Chapter 2
SUTTON
Moonlight filters through the skylight of a secluded stairwell in the Apollodorus, the second-largest library on Avernia College’s campus. Its basement is a spiraling labyrinth, used for storage and sealing off depravity from the general public.
The celestial glow is the only illumination afforded me as I knock on a door marked STAFF, though it’s technically mislabeled.
More than staff come through here. Just not everyone is welcome.
You need an invite. A stamp or brand.
And a mask.
I flash the gold-embossed invitation at the door, and a slot opens, snatching it from me. Within seconds, I’m welcomed into an expansive underground territory of antiquated luxury.
I’m still reeling a bit from the encounter at the Stop N Go earlier, my fingers tingling where they’d voluntarily touched another person, even if through the sleeve of their jacket.
But there’d been something about that woman that drew me in from the instant I saw her glaring at the gas station’s selection of condoms.
Normally, I resist such interactions, but her face had flushed a deep red, and I found myself unable to stay away. She’d smelled delightful too, like freshly ground vanilla beans and warm honey.
Which makes her bad news, but that’s all right. It was clear she was a tourist of some sort, so I have no expectation of seeing her again.
Dvorak’s Romance in F Minor caresses my ears as I step inside the underground ballroom, its elegance almost enough to obscure the reality that we’re tucked away where many have met their untimely demise over the centuries.
It’s one of the school’s better-kept secrets, but you can still feel it in the air. That volume of blood doesn’t leave the walls it’s shed upon, no matter how many coats of dark green paint or what polished hardwood floors you place over it.
Nearly every building on campus has a similar story though. Death is as much a part of the fabric of our university as the intricate network of references and stellar academics needed to apply.
An ache flares behind my temple, splitting my skull in half. I should’ve taken a pill to ward off the migraine before I came, but I suppose there’s no time now.
One doesn’t leave a Death’s Teeth function until they’ve fulfilled their duties.
Mors neminem manet.
Death waits for no man.
Two large black marble fireplaces flank the immediate area, their warmth seeping beneath the mask I’ve donned for the occasion.
Discomfort radiates over my skin as I’m guided into a tall ebony chair with red wine–colored cushions at the center of the room, then handed a short glass of amber liquid and instructed to relax.
A masked man and woman in velvet gold cloaks kneel at my feet as I spare a quick glance around the room; three halls are blocked off by similarly costumed guards, who remain expressionless even as the atmosphere ripples with lust.
The grand piano in the corner next to a harpist dilutes the sounds of moaning and slick flesh being manipulated, but I’m aware of the acts happening around me nonetheless.
Shiny gold candle sconces and floor candelabras light the room, shrouding my fellow patrons in flickering tenebrosity. Only their silhouettes are revealed as folks grind and writhe against one another, seeking pleasure down here like they somehow deserve it.
Debussy’s Estampes replaces the sonata from before, and for a moment, I’m not participating in this space at all. I’m eleven years old, watching my twin sister twirl around in a ballerina’s tutu while our mother enchants us with tunes from her favorite French composers.
It would be only a few short years before arthritis would rob her of the ability to play the piano at all.
The man at my feet slides his large, brown hand up my thigh, pinching the material of my slacks, and I’m pulled from my rumination. Suddenly, I’m back in the basement, where Avernia’s most depraved can exploit my weaknesses.
My body tenses up of its own accord. A conditioned response.
I ignore it. Or try to at least.
The woman beside him leans in as well, gliding her flushed-pink fingers along my forearm. Over the faint scarring on the back of my left hand.
I grit my teeth, reaching down to rub the mangled skin.
She perks up, the mask covering all but her mouth. It shifts slightly as she moves to take my thumb between her lips.
“Your hands are cold, Elder,” she coos. “Would you like our assistance in warming up?”
It’s not quite that simple, but I don’t feel like explaining Raynaud’s to strangers.
Next to her, the man slinks closer, grabbing hold of me. His mask stays perfectly in place, his short, curly hair askew from where the material’s a bit too large for his face.
He presses a kiss to my wrist, tangling his tongue with hers as she retreats from my thumb. Their saliva coats my skin as they kiss over me, around me, like I’m not a person and merely an object for their mutual sexual gratification.
An organization ruled by death only knows how to satisfy their carnality. They seek sin that gives purpose to their lives, making the cycle worthy of its inevitable end.
I never wanted to be a part of it, but once they decide they want you, there’s no way to decline.
You’re in it. Forever.
Til death do you part.
Anticipation or unease sluices through my veins. Without withdrawing from the woman, the masked man finds my lap. He presses, searching, and expertly frees the button and fly of my pants with just one hand.
I swallow when hers joins. They fish me out together, and my nostrils flare as I gaze around the room again. My bones itch to crawl out of my skin, but I force myself to stay put, looking for any signs of note.
A stolen glance that lingers far too long. The lopsided tugging of a mouth as its owner enjoys my misery. Something that hints they know I’m not fully invested.
This is part of the role. The main part. At least at these parties.
Things change outside the Apollodorus. Aboveground, within the wrought iron gates separating us from the Primordial Forest and Fury Hill beyond, expectations are different.
Destruction scrapes at the fringes of this university, so we feign ignorance. Bind ourselves to secrecy and anonymity. But the fabric is being torn, even as tradition aims to keep it whole.
And beyond the fence… That’s where deterioration awaits.
Death to those who refuse to fear it.
My sister paid that price, so the story goes.
Not that it matters. I remain out of obligation—and because no one’s ever left the organization and lived to tell about it.
One of the masked figures takes my cock in their mouth, but I don’t bother looking down to see who. It doesn’t make a difference—I stay soft. Flaccid. Underwhelmed by their attempts.
I close my eyes and let my hips rock forward a bit. My jaw clenches so tight that stars burst behind my eyelids.
Nausea spreads in me like a violent maelstrom, threatening everything in its path.
A flash of pain rips through my limbs.
My lungs expand as if they intend to explode.
A dream—no, a memory. The sensation of suspension—of being helpless—tears through me, shredding my insides on contact. Hands everywhere, all at once, despite pleas to cease.
My breathing hitches. Two tongues find my slit, lapping lazily.
I grip the arms of my chair until my fingers are numb.
Terror slides into my esophagus, blocking my airway.
“What’s the matter, Elder?” the woman rasps, rubbing her face against my leg. “You seem pent-up. We can fix that.”
“Yeah,” the man agrees, the word vibrating against me. A deep gagging noise drowns out the sound of the piano for a moment, and I realize it’s him sucking me down. “Relax and use us. We’re here to serve you, Elder Dupont.”
Part of me wants to note that those are opposing forces—I can hardly let loose and use them at the same time.
I will myself to unclench, but nothing happens. It never does.
The breath stalls in my chest. I count to ten and then twenty, waiting for my dick to cooperate, but all I can do is focus on my breathing. It comes in short, angry bursts, choked by my own fear.
A migraine pounds behind my eyes, fueling the nausea roiling around my gut.
I flinch when one of them—the woman, I see when I open my eyes—presses her lips to mine.
That’s it. The final straw.
Gasping silently, I tear myself from the chair, stumbling over the masked pair when I get to my feet. My fingers tremble as I refasten my pants and slide them casually into my pockets, clearing my throat.
Other partygoers look over, pausing mid-fuck to stare at the commotion.
A figure in a dark crimson cloak watches from the shadows.
Her mask—gold and oblong, with two snakes slithering up the sides like horns—hides her face, but her pale skin is exposed when she lifts a hand as if to stop the party altogether.
The Director. Mainly responsible for throwing these soirees—ornamental and not much else. She holds no real power over the Death’s Teeth organization, especially if I’m around, despite my objections to claiming responsibility.
Once you do that, the line between selling your soul and giving it away for free is erased. There’s no way to differentiate: You’re just as awful as the rest of them.
She looks at me for several beats, as does the rest of the party. After a moment, though, she flicks her wrist and turns away, sending a shiver down my spine.
The party resumes. Moans fill the air again, drowning me in their noise.
I should stay, if only to keep up appearances. The more I leave early, the more they pay attention to what I’m doing—or rather, not doing.
But I don’t want to focus on that at the moment, so I duck out instead.
Again.
The Director’s voice is a sensual caress as I pass by on my way to the exit. “There’s always next time, Professor.”
Yes, I think as I extract myself from the crowd, keeping my face down. That’s precisely the problem.
I make my way through Avernia’s overlapping quadrants, past the Lyceum—the main academic building, a large castle-like structure with its courtyard bordered by various sculptures—and toward the Elysian Dorms, a section of campus home to the four main student housing buildings.
A bright orange haze cuts against the starry night sky, filling me with the heavy dread that’s been a perpetual nuisance since an incident in the caves last semester ended with the deaths of several students.
Only a few made it out alive. My younger brother, Beckett, was one of them—though not a hero by any definition.
He was the match who incited the slaughter, and he nearly paid for it with his life.
I don’t want to imagine the catatonic state Mother would’ve been pushed into had she lost a second child. Bellamy’s death is still a sore subject eight years later.
For all of us.
The clock tower in front of the Obeliskos chimes midnight, and I cut to my left, heading for the light.
At the edge of campus property, where a wrought iron fence cuts off the Primordial Forest, a house is engulfed in angry flames.
It’s the dean’s. The double-paned windows on the second floor are lit up as a fire ravages the lower level, snaking through the wraparound porch to cut off access inside and out.
A shadow passes by an upstairs doorway, frantic. Searching, likely, for a way out.
Someone different might spring into action and assist him.
Not me though.
Dean Bauer’s a fraud, and given his affiliation with the Curators—the shady organization my brother was president of—I’m inclined to believe he had more to do with those students’ deaths than he lets on.
He probably has more to do with the unsavory things that happen at Avernia than he’ll ever admit.
Three figures walk in my direction, away from the scene as the fire rages on. Smoke fills the night air, casting a sickly buzz across the cobblestone pathways and surrounding buildings.
It’s clear they set the fire. Or at least one of them did. The Fury Hill Fire Department should be showing up soon and will have questions—even if they ultimately end up with little to report.
That’s how Avernia operates. Mystery and intrigue are the reason it remains open, and the board has first responders in its pocket.
My gut churns as the hooded group passes by, though I get a sudden whiff of something as they do—a sweet scent, just barely discernible in the night air.
Vanilla and honey.
I stumble to a stop. The shorter figure turns slightly, pausing as well, but it’s impossible to fully make out their identity because of the ski masks they have on.
There’s no way it’s her. The universe cannot be that cruel.
All I did was lend her a lighter. Surely the implications aren’t that far-reaching.
My mouth parts, but no words escape. I’m not sure what I’d say either way. I don’t exactly come off looking good here considering I wasn’t going to help the dean out.
Neither of us moves for the briefest moment, and then the figure carries on, scurrying away to catch up with the others. That vanilla and honey scent lingers, but the longer I stare at the space they were just occupying, the easier it becomes to convince myself that I’m imagining things.
I learned long ago not to believe in coincidence. If she were here for something as big as this, I’d know.
Right?
Instead of pursuing the thought further, I continue on to my apartment without a word.