Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Byron
“Leave me alone.”
The harshness of Elodie’s voice rings through my memory, setting off a renewed flare of shame.
I stare down at my lunch plate. I don’t remember picking up this ciabatta turkey sandwich and that side of truffle fries. I’ve arranged the fries into a uniform row without even noticing.
Every nerve in my body feels as if it’s crackling, on the verge of either catching fire or sizzling out.
I don’t know what got into me yesterday. I was so furious when I saw that she’d come back to the club—but she started talking about being threatened, and something in my chest broke open—and then her hand on my arm, her deep green eyes gazing into mine with what almost looked like devotion…
I lost my head. I thought we were going off the rails together, mad and desperate.
For what?
I couldn’t tell you. All I’m sure of is it felt so right, so perfectly aligned, the fracture of her breath and the surge of my own desire…
And then I was spilling myself in my pants like a fucking preteen having his first wet dream, and she was crying. Crying. Running off like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
No, I don’t have much experience with sexual encounters. Other than a couple of brief pawings in my early teens and my relationship with my own hand, I’ve been waiting as patiently as a twenty-year-old guy with a functioning dick can for the matching at the graduation ball.
It doesn’t matter if plenty of other Luminary students mess around on the side. The Worths have to honor every tradition to the fullest.
All the same, I’m pretty confident that bawling and fleeing after you’ve just gotten each other off is not a normal ending to a hook-up. At least not one both participants were equally enthusiastic about.
I break a fry in half and glance across the cafeteria toward Elodie. Her back is to me, the dark fall of her purple-streaked waves hiding her face from view. Through the drone of cafeteria chatter, I can’t make out a hint of what she and her friends are talking about.
Part of me feels like I haven’t done enough. I should march over there, drop to my knees, and plead for her forgiveness. I don’t know exactly how I fucked up or what I missed, but clearly there was something.
Even thinking about prostrating myself sets off the other part of me, the part that wants to give her the middle finger and then forget she exists.
She started everything, didn’t she? Showing up at the club. Telling me how amazing I am. Stroking her hand over my arm and into my hair.
So how have I ended up as the bad guy here?
It figures, doesn’t it? When has Elodie Devine ever taken responsibility for anyone she tramples on her way to getting whatever she wants?
The spurt of anger is comforting, but only a little. I don’t totally believe my own dismissiveness.
I glare at my ciabatta and snap another fry in half.
And Elodie whirls in her chair.
Her body buckles forward, her shoulders slumping and shaking. Is she… throwing up?
I find myself on my feet without deciding to stand. Her friends are clustering closer around her, Cadance Hathaway’s mouth curled with disgust, Mia Somerset’s eyes round with concern. A shocked silence ripples through the room, enough voices hushing that the awful retching sound reaches my ears.
Salvatore Cosgrave comes barging over like he’s going to fight the pool of vomit. What the hell does he think he’s doing?
Stella Kingsley waves him off in an anxious movement, her jaw tight. As she turns back toward Elodie, crouching next to the other girl, Elodie’s body goes completely slack.
Like a puppet cut from its strings, she tumbles off the chair. My heart skips a beat.
Mia gropes to cushion Elodie’s head, but the smack of her shoulder hitting the tiles carries through the cafeteria. More people hush, staring in her direction.
“Someone get a nurse!” Stella calls out, crouching next to Elodie.
I’ve taken a couple of steps toward her before I catch myself. What the hell do I think I’m going to do?
Elodie didn’t want my help. She wanted me to leave her alone.
But I can’t shake the memory of the other words she said to me, just yesterday.
“I think someone is looking for ways to hurt me.”
Is this proof that they succeeded? What have they done to her?
My gaze darts around the cafeteria as if I’ll spot someone with a neon sign beaming GUILTY over their head. All the faces in my view look confused or, at most, curious.
No triumph or satisfaction. No guilt.
Could she simply be sick? It’s odd timing but not impossible.
My sweep of the room stalls on the staff monitor posted just inside the door. The man in his official black suit is supposed to leap in to intervene if someone sets off a nasty bit of sabotage or anything else the administration wouldn’t turn a blind eye to.
He should be either running to Elodie’s side or dashing to the health center. Instead he’s just… standing there. Hands in his pockets, head turned toward the buffet table like he hasn’t even heard the commotion.
What the fuck?
Nausea wraps around my gut. I push myself forward, toward the monitor rather than Elodie.
He sees me coming. At my approach, he shifts his stance slightly so he’s facing me. His expression shows nothing but bland acknowledgment.
I jab my hand toward Elodie’s table. “Why aren’t you helping her?”
He blinks at me, not even following my gesture. “Helping who? Is something wrong, sir?”
Is he fucking kidding me?
A frigid current winds around my gut. How could he not have noticed already… unless someone cast a little magic around him to deflect his attention?
Which would suggest that whatever’s afflicted Elodie is definitely foul play—and her attacker wants to delay anyone from assisting her for as long as possible.
What’ll happen if she doesn’t get help soon?
Since pointing didn’t work, I grasp his arm and tug him around. Several more people have jumped up around Elodie. Salvatore is stalking between them, all flexing muscles and ominous scowl.
Stella’s voice breaks through the concerned murmurs. “She isn’t waking up! We need someone from the health center now.”
Whatever subtle spell Elodie’s assailant cast on the monitor, it isn’t strong enough to stick when he’s looking right at the problem.
The color drains from his acne-scarred cheeks.
He whips the walkie-talkie from his belt as he strides over.
“This is Souza in the cafeteria. There’s a student down in bad condition—we need an emergency intervention fast.”
A flicker of relief passes through me, but my body stays tensed. I remain where I am, watching from a short distance, as two nurses rush into the room. A siren wails beyond the academy’s walls.
The emergency responders carry Elodie out on a stretcher, her body sprawled limply across its surface. Her eyes are closed, her skin leached of its usual golden warmth, but I think I catch her chest rising with a halting breath.
She’s still alive. That’s what matters the most, right?
Only it looks an awful lot like someone was attempting to accomplish the opposite.
Who would want to kill Elodie Devine?
Enough onlookers drift after the emergency responders to the front doors that I can trail after them without drawing attention. As Elodie vanishes into the ambulance, I notice Salvatore pacing on one of the front steps, his hands opening and clenching at his sides.
Why is the heir to two lucent mafias so worked up? In all our time together at Luminary, I haven’t seen him do anything with Elodie other than occasionally harass her.
If someone was going to hire a criminal to reach her within the academy… wouldn’t he be the perfect choice? Maybe all his huffing and puffing is for show to throw off suspicion.
As I study him more closely, he spins around. His gaze collides with mine and narrows.
He barges up the steps so abruptly I stumble backward on instinct, yanking a shield of ephemera between us. It might have deflected a magical assault, but his gloved hand rams straight through it.
He snatches the lapel of my blazer to halt my retreat. “Why the fuck are you looking so interested? Did you have something to do with her getting sick?”
The question is so absurd a hoarse laugh sputters out of me. “No. Of course not. Did you?”
Probably unwise to add that last question, but Salvatore simply bares his teeth at me. “Just keep the fuck away from her where you belong.”
He shoves me toward the wall and stalks off.
I swipe my hand across my mouth and cast one last glance toward the now-empty spot where the ambulance parked.
“Keep the fuck away.”
Elodie was just telling me the same thing. It’s what my parents would say too, isn’t it?
Something like: Leave it alone, Byron. We didn’t spend three generations building our legacy in England and two more here just to throw it away for some spoiled rich girl. It’s nothing to do with you, and it’ll only be trouble.
All of that is true. But as I turn away from the last place I saw Elodie, I can feel down to my bones that I won’t be able to let this go.