Chapter 24
SUTTON
When I announce Othello as the spring play, most of the students don’t give a shit. Not that I was expecting them to, but the deafening silence that ensues after my big reveal is still staggering.
“What, no complaints? No comments or questions?” I hold out my arms, waiting. “This is your final, people. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
In the second row, Lexington shrugs. “Better than Hamlet.”
“Definitely not obscure enough,” Meg says. “Why not Love’s Labor’s Lost or Titus Andronicus?”
“No one wants to do Titus Andronicus, let’s be real here. Plus, the way our semester is structured, we need something we can run through in a few short weeks, and that one requires a certain level of depth that might be too advanced for this course.”
Soft laughter ripples through the seats.
“After everything that went down in the fall, wouldn’t a comedy be sort of refreshing for the community?” Sabrina questions.
I point at her, nodding. “Indeed. This is why you’re the Visio Aternae treasurer—I appreciate your commitment to thinking of others.”
She blushes, and someone mutters something incoherent under their breath.
“Does anyone want to hazard a guess as to why I didn’t choose a comedy?”
“Because misery loves company?” Meg suggests.
“No, Meg, that was not my reasoning. Love’s Labor’s Lost would’ve been fun but…
safe. Comedies are always safe—not easy and not even necessarily well-received at all times.
There’s a skill in translating words to actions that actually make people laugh.
But so long as you’re having a good time onstage, the odds of your audience enjoying the production are high. ”
“And tragedy is different?” Meg asks.
“By definition. We have to strike a balance—an understanding of your characters that reaches the audience beyond the surface. You want them sitting on the edge of their seat, wondering which heartstring you’re going to sever next, even if they’re intimately familiar with the source being pulled from.
We want tears, passion, and people clutching their guts, wondering why we put them through such hell. ”
The class falls silent, staring back at me.
Fair. I feel a bit out of sorts. Since the night Elle broke into my apartment and we were almost found out, I haven’t been myself. Beckett disappeared at that party for several hours and came back drunk after Elle left, bleeding from a scar he’d somehow torn open. He didn’t tell me what happened.
Jean-Louis called the morning after to check in, and I still have this sneaking suspicion that he encouraged my brother to attend, but I didn’t ask why.
No point when the fucker lies through his teeth 80 percent of the time.
“Ms. Anderson?” I quip after a moment, turning to where she sits next to Lexington, behind Meg and Percy. “You don’t normally let me get through an entire sentence without interruption, much less multiple paragraphs. You have nothing to add?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “You’re the professor. The students are supposed to trust your judgment, right?”
My pulse thumps heavily in my throat, and I hold her gaze even though I can tell she’s annoyed with me. “Glad we’ve finally come to that conclusion.”
Elle scoffs, leaning forward to whisper something in Percy’s ear.
I clear my throat, nostrils flaring as scalding hot pain lances my chest.
Sabrina raises her hand. “I’m curious—how many votes did Othello win by?”
“Enough.”
She narrows her eyes but doesn’t say anything more.
“All right, break into pairs. We’re doing repetition exercises so you all can stop overthinking my decisions.” A couple students glance at the front, but I actively avoid following their stares. “And remember—audaces fortuna juvat!”
They repeat the phrase, as has become custom anytime I introduce Latin to them at this point in the semester. I watch as they start grouping off, some hanging out in the aisle while others migrate toward the orchestra pit or take the stage behind me.
Elle grabs Lexington by the sleeve of his maroon knit swearer, dragging him toward the back, and the stabbing sensation from before reverberates in my chest.
Fuck me, she’s beautiful. Her dark brown hair is tied back today, giving me an unobstructed view of the slender curve of her cheeks and the plush heart shape of her lips as they curl for someone who isn’t me.
I’m not used to envy stirring in my gut.
I grew up with the ability to get whatever I wanted, though it was rare I sought much.
Doing so made my parents fight, as if my desires reminded them I existed, and I didn’t want to adversely affect my siblings.
Peace of mind was more important than doing what I wished, and after Bellamy’s death, it was tantamount to ensuring Beckett didn’t get roped into the dark underbelly of the Duponts’ legacy.
It happened anyway, despite my suffering. Now I’m not sure what the fucking point of denial is at all, especially with a woman who could be Aphrodite herself standing in the same room.
What I’ve told her is true—I don’t want to lose this job.
Sometimes, it’s the only connection I have left to my sister, and it wouldn’t get me out of the clutches of Death’s Teeth.
If anything, they’d take the sudden vacancy in my life as an invitation to force me into Incarnate’s role, and I don’t want that.
Elle’s face lights up as she and Lexington begin their exercise, and it strikes me somewhere deep in the core of my being how animated she becomes.
She’s always fairly free with her expressions, but something truly sparks when she’s acting, like she’s this fire consuming the role completely.
The mask of someone else slips into place effortlessly, making me wonder if we’re more alike than I realized.
It happens like the flip of a switch, and I’d find it unsettling if it wasn’t so goddamn hot.
I tear my gaze away, focusing on the other students.
But I feel Sabrina’s stare no matter who I look at, and I tell myself that’s how she’s always been, not that she’s actually suspicious. Even if I don’t fully believe it.
Beckett hangs his head as he sits on the stoop outside my apartment, his hoodie pulled up and cinched tight around his face. He doesn’t say anything as I approach, though I can smell the alcohol on his breath anyway.
I lean against the balcony railing and look out at the Elysian Dorms, wondering which one Elle’s in as if I haven’t memorized the exact floor and unit.
Not that I’m planning to do anything with that knowledge. It just happened to be in her file, which I’ve reviewed dozens of times since she showed up in my class the first day.
“You look like hell,” I tell Beckett.
“Feel like it.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be partying—”
“Did you know I got kicked out of my classes? I was only taking a couple this semester anyway, but the professors in my advanced history and drama courses dropped me within the first week.”
Is that why he hasn’t been leaving the apartment? “Were you absent at all?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I guess they just didn’t want this particular Dupont stain on their rosters.”
“Well, we knew getting the rest of campus on board with your redemption was a long shot,” I tell him, lifting a shoulder. “You did have a direct hand in several murders.”
Exhaling, he kicks his foot, jamming his heel against the rail. “I didn’t actually kill anyone though. I even saved one of the captives.”
“You were the reason she was in the caves in the first place.”
“Which no one ever lets me forget,” he huffs. “Jesus. Haven’t you ever done something stupid that you regret, Sutty? I know you’re the golden child in the family, but I have to believe you’ve made mistakes at some point. Father even says so.”
My jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t be speaking to him at all, Beckett. The things he says…”
“Can we talk about my school situation?” he cuts in. “I’m having a crisis here.”
“Have you thought about applying anywhere else? Mother and Father would—”
“Avernia credits are nontransferable, remember?” He flexes his hands, curling his fingers against his jeans. “What would the fucking point be?”
“Starting over might not be so bad.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Getting out of Fury Hill could be good for you.”
“It wouldn’t matter, you know. The ghosts here… They haunt the people too. They go where we go.”
Walking over, I take a seat next to him. Storm clouds are rolling in, casting a thicker gloom around campus than usual, filling the air with a film of anguish and resentment. The sky grows darker the longer we sit as nighttime settles in.
If I feel this shitty from the simple act of denying myself what I want most, I can’t begin to imagine what’s going on in Beckett’s head.
Maybe I shouldn’t have supported his return in the first place.
But a part of me had hoped it would do him some good, not make things worse. That being around his peers might make him feel normal again. Get Jean-Louis out of his head.
Clearly, I’ve not been paying enough attention, too occupied by a certain brunette to realize just how deeply brainwashed my brother is.
“The stuff that Father made you do…” I start, leaning my forearms on my knees. “That keep you up at night?”
He sends me a sideways glance. “I’m not actually a homicidal sociopath, so…”
“Why’d you do it?”
For several moments, he remains silent. Crickets sing their nightly tune, the sound carrying across the cobblestone and catching on the woods behind the apartment complex.
“I don’t know,” he admits finally. “Father made the Andersons sound so dangerous to Fury Hill as a whole and cited that stupid fucking curse over and over. Said it was my duty to the family to eradicate them. I guess I didn’t ask enough questions. I just wanted what he said to be true.”
A kid who trusts his father implicitly wouldn’t ask any questions, and I’m certain that’s what Jean-Louis was banking on when he roped Beckett in.
If you only see the world through one lens growing up, you might not know there are other ways to view it.
All the founding families raise their new generations to fear three things: outsiders, the Anderson bloodline, and change.
They push the importance and superiority of Fury Hill lineage in order to keep people in line—an agenda supported and enforced by Death’s Teeth in the background through whatever means necessary.
Without those power dynamics, the founding families would cease to matter. Avernia would be just like every other prestigious school in the country, and maybe fewer students would wind up dead each semester.
Maybe my sister would be alive.
“None of it means anything now anyway,” he continues. “Mother thinks I should be institutionalized, you’re livid with me, and Father is moving forward with things as if I did nothing last semester at all.”
“I’m not livid with you,” I say softly, though the last part of his confession sends an uncomfortable chill through me. “But what do you mean Father’s going forward with things?”
“Didn’t he come see you when he was on campus?”
“He didn’t mention anything about plans.” I release a long breath. “What was he doing here when you saw him?”
“Fuck if I know. He didn’t tell me anything either, just made me help him walk around because he can barely do it himself. Dean Bauer was foaming at the mouth, though, so I’m sure that’s not a good sign.”
My stomach churns, nausea erupting in the cavity.
“He knows there are three Andersons here,” he says, glancing at me. “We ran into that girl—the student, whatever her name is?”
“You had a thing for her brother but don’t know her name?”
“I thought Asher was hot and wanted to fuck him. I didn’t feel the need to learn his entire family history.
The dean introduced her to Father, so I’m sure he’s in deep shit for allowing them to enroll.
Makes me wonder what the plan is.” Sighing, he leans back.
“Imagine how much simpler things would’ve been last semester if Asher and his girlfriend had just accepted my offer for a threesome. ”
“Christ.” I shoot him a look, scrubbing a cold hand over my face. “I don’t get you.”
“Not sure you’d want to.”
Agony pierces my chest. “Want me to talk to your professors? Get you reenrolled in classes?”
“Nah. You’re right. I could use a break. Figure out what I want now that the stuff I thought I was planning for is basically unattainable.”
“Opportunities do exist outside the Curators, you know. Outside Avernia and Fury Hill, even.”
“For you, maybe. You’ve got acting and directing experience, philanthropic endeavors, and our name under your belt. If I’m excommunicated from the family line, where does that leave me? I can’t network with my peers or otherwise, and my friends are…”
Dead.
He doesn’t say it, but it’s true. Of the three people who died in the caves last semester, two were his Curator underlings—one a Blackwater whom he’d known since they were born.
Founding family kids don’t generally make many friends outside the inner circle. Bellamy was an exception—she collected friends like trading cards, soaking up attention and warmth wherever she went.
Like Beckett, I was mostly isolated, aside from Zachary Westwood and my twin. When the latter died, the former moved out west, and it was as if my world had crumbled too.
Here I thought getting involved with the underbelly of founder shit would be enough to protect my brother from a similar fate, but it’s clear now that I’ve been neglecting him in the process.
No wonder Jean-Louis reached him so easily.
It’s my fault. Again.
“Anyway. It’s not a big deal,” Beckett tells me. “I’ve got a couple of online classes that shifted because there weren’t enough students enrolled, so I’ll just focus on finishing the program so I can get my degree at the end of the year. Don’t worry about me, Sutty. I’ll be just fine.”
“I have to worry,” I reply, flicking the back of his head. “You’re kind of a fucking mess.”
He smirks, almost looking like the old Beckett for a split second. “Oh, you should be worried…just not about me.”