Chapter 16
Sadie
Lucan Hale is impossible to miss, even though he wears a mask.
I feel his gaze on my skin like a brand. His cold blue eyes observe me from where he sits further down the table. His mask is the face of a black stag.
The eager freshman next to him tries to engage him in conversation, but he ignores her. Without breaking his glare from me, he drinks red wine from a crystal goblet. His nostrils twitch like he’s irritated with me.
Is he angry that I accepted a mystery invitation in the middle of the night? Does he think I’ve put myself in danger?
If so, he can go to hell.
I want to have a life, because I existed for so long without one. What harm can come to me down here, surrounded by friends and classmates?
Another caped man wearing a boar’s mask presides over the gathering. “Welcome to the Founder’s Table. To break bread together honors our forebears, and to drink wine strengthens bond and blood. Now we shall begin the Founder’s Feast.”
Lucan finally looks away from me. I’m still hyperaware of his presence though, as if he’s thinking about me and I can feel it on an energetic level.
After gulping the smoky, spicy wine, I join in the feasting.
The food is rich and old-world. Roasted meats, slabs of butter, plump figs, and crusty bread. As I’m swallowing a mouthful, the student to my left scribbles on a piece of paper. Then he folds the paper and pushes it through a slot in a wooden box on the table.
Noticing me, he pats the box and explains. “Confessional. Each guest at the table must make a confession. Once everyone’s had a turn, we pass the box around and randomly select one to read.”
“Out loud?” I ask, cringing at the thought.
“Not usually.” He passes the box to me. “Most people keep it to themselves.”
I take the pen and little stack of paper, chewing a fig while I think.
What can I write that I don’t mind people at this table knowing?
As long as I keep my confession vague, no one will trace it back to me.
Past the flickering candles on the table, the severe angles of Lucan’s lower face come into focus. His tongue runs along his bottom lip to catch a drop of dark wine. He eats like a wolf, all roaming eyes and sharp canine teeth.
My stomach aches in a way that has nothing to do with food, and suddenly I know what to write as my confessional.
It’s the worst idea in the world, but sometimes, just maybe, I want him.
Out of an abundance of caution, I use plain lettering. Lucan, the weirdo that he is, probably knows my handwriting. He seems to know nearly everything else.
Folding the paper with a thrill of foreboding, I stuff it into the box and pass it along.
I scan the table again and count forty-two people. There’s a minuscule chance he’ll select mine. Even if he does, anyone could’ve written about wanting some guy they shouldn’t.
Yet I still fidget from nerves as the box finishes its journey around the table.
Lucan is one of the last. He writes his confession with zero hesitation before adding it to the box.
By the time the meal finishes, my face is flushed from wine and anticipation.
“And now,” calls the boar-masked man, “we partake in the sweetest dessert. Secrets!”
He unlocks the box.
With a devilish smile, he retrieves a single folded piece of paper to keep for himself. Then the wooden box makes a second round of the table.
Watching its progress keenly, I notice guests discuss the confessions they selected with their neighbors.
Determinedly avoiding Lucan’s stare, I reach into the box for a secret.
Maybe I’ll pick my own. No harm, no foul.
But why would fate be so kind?
Passing the box to the next student, I unfold the paper I chose.
I see my future in her eyes.
The girl on my right glances over and reads the confession aloud, at a volume the whole table can hear.
“That’s sweet,” she adds, just to me.
“Yeah, it is.” My eyes whip around the guests. “I wonder who wrote it.”
Lucan’s busy removing his mask. It’s a wonder he wore one at all when his face is more menacing than anything he could put over it.
The girl grimaces at hers, reading out loud. “I can’t stop jerking it to feet pics.”
I giggle. “I guess we all have our vices.”
With the food finished, the feast turns into a party. Most people take off their masks, including me. Guests spread through the underground room and music thuds from a speaker.
I’m talking to Clara and Juliette when I notice Lucan’s still at the table. Sitting alone, he glares at the piece of paper in his hand.
The room suddenly feels like it’s closing in on me.
He got my confession. Of course he did.
Weaving through the crowd, I make my way to him.
I’ll deny it. I’ll say the girl next to me wrote it. Surely she won’t mind if I throw her under the bus for such a good cause.
“What is it?” I ask when I reach Lucan, trying to keep my voice light.
Wordlessly, he gives me the paper.
Reading it, I swear under my breath.
Death comes in threes. First Hannah, then Parker. I bet the cute scholarship girl is next.
My back tingles like sharp fingernails are dragging over my skin.
“Who wrote this?” I ask.
Lucan stands, his eyes roving over the attendees. “I don’t know. But I’ll fucking kill all of them before anyone hurts you.”
“It’s probably just some asshole making a bad joke.”
But his stare is a thousand miles away, like he’s already decided it’s his job to fix the situation and there’s nothing I can say to stop him.
He clamps his hand around my wrist. “Come with me, Sadie.”
“What?” I try to tug myself free. “Where?”
His hold on me tightens.
While I hit him and hiss, Lucan leads me to a stone platform under an archway in the middle of the room.
An altar.
We draw the attention of every guest, conversations petering out. The bass through the speaker continues thudding like a frantic heartbeat, matching mine.
Lucan produces a switchblade knife from inside his jacket, like the one he anonymously sent me.
Dread fills my chest like floodwater.
Oh god, what is he doing?
I pull harder to get away, but he holds me easily.
The crowd falls completely silent and becomes deathly still. From up here on the altar, the guests resemble eerie stone statues.
My eyes search out Clara and Juliette in the dark sea of faces. Juliette tries to dash to me, but Clara grabs her and pulls her back, muttering urgently in her ear. Within moments, Juliette stops trying to get to me, standing to watch like everyone else.
Clara gives me an encouraging nod, which bewilders me further. What could possibly be okay about Lucan hauling me onto a literal altar and producing a knife? Is this another “harmless” Darkbloom tradition? Because I’m beginning to think those don’t exist and the people here are nuts.
Before I can bite Lucan’s hand as a last resort, he brings the switchblade down swiftly.
Gritting my teeth, I wait for a sting.
No pain comes though.
As he releases me, he slices his palm with the blade. Blood flicks to the stone beneath our feet like syrupy wine.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, staring at him in horror.
Has he lost his mind?
Was he ever in possession of it?
He presses his bloodied thumb to my forehead, marking me.
“There.” His voice is low and taut. “It’s done. Now everyone knows.”
“Knows what?” I ask.
I raise my hand to wipe off the blood, but Lucan stops me.
“Not yet,” he says.
The urge to clean the blood is almost overwhelming, but I’m afraid he’ll just put more on me, so I stop trying.
“What was that?” I ask in a harsh whisper. “What did you do?”
He closes the knife, returning it to his jacket. “Marked you.”
“Yeah, no shit! Why?”
“Ask your friends. They seem to know.”
He goes to the table and wraps a napkin around his bleeding hand.
With his departure from the altar, the other guests talk among themselves, their eyes darting between Lucan and me. Stepping down from the platform, I make a beeline for Juliette and Clara.
“Are you okay?” asks Juliette. “I didn’t know what he was doing at first.”
“I still don’t,” I say, looking to Clara. “What gives?”
Clara’s eyes drift to my forehead. “Darkbloom seniors can choose another student to mark as theirs.”
“Theirs?”
“Under their protection, by punishment of violence. Reeve told me about it.” Clara snickers. “My brother’s never marked anyone, because that would involve caring about somebody other than himself. Not many seniors do it, because once they claim someone, they’re bound to that person forever.”
My shoulders stiffen. “Bound? Forever?”
“Our lives continue beyond college, you know? Darkbloom students stick together after we graduate. That’s even more true of seniors who claim someone.” Clara sips her wine. “Lucan publicly chose you. Now everybody will know that if they mess with you, they answer to him.”
“And no one wants to answer to Lucan Hale,” says Juliette with a shudder.
“It’s another layer of protection for you,” says Clara.
Protection or suffocation?
I sigh. “He could’ve asked me first.”
Lucan comes over to us, looming in the darkness like a handsome nightmare.
Clara raises her eyebrows at me, checking whether I want to be left alone with him.
I give a subtle nod.
She puts her arm through Juliette’s and they melt into the party.
God, how can I speak to him normally now, knowing he just staked his claim over me for all to see?
“You’re an asshole for that,” I say.
“Right, I know,” he drawls. “I’m the worst. Come to the roof.”
“Why? Want to put more bodily fluids on me?”
The apple of his throat bobs. “Something like that.”
Dammit, now he thinks I was flirting with him.
I definitely wasn’t.
Before I can call him an asshole again, Lucan turns and walks away, carving a path through the room.
Out of curiosity more than anything, I follow.
How can he reach the roof? The building is all turrets and towers.
Through a rickety side door, we climb steps I never knew existed. The staircase spirals up and up, a strong wind moaning through gaps in the mortar like spirits.
At several landings, I peek through the doors into the main building. I even recognize a few landmarks like paintings and statues, which makes me proud. Darkbloom is starting to feel like home, lunatic traditions notwithstanding.
The staircase narrows as we near the top.
“Is this where you bring girls?” I ask Lucan’s back.
“Only the ones who royally piss me off,” he says.
I screw up my face. “What did I do to piss you off?”
“You left your phone in your dorm room. Did you even bring the stun gun?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“What do you mean, of course not? The killer might be down there, Sadie, waiting to grab you in the dark and snap your neck. You seem determined to put yourself in danger.”
“The rules said no phones though.”
“Rules don’t apply to you,” he says.
I scoff. “Except the ones you set?”
“Apologies for trying to keep you alive.”
“Apologies for trying to enjoy being alive,” I say.
“Enjoy yourself with safeguards in place, for the sake of my blood pressure.” Lucan stops at a heavy iron-strapped door at the top of the stairs. “At Altar, you ran off and nearly got yourself kidnapped. At least stay armed at all times.”
“Gee, I wonder why I ran. Maybe because you wanted to watch me sit on a glass surface.”
“Fair point,” he says. “I’ll make sure I hold onto you next time. When I won’t let you go, remember it’s for your own good.”
My pulse flutters with anxiety and something deeper. He might not be joking.
Do I really want to be up here with him?
“I didn’t know I’d be invited to the feast,” I say. “None of us did.”
“You’re gorgeous,” he says. “Of course some sleazy shithead wanted to invite you.”
“And what? You’re the only sleazy shithead allowed to look at me?”
“Yes.”
He opens the door, cold night air hitting my face.
Despite my misgivings about Lucan, the promise of a sprawling view draws me onto the roof. I’ve always loved being up high, because it feels almost like flying.
Stone bricks litter the platform, like leftovers from construction that nobody ever got around to moving. Past a single spindly balcony, the shingled roof falls away steeply.
Far below, Benedict Darkbloom’s statue guards the front of the college.
“Wow,” I say under my breath, moving to the balcony railing.
The inky-blue grounds are broken up by the lake. The silent black water reflects the stars and a smiling crescent moon.
Lucan joins me at the railing, his arm brushing mine.
Moving away to break contact, I lift my hand to wipe his blood from my forehead.
“Here,” he says, licking his finger as if to turn a book page.
Before I can duck clear of him, he holds the back of my neck and cleans off the blood while I grimace.
“You’re being dramatic,” he says when he’s finished. “It was a dab of blood.”
I lean back. “You say that like it’s normal to mark a woman on an altar.”
“Fuck normal. It’s overrated.” He rakes his gaze swiftly over the landscape, like he’s too annoyed to properly take in the majestic view. “Why do you keep acting like—”
“What?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Like you’re scared of me.”
I pause. “Because I’m scared of you.”
“Why though? What are you so afraid of?”