Chapter 13
By the time Kitty, Sophia, and I finish doing homework in the Elkfore commons on Thursday, it’s midnight.
They trot off to bed, bleary-eyed, with pen ink in the creases of their hands, but I stay put.
The communal room is empty—just me, the olive-colored sofa, a baby grand piano, and the crackling, dwindling fireplace.
Streaks of soft moonlight float through wide windows and paint the commons’ oxblood walls and overstuffed bookcases.
I’m so tired I could pass out right here on this oversized couch, but Peter told me a few days ago that the library is open until two in the morning, and this may be my best shot to look into my dad without running into any other students.
This first week has been better—more fun, if I’m honest—than I expected, but I came here with a single goal in mind, and it’s time I actually work toward it.
Thin leaves snap beneath my boots as I duck out of Elkfore and head toward Mortimer Tower.
The moon shines blue against my skin, and the night air’s got a bite to it.
I’m not sure if that’s due to the arrival of fall or the chill of Harker’s crumbling stone walls.
I haven’t seen this much of the campus after dark.
We’ve mostly kept to the dining hall, the commons, and the gym.
All the shutters and curtains are drawn in the windows across the many buildings except those of the library, which glow like kernels of gold.
In the pools of lantern light beneath the rotunda, a handful of second years, led by Professor Crowley, pass through the gateway. They whoop and holler, presumably returning from a raid. A successful kill beneath their belts. Envy stirs in me and I walk faster, less tired than I was before.
The silently flickering oil lamps and the stretching shadows of looming towers have me wrapping my long coat tighter across my body.
I’d kill for a scarf. Honestly, I’d kill just to kill.
It’s been almost a week since the subway demon.
I’m starving for more, and it’s only going to get harder to abide by Harker’s archaic rules.
Which is the exact reason I find myself in the Lymantrian Biology section—not Harker History. Bathed in light from a Tudor-style desk lamp, the cramped text I select offers me nothing on curbing hunter cravings. Probably because regular hunters don’t have these kinds of urges. Only aeons. Only me.
When I realize Hunters: Through the Ages isn’t going to deliver jack squat, I peruse two other books beneath an arched window, moonlight gilding their yellowed pages, and come up empty.
It’s like every book with information on aeons has been removed from the library.
Or moved to those archives Peter told me about, with the other classified texts.
Something low and broken begins to coil inside me.
Not because there’s no way to calm the bloodlust—but because none of these hunter books even take it into consideration.
Like no lymantrians have ever wished to change the darkness within themselves.
The loneliness of the thought isn’t new, but it is cutting.
You’re the only shitty hunter on earth, Viv.
You’re the only one who feels like you need to kill.
You hunt for the wrong reasons. You aren’t good.
I’m about to put this musty old book down and get back to my original plan when my eyes land on seven little words:
Some dark magic can remove hunter genetics.
My mouth goes dry. Dark magic is not something I want to get involved in.
For magic to be classified as dark, that means a sacrifice is required.
I don’t even want to crave the kill in the first place.
But still…I scan the page for more, only to find nearly all of it blacked out in giant inky strokes. The book’s been censored.
I slam the book closed, and the sound echoes through the vacant library, a cloud of dust coating my skin.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I came in here tonight to find more about my dad’s time here, not how to curb my aeon instincts.
I peruse the Harker History section for a yearbook from 1992, just like my locket says.
Sure enough, I find it, as faded and weighty as I expect.
I flip past pages of smiling students, lacrosse games, heartfelt tributes to alumni lost, until finally I reach the first years.
But there’s no photo of my dad under A for Abbot.
I look under D for David in case hunters do yearbooks differently, but no dice.
Unease pooling, I start back at the top and read through all the names.
There were only five hundred kids in his graduating class, and I’ve got nothing but time.
When I find the photo of my dad—my same dark hair and gray eyes but a warmer, better smile, which he got from his mom and I was not lucky enough to inherit—I think some hunter on the yearbook committee must have gotten themselves into serious hot water.
They’ve put him in the wrong section, under C.
Right there, beneath his photo, is his name. David. David Cadell.
Except that’s not his name.
I’ve never seen that last name before in my life. My father’s name was David Abbot. Cadell wasn’t even my mother’s maiden name. And I don’t know what my grandmother’s maiden name was…I read it again to be sure, but there it is, clear as the light pouring over the washed-out pages. Cadell.
Which means if this wasn’t an editorial error…my dad must have adopted a new name either when he came to Harker or…after he left.
“Those are Broods,” I say, voice shaking. “You told me to run when we see them.”
My father’s eyes crinkle with something I don’t recognize. “And you should. Always. But I can’t keep running forever, kitten.”
I shake the hazy memory from my mind. The sound of the roiling sea.
The salty tears on my lips. I always thought he meant he couldn’t run from the Brood because he was a hunter, and hunters don’t run from a fight.
But maybe he meant something else that night he died.
Maybe he was hiding from someone. On the run.
Enough to change his name sometime after graduation.
“You,” he says. “After all this time…At least tell me why.”
My head begins to pound. I came here—to Harker, to the library tonight—for answers. Not more questions.
But I’m not giving up. Maybe I can search those records in the archives.
The ones the Citadel uses to keep track of all the hunters out there.
I’ll look up David Cadell and see if that gets me anywhere.
Peter said a staff key card is required to access them.
I’ll just have to get my hands on one of those.
As I’m clicking off the desk lamp, a woman’s voice says, “Isn’t it a little late for studying, Miss Abbot?”
My eyes snap up to find Professor Lisette hovering over me, flashlight pointed in my face. I hadn’t even noticed all the lights had winked out hours ago. I bring my hands up to shield my eyes. “You’re going to fry my retinas. What is that thing, nine thousand watts?”
She lowers the beam of light but only enough to guide it over the stack of books I’ve got on the antique desk before me. Hunter genetics. This dated yearbook. “Now, what class could this be for?” Her eyes bore into me behind her glasses like she knows I’m up to no good.
This woman gives me the creeps. Being around her feels like déjà vu or someone saying something aloud you know you’ve dreamed before. I throw on my coat, shoving my phone and dorm key into my bag. “Just trying to stay on top of everything in my first week.”
I move to scoot past her, but Lisette steps directly into my path. She’s in silky pants and pointed shoes, which might be pajama bottoms and slippers or a very expensive ensemble for a quirky professor’s dinner party.
“I don’t recall you taking Yearbook or Biology this semester.”
“What is with everyone in this school shoving their nose into my business? Am I some kind of campus celebrity? Look, it’s the girl from Astera! She had no idea this school existed! She isn’t in Biology this semester!”
Professor Lisette doesn’t look remotely amused. “It would behoove you to keep out of trouble, Miss Abbot. Danger tends to find hunters wherever they are. Only a foolish one would go looking for it.”
Before I can wrap my head around her warning, Lisette clicks off her flashlight, drowning us both in pitch-darkness. When my eyes adjust to the faint moonlight, she’s long gone, and I’m left with nothing but the fading thud of my heartbeat.