21
The lights of our high school cafeteria blind in fluorescent yellows and greens, the squeal of plastic chairs scraping along the tan linoleum floor far louder than any table of students could ever hope to be.
Celeste sits beside me, twirling a lock of midnight blue around her finger contemplatively.
She gnaws on her lip as she studies the line of boys that weaves out from one of two windows of food options—pizza or nuggets.
Of course, the boys always choose pizza.
“What about Tanner?” she says, picking at her nuggets. “Or Tristan? Or Troy?”
I laugh. “You can’t just list every guy with a T name as an option for my prom date.”
“Why not?”
“Because prom dates are supposed to ask us .” I toss a French fry between her wide eyes. “I’ve never spoken to Tristan or Troy, and the last time I talked to Tanner was in the nurse’s office when I bled through my pants. He thought I’d sat on a razor blade.”
“What I’m hearing is that he’s caring,” she says.
“He’s an idiot.”
“He’s hot.” She whips around in her seat, her hair lashing me in the face. With a shove of her tray into the empty seat across from us, she lowers her voice and says, “You can’t be picky forever. Surely there is someone here who has caught your attention.”
I sigh and lean back in my chair. Tug at the purple curls hiding between my brown ones. “Why does it matter?”
“Because…” Celeste closes her eyes as though this admission costs her something. Which is strange—I furrow my brows—she’s never cared about sharing anything deep or real with me before. She usually relishes it. “Because I don’t want to go to prom alone. That’s too much pressure.”
I glance up at the ceiling. Green lights.
Green. No. That’s not right. Our high school lighting was never anything but dreadfully milky.
So cool toned and bright that it felt like the reflection of the sun on the white-tipped crest of a wave.
Something is wrong here, but I’m… I’m not sure what that is.
Celeste tugs on my lavender sleeve. “Vanessa, come on. Look around. Pick someone.”
I’m still staring at the lights, however. At the red and silver paint on the walls that should be blue and white. Everything is just slightly wrong. I tear my gaze away—back toward the crowd of people. I don’t recognize a single one. Blurred faces that hold no meaning or memories.
And then there’s him.
My heart stops. My breath sputters from my lips.
Sinclair Severi. Standing in my high school. Beautiful and lethal as ever. He leans against the wall, thrusting a hand through his lush blond hair. We lock eyes across the room, and my cheeks flush. I almost taste him. Salty, sweet. Lingering droplets of rain and sweat. Oh god. Why is he here? How?
It doesn’t make sense. Sin was never at my school. I only met him when…
When…
“Him?” Celeste asks. “Please tell me it’s him. He’s so mega-hot.”
The bile in my stomach curdles. “Celeste, no.” I reach out and grab her hand, but it’s cold to the touch. Icy. And the table before us—it vanishes into thin air. Celeste doesn’t notice, though. She cackles at my trembling limbs, at my startled expression.
“Will you relax? If you like him and he likes you, go get your man. Who am I to stop you from true love ?” She wags her eyebrows, but when I don’t respond—when I don’t smile—she scoffs. “You can’t be miserable forever, Vanessa. At some point, you’ll need to choose happiness.”
I can’t breathe. My lungs ache. A sob lodges into my throat.
“You’ll need to move on,” Celeste says.
I shut my eyes, however, because this isn’t real. It’s not real. It’s another dream. Another nightmare. And I should’ve known. When I dream, Celeste isn’t dead, and I am not a monster.
Wake up wake up wake—
I bolt upright. Out of sleep and back into my room at the castle. My television plays its usual soundtrack of soft white noise, illuminating the cozy blankets piled on the floor around my feet.
Rolling onto my side, I dry heave. It felt so real. Sitting there at school and talking to Celeste. Tears burn my eyes. But it wasn’t real. She’s gone. And I—I remain.
I ball my hands into fists, clenching my eyes shut tight and trapping the tears until they dry. If I owe Celeste anything, it’s this. I will not cry. Not anymore. Not until I’ve done something to earn them.
It’s been weeks now. Weeks of waking up, shuffling to class after class, getting my ass handed to me by any number of werewolf bastards, and then hiding in my room after dark.
Afraid to sleep. Afraid to dream. I’m sick of it.
Nausea roils. Bile stings my tongue and lips. I swallow it with a hard gulp.
The moment Sin and I shared—it was foolish.
Butterfly inducing, heart-stopping, and stupid.
And seeing him there, in some strange, wrong version of my old school with Celeste drooling at his innate beauty and shoving me toward him, only serves to remind me how awful I’ve been.
Maybe later, I can worry about boys. About Sin and whatever kind of future we could possibly share when he’s meant to propose to the girl who hates me most in this world and I’ve sworn to kill a member of his future pack.
Yes , I think, I’ll move on when I’ve unburied the loss of my friend .
When I’ve dug Celeste from that fake grave they shoved her in and righted her memory.
She did not die in some car accident near the beach.
She died between the jaws of a monster. No one will stop me from proving it and avenging her death. No one.
I swallow. My breaths shudder out from my lips, heavy and heated. But at least I can breathe again. Two claws rip from my fingers, followed quickly by a third, but the pain only anchors me, reminding me why I’m here.
I don’t deserve to be happy when I couldn’t save my best friend. I don’t deserve anything but nightmares and darkness and death.
Nearby, something cracks. It sounds like lightning striking a transformer.
I glance up. In the corner of my room, the black mirror on my wall shakes.
Rattles. And shatters. Glass explodes outward, slicing my face and hands before I can protect myself.
I stifle a scream, lurching to the far side of the room, scrambling on the pile of blankets and tripping over my limbs. Tripping over broken glass.
Pain splits my skin in a dozen places, and blood oozes. I struggle to breathe.
What… how… why…
I glance back, my hands raised, shaking, and impaled. Behind the mirror, written in scarlet, are five jagged letters.
LEAVE
But by the time I pull out the glass embedded in my flesh, by the time my skin heals and the pain vanishes, the message has disappeared. And the mirror—it fixes itself. As if it’d never broken at all. I look up and it shimmers, as perfect and reflective as always.
There is no erasing the scent of my blood, however, or the faint echo of screams that trails into my room from somewhere below.
It pierces my ears like a countdown. My days here are numbered if I can’t figure out who did this to Celeste—if I can’t figure out who might do the same to me.
Wiping my newly restored hands on my clothes, I stumble to my feet and cross the room.
As far from that mirror as I can possibly get.
My investigation continues now.