed, and she gave them a waspish lecture about wasting time instead of doing independent study while they waited. She broke off as someone rapped on the doorframe.
“Open your books,” she snapped, and went to answer.
“What are you writing?” Thomas whispered.
But Andrew didn’t have time to answer, because the classroom door opened again, and this time Principal Adelaide Grant appeared, her white hair in a merciless, tight bun and her pantsuit impeccable.
She cleared her throat, but she didn’t need to bother.
The entire class had already ground to a halt to stare at her.
“Andrew Perrault. I need you to come with me, please.”
The wave of icy panic that swept through Andrew left him nauseous, too frozen to move, to understand why she would pull him of all people. All he could think was, She knows.
That he sacrificed Clemens.
That he killed the dream ravager.
That he hit a boy instead of confessed he loved him.
That if anyone peeled apart his ribs, they’d see the darkness knit into his flesh.
“Leave your things.” The principal looked impatient at his failure to comply.
He stacked his books, numb and clumsy, but grabbed his notebook at the last second because he always felt better with it in hand.
One glance at Thomas, whose face had gone white under his freckles, made Andrew’s stomach flip over.
Thomas started to rise, but the principal gave a dismissive wave of her hand as if he were but a moth drawn to the flame she was about to extinguish.
Dead silence followed Andrew out of the classroom and into the corridor.
He should ask what was going on, protest this—or should he stay silent?
His limp, traitorous tongue made the decision for him by turning to wood in his mouth, and he said nothing as he followed the principal up to the faculty floor.
He had to pull it together because he looked guilty: his darting eyes, his trembling fingers, the way he could barely get a word past the mud in his throat.
Walking down the newly refurbished hall where Clemens had been murdered made his head spin.
The worst part was how he was right next to the most powerful woman in this school and he couldn’t even tell her what was really going on.
There are monsters in the woods. You need to get everyone out—
The principal opened the door to her office and ushered Andrew inside.
It looked more intimidating than usual, the ceiling-high mahogany shelves and austere dark wood of her desk seeming to smother any light that crept in past the thick, burgundy drapes.
A commanding heaviness filled the room like a hand pressed against the back of his neck, and everything smelled of stale, old books and suffocation.
Or maybe he’d just forgotten how to breathe.
Two leather armchairs sat before her desk, and Dr. Reul rose from one, buttoning his tweed jacket.
The old professor was known for his grandfatherly smiles and kind words, and he always smelled like something between mothballs and Earl Grey tea.
Having him here meant he was playing good cop to the principal’s bad cop.
What was going on? Shouldn’t Dr. Reul be teaching Classic Literature right now?
Andrew had only enough time to register the pensive expressions the adults wore before he noticed Bryce Kane sitting in the other armchair.
He looked calm and tidy, uniform blazer spotless and golden hair combed back, and his smile was bloated with self-satisfaction.
“Have a seat, Andrew,” Dr. Reul said.
He felt too light, his skin so thin that if they pulled back the throat of his shirt, they’d see his heart pulsing, raw and bloody, through his glass chest. He slid onto the vacated armchair and looked anywhere except at Bryce, who reclined in his seat as if he’d been invited to a meeting where he’d be announced king of the world.
The principal sat behind her desk and laced her fingers on the wood, casting a meaningful look at Dr. Reul before she cleared her throat.
“There are two matters I need to discuss with you, Andrew, but first I would like to impress upon everyone in this room the need to conduct yourselves with honesty, courtesy, and behavior befitting ambassadors of the Wickwood name. Now, Bryce has brought me some troublesome news, Andrew. Have you been climbing the fence and venturing into the forest?”
Somehow it hadn’t occurred to Andrew to worry this could happen. He’d freaked out very efficiently about everything else, but being caught in the forest? There was no way any students were up before dawn to spy on their return.
And everyone should be grateful.
They were being saved from having their throats torn open by monsters.
They should be grateful.
Everyone stared at him and he didn’t know what to say. His mouth had gone bone-dry and when he tried to speak, the kind of voice-cracking wheeze of a prepubescent teen squeaked out instead. He had to try again, his hands sweaty around his notebook.
“No.”
His word against Bryce’s. It already felt like he’d lost.
“Obviously, I don’t want to be a snitch,” Bryce said, voice earnest and warm. “But I’m kind of worried about Andy. He looks so unwell, and after everything that happened last year—”
“What, like you bullying me?” Andrew snapped, and then closed his mouth, surprised he’d even had the guts to say that. He felt too hot, his whole body starting to shake, and he wanted nothing more than for Thomas to explode through the door and take this battle for him.
Bryce faked the most convincing who, me? look ever to be seen outside of theatre.
“That is the second matter we need to discuss.” The principal sounded clipped, her gaze slicing the tense weight in the room.
“It has been brought to our attention that Bryce has made some concerning comments about Andrew, and this is something we need to address since, as you both know, we do not condone any sort of harassment at this school.”