Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
I glance over my shoulder with nearly every step. I freeze at every foreign crunch of leaves. I search the dark for ghosts and ghouls, pernicious beasts with fanged teeth and forked tails.
I know I didn’t drink that much, but the second I cross out of the deep, dark wood, I almost collapse. It hits me all at once. The exhaustion, the guilt, the despair, the grief, the pain of knowing that I keep fucking everything up.
What is wrong with me? Why would I bring Malachi up at a time like that? Why can’t I get him out of my head? He’s just a stupid boy.
And Lucas—he’s better. He’s kind. He wants me here. He’s good for me. To me.
I consider turning left past the quad. Sneaking into the chapel and down the hall.
I’m tempted to follow this despair all the way to the bottom of that depthless spiral of stairs.
Maybe they’ll swallow me up. Maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this anymore.
But it’s late, and I kind of feel like crying.
I touch my swollen lips, my chest squeezing.
The only thing that can fix this is the tub of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked I have shoved in the back of my mini fridge’s freezer.
The streetlamps begin to flicker above me, and I slow.
One by one, they peter out. The hair on the back of my neck rises, my heart stuttering in my chest. I glance around, but there’s nothing to see.
The trees feel like they’re turning toward me. Watching. Mocking. I can sense a shift in the way the breeze creeps through the branches before coming to a full stop. In the way the forest stills.
It knows something I don’t.
I quicken my pace, the whispers in my head roaring.
RUNRUNRUNRUNRUN.
And I am by the time I’m turning, head on a swivel in search of anyone who might be able to help me. But it’s late enough that I should be the only one left wandering around campus.
Instead, I’m almost past Biltmore when I see something human-shaped looming in red at the foot of the dorm steps.
Oh, hell no.
I skid to a halt and pivot, legs pumping me in the opposite direction, memories of the dream chasing me.
Men in maroon hoods and crosses with daggered edges.
A scream lodges itself in the base of my throat when I see another cloaked figure ahead of me.
Or is it the same one? I have no idea because I’m already twisting, turning ninety degrees, away from Biltmore and forced into the mouth of the hedge maze.
My footsteps slap against the packed-dirt pathway, my mind flooding with the intoxication of danger, the buzz from the alcohol long gone. I run and run, and behind me, they’re still there, matching me step for step.
“What the fuck?!” I yell. At them or myself or the universe. At the ridiculousness of my life in general.
I make a wrong turn and narrowly avoid crashing into the thorn-studded wall of dying greenery, panic unspooling in my chest. My hair is rising from my head, the static cresting over me like a filmy coating. But something is off. The power sputters like it’s just as tired as I am.
When I turn, there is only one hood, their face completely obscured by shadow and obsidian feathers that gleam in the barely-there moonlight.
“What do you want from me?” I shout, but it comes out hoarse and begging, and I want to bite off my own tongue.
The figure doesn’t speak. Instead they stalk toward me. Slowly. They angle their head incrementally, though I still can’t see their face.
“Get the hell away from me!” I try again, but it still comes out low and scratchy and shaking.
They’re large, taller than me by at least a head, and the closer they get, the more imposing their figure. “Why so scared, little witch?” they finally say, curiosity leaking through the distorted tones, neither feminine nor masculine, and grainy like they’re talking through a voice modulator.
Little witch?
My mouth is dry, my tongue glued to the roof.
I urge myself to do anything, but all I can think about is the glow of the knife’s-edge moon dangling above us, washing the world in cool tones.
If I were to sketch this scene, I would contrast the blue with a poppy-red robe, and I would tinge the leaves of the maze bushes a deep burgundy, like blood-filled veins snaking through the stems.
Without warning, the figure advances faster, and my back crashes against the thorny bush wall, my breath leaving in a serrated, pleading rush. I can feel it in my bones. If I don’t find the strength to fight, I’m dead.
Is this what happened to Fiona?
The red cloak is my whole world, filling my vision as their gloved hands grasp at my arms.
“Don’t touch me!” I yelp, sinking into a crouch and narrowly sliding past them.
They growl as I scramble away, their disembodied voice barely audible over the rasp of my struggling breaths. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Hands wrap around my ankle and yank, twisting until I’m flat on my back.
They stand over me, cloak whipping in the now-gusting wind, and I crawl backward, my eyes never leaving them.
Fog begins to gather around us.
“What did you do with Fiona?” I spit, a gasping, feral instability flooding my chest. At first the feeling is too intense to identify, but then it tinges my tongue with copper.
Rage. Pure, unadulterated fury.