Chapter 15
Sadie
Settling into my college routine includes trying to avoid Lucan, even as he guards my life.
Visiting his home was an error in judgment. I want to stay safely out of his immediate range, so he can’t taunt me or ask me questions about sex.
He’s always around though, keeping his promise to protect me, despite my discomfort.
I quickly learn that he chills out slightly if he knows I’m with people, like when I’m in class, the library with Zahra, my dorm room with Clara and Juliette, or during my shifts at Ink & Ivy Books.
But when I’m alone, Lucan shows up fast, circling me like a hawk. He’s memorized my work schedule, which I grudgingly gave him. Voluntarily handing my personal details to a known stalker felt so wrong.
He hates that I catch the bus after work in the evenings, but I flatly refused a car service from him. I know he confirms via campus cameras when I arrive back at Darkbloom.
His measures do seem to be working, because nobody’s attacked me since that night after leaving Altar.
The price I pay for safety is an intense billionaire watching my every move.
“Let’s discuss your character’s journey.” Professor Worthington stands behind his chair at the classroom table. “First, decide the driving factor behind their actions. The thing that motivates them. Any ideas?”
“Revenge,” says Zahra.
She flicks her pen back and forth between her fingers, sitting forward in her chair.
Marco pores over his usual stack of papers, ignoring the rest of us.
“Revenge is always a winner,” says the professor. “What else?”
“Desire,” I say, doodling in the margins of my latest short story for class.
Since my first class here at Darkbloom, I’ve been writing more than ever. It’s like a new vein has been tapped. Danger might lurk here, but attending college and meeting new people have been great for my creativity. I’ve even started roughly outlining an original novel outside of class.
“Ah, desire. No surer way to get your hero or heroine into a delightfully tricky situation. Yes, delicious.” Professor Worthington rotates his wedding band. “Come on, people. Character motivations. Give me more.”
“Money,” says another student.
“A classic,” says Professor Worthington. “And certainly realistic. Money makes the world go around, and so forth.”
“A better life,” I say.
“I think we can all relate to that motivation,” says the professor. “Though it means vastly different things to different people.”
“Power,” says Zahra. “My father says everything’s about power, in the end.”
A male student speaks. “My father says it’s all about sex.”
Marco pauses his pen over the yellowed piece of paper he’s reviewing.
I push aside my spiderweb doodle. “What about protecting somebody?”
“A fine motivation. And even more compelling when it goes terribly wrong. Good, Sadie.” Professor Worthington claps once. “That’s your assignment for this week. A short story exploring one of the motivations we mentioned. Five thousand words. Lesson over.”
My classmates stuff their books into bags and head for the door, but I take my time. Marco’s papers caught my eye and I want to ask him about them.
Professor Worthington speaks animatedly to Zahra about her most recent story. I use the opportunity to approach his teaching assistant.
“Marco?” I point to the papers in front of him. “May I ask what you’re working on?”
He blinks hard at me, like he’s surprised to find he’s visible to people. “I’m cataloguing research materials. The papers degrade and are lost to time otherwise.”
“Cool.” I nod. “That sounds interesting. Are the materials from the campus library?”
The police still don’t know who stole the archivist’s car. The vehicle hasn’t shown up anywhere and no witnesses have come forward.
But if Marco spends a lot of time in the Humanities archives, he could’ve easily swiped the car keys. Or seen who did.
His shoulders curve forward, like he wishes I’d go away.
I let the silence linger, waiting for an answer.
The TA shoos an invisible fly with his hand. “The papers are from storage off campus, not the library archives.”
The weight in my chest lightens. “Ah, I see.”
Poor Marco. He’s just trying to work and I’m treating him like a murder suspect.
A snatch of Zahra’s and Professor Worthington’s conversation reaches my ears, and I angle my head to listen.
“—not meant to have favorite students, but Hannah was exceptional. A tragedy, what happened to her. Simply a tragedy.”
“Hannah Hale?” I blurt out.
The professor looks around. “Correct.”
“She was a writer?” I ask.
“A fantastic one,” he says with a sad smile. “Wonderful student, with such great promise.”
And then someone broke her neck while she walked an icy path.
A tremor runs through me.
“Professor,” says Zahra to recapture his attention. “You were saying?”
With a nod at me, he returns to their discussion.
“Pretty,” murmurs Marco, his eyes on his pen and papers.
“What’s that?” I ask, lowering my voice.
He smiles faintly, as if remembering something.
“A pretty girl.” He shoos the invisible fly again. “Hannah was very pretty.”
Frowning, I wonder about the motivations of Hannah’s killer. I haven’t heard a single bad word about her. Why might somebody have wanted her dead?
Maybe Hannah simply existing was enough though. Pretty girls attract monsters like a flame attracts moths. The murderer might’ve imposed his deadly attention on her for that twisted reason alone.
Zahra finishes her talk with Professor Worthington and joins me.
“Come on, Sadie, let’s get coffee.” She links her arm through mine. “The café overlooking the quad makes the best pumpkin spice lattes in the county.”
Later that night, I lie awake in bed, dwelling on motivations.
What if a person has several?
Lucan wants to protect me, but I also believe he enjoys toying with me.
So is he good or bad? Who gets to decide?
When I was a child, notions of good and evil seemed so simple. There was right and there was wrong, and the difference was crystal clear.
Growing older complicated things. I saw dark and light within the same person—sometimes even within the same action.
Sometimes within myself.
And now I’m afraid that I can never have good things because of the worst thing I’ve done.
I wish someone could just tell me. Either what I did to Russell was somehow excusable, or it wasn’t.
But that would involve me talking to someone about what I did, which I obviously can’t. So I exist with the guilt and shame instead.
While thinking about what it does to a person’s soul to take a human life, I hear a soft knock on my door.
Clara’s voice floats through. “Will I set off a security alarm if I come in?”
“One second,” I say, kicking off my blankets. “Maybe, I’m not sure.”
Opening the door, I find Clara dressed in jeans and a sweater, while Juliette laces her sneakers in the living area. I’m wearing my pink wiener-dog pajamas.
“What’s going on?” I ask, raking my fingers through my tangled hair.
“We received a mysterious delivery just now,” says Clara.
My mind jumps to the last person who sent a mystery delivery to me. “From Lucan?”
“Nope.” She swings a red velvet pouch from her finger. “Hold out your hand.”
She tips three ornate bronze keys into my palm. Each one has a tag attached, bearing numbers and our names.
Clara grins. “We’ve been summoned to the Founder’s Table for a late-night feast.”
“Really?” My spirits lift at the idea. “But only freshmen who succeeded in the Founder’s Run are supposed to go.”
“Eh, technically.” She shrugs. “In reality, seniors invite whoever they want. So get dressed!”
Nerves filter through my excitement, making me feel wide awake. Since Lucan’s a senior, he might be at the feast.
I want to see him and yet I really don’t. It’s a confusing feeling.
“Hurry up,” calls Juliette from the living area. “I’m so hungry.”
Clara giggles. “You were just going to bed.”
“Exactly,” says Juliette with a dramatic sigh. “I was about to eat my night snacks.”
“I’ll be right out,” I say, closing my door to pull on a sweater and leggings.
After applying tinted lip balm and brushing my hair, I’m ready.
We set off through the deserted halls of Darkbloom in search of the Founder’s Table.
A small hand-drawn map was supplied with the keys. There was also a command to leave our phones in our dorms, which makes me smile. Lucan can’t track my movements for once. I’m with my friends, so I’ll be perfectly safe.
Juliette holds the map to the opalescent moonlight.
“The directions seem to lead to the Lost Library,” she says. “It’s been under renovation since forever.”
“Maybe the Founder’s Table is inside,” says Clara.
We climb through rickety scaffolding in a lonely part of the college.
Through the shadowy gloom, I make out the crumbling library entrance. A gaping crevice in the floorboards stops us from getting inside.
Wind whistles up through the chasm, which is deep and dark enough to appear bottomless. The walls around us creak and groan.
“I guess we jump over the gap,” says Juliette with a note of uncertainty. “There’s no other way in.”
“I’ll go first,” I say.
With a short run-up, I leap across the whistling void.
My sneakers land with a thud on the other side. The floorboards hold, and I notice they’re covered in fresh footprints. Other people have been here.
“This is the right place,” I say, beckoning. “Come on.”
Clara and Juliette sail over the gap in turn. Treading with care, we enter the library.
Musty books and tipped-over shelves cover every walkway, as if a furious giant tossed them. A charred smell drifts through the thick air. Some sections are blackened with soot.
“It’s said the head librarian lost her mind, back in the eighties,” whispers Clara. “She murdered two students, a colleague, and then set fire to herself.”
Juliette hisses. “It’s said because people keep saying it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” replies Clara.
I point to the map. “Looks like a suit of armor conceals the entrance to the feast.”
We pick our way through drifts of old books to a cramped room. In the corner, a dusty suit of armor stands guard, its helmet slouched forward.
“Is the entrance behind it?” asks Juliette.
Clara feels around in the dark. “Wish we had our phones for light.”
A distinct click comes from behind the armor.
“I undid a latch,” she says.
The door she released opens into a narrow, pitch-dark tunnel.
“Who’s going first this time?” asks Juliette. “I vote not me.”
“I’ll go,” says Clara, squeezing into the small doorway.
She slips out of sight.
“Clara?” I ask quietly after a few moments. “Are you okay?”
I hear her yelp and then a clunking sound.
“Clara!” calls Juliette. “Say something.”
“Can you hear us?” I ask.
Squinting into the tunnel, I realize there’s no floor.
Clara’s voice floats up from below. “I’m fine! It’s a short drop. Come on.”
I sit on the edge of the gap in the floor, then hold my breath and jump. My feet land on solid ground.
Clara waits in a brick tunnel lit by a single sputtering candle jammed into a crack in the wall.
“See?” She smiles. “Fine.”
Moving to Clara, I call up to Juliette. “Go ahead.”
Juliette lands lightly, straightening to inspect the tunnel. “Hey, can you guys see that?”
She points into the gloom.
“Oh, you’re right,” whispers Clara. “Someone’s there.”
A large figure stands sentinel in the gray light at the end of the tunnel. My nerves fizz through my veins.
“What if this is a trap?” asks Juliette. “Darkbloom has secret societies. Old, spooky ones. Maybe the late-night feast is a front for like, ritual sacrifice.”
“We probably should’ve thought of that before we delivered ourselves through a trapdoor,” I say quietly.
“The Founder’s Feast is a harmless tradition,” says Clara. “Nothing bad will happen.”
“The Founder’s Run was meant to be a harmless tradition,” says Juliette. “Someone was murdered.”
A shuffling sound comes from above, in the library.
Clara drags us further into the tunnel by our sleeves. “More people are coming. Let’s get out of the way.”
“They can’t kill all of us,” I say. “Right?”
Juliette shrugs. “Right. Probably not.”
The man at the end of the tunnel wears a black hooded cape that covers his face, and he blocks a medieval-looking stone archway.
The walls down here seem alive, like they hum with arcane energy.
“Good evening, Clara, Sadie, Juliette.” His voice is deep. “Welcome to the domain of the Founder’s Table. You are expected.”
This guy knows who I am?
It’s a strange sensation for me, to be part of something.
Strange and nice.
He steps aside, allowing us to enter.
“Whoa,” says Juliette. “This is cool.”
The stone ceiling is low, yet the room is vast. So vast I can’t see the edges.
Candles in brackets are the only illumination, and shadows fill most of the spaces. A dark-wood banquet table with identical place settings stretches before us.
Some people are already seated, while others congregate in groups. All wear animal masks of black, gold, and crimson. The Darkbloom colors.
“The boxes behind the chairs are numbered,” says Clara, holding up our pouch of keys. “I think that’s what these are for.”
I take a key from her and find the empty chair matching my number. Unlocking the small wooden box reveals an ornate mask. Tonight, I’m a deer.
Holding it over my eyes, I tie the ribbons behind my head. The mask covers only the top half of my face.
Taking my seat, I adjust to the freedom of near-anonymity. With my eyes obscured by shadows, I scan the other guests.
Am I recognizable like this? Would the killer know me?
Then my heart thumps like a drum, because I spot someone uncomfortably familiar.