6. Midnight
Midnight
L ucy vanishes through the gates which creak as they swing shut. My lips still tingle from her touch. What is it about the way a woman kisses you? It’s heady, intoxicating, moreish.
I could have spent all night drinking her in, caressing her flesh, inhaling the scent of her.
She kissed me like this night had been everything… and nothing. My fingers drift to my lips, tracing the spectre of her goodbye.
I lean against the thick, leering iron railings. I wish I could get in for her… and if I’m honest, for me, too.
I reel back and punch the gate with nine years of frustration coiled in my fist.
It hurts, obviously. I’m made of bone and blood, and it is made of iron.
The gates are imposing in the same way the sandstone walls of the campus are. Towering threats that glare down at the mere mortals who deem themselves worthy enough to look upon the campus. The goyle watches me with narrowed eyes and a hint of a curl on its lips. But it doesn’t talk to me.
I stare through the night at Lucy’s receding form, mist curling around her body like the choking hold of ageing ivy.
I slide to my knees, leaning my forehead against the gate, and grip hold of the iron, pleading silently.
Please let me in. Give me one more chance. Let me attempt the Severance Rite and earn my way in.
When nothing happens, my stomach fizzes with a cocktail of emotions.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” I snarl. Like the gate is going to respond.
But just like the last nine years, my prayers go unanswered. A chill ruffles the trees, the crack and rustle of ancient oaks stretching and yawning in the night. A prickle skitters over my arms and down my neck.
I shiver.
This place is haunted, so the rumours go. No idea whether it’s true. Only students, professors, or those with invitations can enter. Probably why the mist shrouds the campus—nothing in, nothing out, not even the faintest glimpse.
Not even the ghosts leave.
I pull my scythe out and rest it against the gates, wondering if it’s strong enough to cut my way in.
The goyle now glares down at me, squinting, ogling but never speaking.
The gates hum beneath my fingers, the cool wrought iron heating under the press of my flesh to the metal.
I pull my hand away. But it’s stuck.
“Oww, fuck,” I hiss. The metal bites into my palm. “The actual fuck?” I kick the gate, my stomach clenching as I struggle to yank my hand off the iron bars.
Something sharp spears my palm, warm liquid puddles in the crook of my hand and then I’m released.
I stumble back, cradling my injury. In the centre of my palm are two circular wounds and on the wrought bar is a thin river of my blood.
“It bit me?” I glare at the goyle. “Did you bite me?”
He doesn’t respond.
My blood dribbles down the iron rail. I’m not an idiot; I take heed of the warning and edge away. Maybe I don’t want to attend Finis after all.
This place is cooked.
The world tilts.
My head swims. I stumble towards the bike. There’s a flash of white fur. I swear I saw that white cat earlier. Am I hallucinating? Was my drink spiked at the rave?
Grey smatters my vision. Bile climbs up my throat.
I gag.
Wretch.
Fall to my knees and spew up the contents of my stomach. I crawl to my bike, my fingers outstretched.
Then there’s nothing.
* * *
I come round on my bike with the streets of Ora City speeding past.
“What the fuck?”
I’m so startled I swerve, nearly knocking over a couple about to cross the road. I grip the handlebars, tension coursing through my body. My heart hammering against my ribs. I have no fucking clue how I got here.
Houses race past—neat, orderly rows of bricks. Mansions dotted between. The further I get into the city, the denser the housing and the sparser the greenery.
I pull into my street, park the bike on the drive and scramble off, staring at it like an alien.
I don’t even remember getting back on it, let alone how I started it and made it halfway across the city practically unconscious. My skin is feverish with the need to wash the evening off.
Key.
Door.
Quick glance over my shoulder.
Inside.
I enter the kitchen and sling my helmet on the counter. The evening’s events gnaw at my insides, a malignant tumour that bloats with every step I take.
If I thought I was freaked out before, it’s nothing compared to the way my veins turn to ice as I approach the kitchen table.
A Finis Academy envelope rests on the wood. But I threw my rejection letter in the bin. Didn’t I?
Didn’t I?
I swear I did.
No. I did. I’m certain I threw it in the bin.
My fingers inch towards the lid and lift it, convinced I’ll see the crumpled parchment. There’s nothing but food and wrappers. That tumour swollen with unease in my belly bulges. Am I losing it? My throat is thick and my skin aches where goosebumps rise.
I reach the table, my fingers tremble as I lift the envelope. It’s sealed with the Finis Academy’s logo stamped in red wax.
I can scarcely bring myself to crack it. Déjà vu is messing with my head. I thought I’d opened this letter already.
The wax snaps, an awful sound that cuts through my teeth. I flinch as a tree branch clips the window. I need to get a grip.
The black card peels open. Wait, wasn’t my rejection letter white? The dark colour almost shines; it reminds me of the imposing iron gates.
My eyes flit to the bin again but the original letter doesn’t appear. I flip open the card, and my mouth falls open.
It’s at times like this that I question every rational thought that has passed through my mind.
I should see the fact that the words are scrawled in a red ink the same colour as my blood as a warning.
I should also consider the fact some deep part of my mind is certain I was rejected, and this can’t be happening, thus it’s a warning sign.
And above all, I should heed the warning bells screaming in my mind: I lost an entire chunk of the evening. Something is very wrong tonight.
But I don’t do any of that.
I don’t care how I got the letter. Nor why.
I don’t care that my gut is screaming. Nor that I feel like I’m losing my sanity.
I ignore the crawling sensation slithering through my veins, settling in my throat and curling around my lungs.
None of that matters.
Because what lays before me, is the glimmering promise of a future.
And that is worth everything.