Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
HANNAH
First Day of Hell
This is the last place a girl like me ends up.
Sanctum of Light Academy.
SOL
I’m exactly that. Shit out of luck.
My father was adamant about kicking me out, and it didn’t take much to convince my mother.
My cards and assets remain frozen, so this was their next step.
It’s better than taking a year off and delaying my academic plans.
At least this way, I still get credits. I still get an education most would kill for. I still have a future.
I just have to survive my present.
I know how to work a new school, but this place is different.
Saint Bons comes with rules, a certain haughty energy running through it.
Lavish parties, sinful soirees and decadent galas.
Here, the energy is cold. Ominous. Empty.
Like we’re waiting for a storm that never comes.
The student body is quiet, and when we’re not in these stuffy robes, we’re in white polos and pleated skirts.
I thought I left uniforms behind in high school.
“Purity.” The man in the middle of the room speaks with confidence. I don’t know if this is a lecture or a sermon, but with the way he takes the stage, it might as well be a stadium show. “It is everything we cherish.”
Instead of my curated designer outfits, I’m forced to wear a burgundy cloak, a large hood over my head.
It’s horrendous, the heavy fabric musty and over-worn.
It smells like a thrift shop, years of history weighing down my frame.
We’re positioned on our knees, the wood floor pressing into my skin.
We’re all in one large circle around him, like we’re praying to a deity.
New student orientation isn’t until tomorrow, and if it’s anything like this, I’m dreading it.
My eyes scan the other side of the room, each person with their head down or their eyes on the man in the middle. There’s hierarchy here. There always is. But something tells me I can’t climb this ladder.
The man in the middle goes on about how important it is to be pure.
To be loyal. He’s like a rockstar the way he commands attention, and he looks like it, too.
While we’re all in medieval-style garb, he’s in a fitted black shirt, unbuttoned to the top of his chest. They match his pants and his shiny black loafers.
He’s as sharp as the edges of the gold triangle hanging off his neck.
It sits right on his collarbone, the light streaming on it from one low-lit bulb hanging above him like a halo.
His words sound like a catchy ballad where you can’t stop listening even if you hate it. Glancing around the room, they all look at him with stars in their eyes. Far from how Rye looked at me when I saw him last.
My stomach flips, my hands clenching by my side.
The last semester swirls through my head, all the ways I've tried clawing myself out of the hole he put me in.
A chant echoes around the room, snapping me out of my thoughts, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s like I’m in church, or some sort of—
“Don’t let this break you.” A girl’s voice comes from my side.
She’s a lot closer than she was before. Everyone else hangs their heads while I turn my gaze to her.
She has her hood pulled back a bit, pink strands sticking out like bits of cotton candy.
My eyes land on the bruise on her lip. “They will if you let them.”
“Petals number twelve and forty-six.” Looking ahead, Rockstar’s eyes land right into mine, a sharpness hitting my chest.
Petals? Is that us?
They gave me a number when I arrived. A tiny gold bracelet with a small golden plate. A number stamped into it. Looking down at mine, I—shit. I'm forty-six.
“You’ve fallen,” he says, his eyes moving to the girl next to me. They intensify, like he’s lasering right through her skull. Then he nods.
Glancing at Pink Hair, her eyes widen before a black bag falls over her head. She’s lifted off the ground by a man in all white.
Before I can ask what the hell is happening, a black bag goes over my head, too, the world disappearing around me. “Hey!”
What the fuck?
I’m lifted off the ground by a strong force. I wiggle, I squirm, but nothing stops it. “Let me go!”
“At Sanctum of Light,” the Rockstar's voice booms around the room, drowning out my cries. “If you cannot hear, you will feel.”
“Number forty-six.” A smooth man’s voice comes from in front of me, my heart still pounding underneath my cloak. It’s not as stern as Rockstar’s, but his words are as clear. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
Darkness disappears, the bag coming off my head as the world comes back to me in one quick whoosh.
Blinking, I look around. I’m standing in what looks like a chapel, my gaze bouncing between vaulted ceilings and stained glass. The smell of candle wax blends with old wood, the air chilly and drafty.
“You need to answer me,” he says, bringing my attention back to the tall man in front of me.
Blood rushes to my face when his green eyes stare into mine.
They’re bright, like an escape in the darkness.
Like Rockstar, he's in all black save for a white tie loosened around his neck.
His sleeves rolled up reveal his muscled forearms, a bleeding heart tattoo on his left.
It makes him appear much less intimidating than his colleague back there, but he still looks like a chiselled statue.
“I’m waiting,” he says.
I nod. “Am I in trouble?”
His eyes wander around my face before they fall to the bracelet on my wrist. “Have you had orientation?”
“No.”
“No, Sir,” he corrects.
“Uh, n-no, sir.” I hate the way I stammer, but this place is something I’ve never experienced before.
The room quiets, and I hope he can’t hear me gulp down a glob of spit, my throat drier than this room.
Crossing his arms, he looks me over again.
It’s a look I haven’t felt in months, like I’m not the problem.
“Go to your room,” he sighs, glancing at the door behind him. “You don’t want to be here when he comes back.”
My brows knit as I whisper, “The Rockstar?”
His forehead creases, a look of confusion washing over him. I can’t tell how old he is. He could be my mother’s age, but he could also be fresh out of college. He glances at the door behind him again.
"Go to your room and write a reflection," he says. "Something about obedience.” He juts his chin towards the back of the room. Looking over my shoulder, a long red carpet leads to two large wooden double doors. “Go.” There’s an urgency in his calmness that I don’t miss. So I take my cue and head to the door.
I can't make sense of this place, and I'm not sure I want to.
A long hallway greets me when I’m through the chapel doors, beige stone and wood colliding.
This place is older than Saint Bons. Definitely older than The Hill.
A skylight brightens my path as I rush down the hall, this place feeling more like a monastery than a school.
Stone archways. Large gothic windows. If I’m being honest, I don’t even want to go back to my room.
It’s so Jail Cell Couture. Basic. But at least I’ll be alone again.
Moving by a large bookcase with leather-bound titles, I do a double-take when I pass someone who looks familiar.
My feet slow as I come next to a bench, my head turning to my potential hallucination. “Krystal?”
She looks up from where she sits, a rosary in her hand. Her face twists as she looks around, then back at me. The dark circles under her eyes remind me of mine, and her skin looks paler than ever. But I can see it turning red by the second.
She blinks, as if she's asking herself the same question. Is she really here?
Then, after a beat, she charges at me.
I hold my ground as my hands turn to fists.
A blaze burns through me I’ve never felt before, the events from the last weeks flicking through my head.
Krystal with my friends. Krystal on the podium.
Krystal covered in blood. This rage usually causes me to go into master-planning mode, devising a way to get the upper hand.
This time I just want someone to have it. And that someone is her.
Her rosary drops to the ground. My body stiffens.
The last thing I hear is a loud screech from deep within me before our bodies collide.
My fists fly, so do my legs. A pain comes to my arm and my torso, but I keep swinging. It’s not long before we’re on the floor, my body slamming into the hard stone. The pain burns through me as I swing again. She’s quick, getting on top of me before she lands a slap to my face.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” she yells.
With my hands on her face, I get on top of her, proud that I managed to flip her around. “Like you killed your father?” I bring my hands to her throat and squeeze.
“Agh!” She claws at my face. I slam her head back, her brother in my head when I do. “This is all your fault!” she screams, trying to flip me over. “You’re the reason I’m here!”
“Ditto!” She gets on top of me, but I manage to kick her off before she pins me. My body aches when I push to my feet. That's when I hear whispers.
The blood drains from my face when I look around. I’ve drawn a crowd again.
That includes the Rockstar from the circle.
The crowd's whispers quiet as Rockstar takes a step forward, students parting for him. “Fighting on Academy property, are we?"
“You don’t want to be here when he comes back.”
Krystal scrambles to her feet. Rockstar stands between us, gazing at Krystal, then at me. My robe is open, revealing my white tank top and shorts. The buttons on Krystal's polo lay on the floor, a rip in her collar.
His eyes linger on Krystal’s blouse. “This is unacceptable.”
“Father,” Krystal starts. Father? “I’m only defending myself from her.”
My jaw almost falls off my face. “That is a lie! She attacked me while I was on my way to my room!”
“Number forty-six?” he asks, but I’m afraid to answer. When I don’t, he arches his brow in a way that’s kind of sexy. Then his face hardens. “Both of you pack your things.”
My heart pulses against my insides.
If I get kicked out of here, I’m not sure what my father will do next. I’m not sure where I’ll end up.
“You’re going to the isolation bunker,” he says. “Together. That will teach both of you the meaning of loyalty and discipline.”
“Wait, for how long?” I ask. I don’t want to be anywhere near her, much less in isolation together. “And will we be sharing the same room? I can’t be—”
“Quiet!” Father yells, his voice ripping through my chest as his eyes narrow on mine. “You speak again, and you will face expulsion. You have ten minutes before you're escorted.” He looks between us again. “Time has started.”