Chapter 11
Taking action is all well and good, if you know what to do next.
I do not.
Carter left almost an hour ago, handing me a pile of Beecher sweats, in purple and white, with the tags still on—not a surprise, I cannot see him wearing anything with a comfy waistband—in exchange for his phone. In the time since, pacing his small apartment, I’ve made zero progress.
Fuck. I drop onto Carter’s oversized blue sofa and flop onto my back. This sofa really is ridiculous. Overstuffed and huge, large enough probably for Carter to stretch out on, which I suppose is the point.
All right. So, think.
I don’t know where Devon is or how to find him. My mother gave me information but nothing directly actionable. And my father is apparently unreachable. Which means I’m back to where I was.
Waiting for whoever it is to come after me again. By killing someone else, or giving police the “evidence” they need, or directly attacking me.
From above me, loud thumping footsteps, followed by a crash and raucous male laughter, echo throughout the apartment. Muffled but not nearly enough. Upstairs neighbors must be home. And playing one-on-one, from the sound of it.
I glare up at the ceiling. That is the only problem with River Crossing—aside from attending parties where you might confuse your future TA for a regular undergrad—that the walls are thin.
The walls at Branwick are solid. Nothing leaks through those.
Not that I’m probably going to be back there any time soon, with—
I go still. The faint electric sensation of an idea—two previously unrelated thoughts smashing together—lights up the back of my mind, sending goosebumps down my arms.
Leaking. Echoes. Magic.
I sit up. When Carter drove us by Branwick on the way to the Foreign Language House, I felt the lingering effects of magic. From whoever killed Lennie.
But it didn’t stop there. I felt it all the way down into Old Campus and by Greek Row. Stronger, even, than it was by where Lennie died.
I’d assumed it was an echo, a reverberation of sorts from the magic used to kill Lennie. Because I’d never felt anything like that on campus before.
My mother loves that old chestnut, “When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.” Assumptions represent poor scholarship, in her mind, leading students down a dangerous, unpublishable path.
In this case, though, she’s right.
I scramble off the sofa. I’m a fucking idiot.
Theta Iota house is a monstrosity. Most of the fraternity and sorority houses on Beecher’s Greek Row are modest bungalows, originally private homes that the university bought or otherwise acquired in the past forty years or so.
Only about eight members can live there at a time, so most of the houses are too small for the ragers that one might expect.
Greek life here is relatively muted in its current incarnation, mostly an excuse to wear matching clothing and ride a float in the homecoming parade.
But Theta Iota is an exception, a sprawling two-story building in red brick with enormous white columns and multiple dangling light fixtures—porch chandeliers?—out front. It looks more like a mansion than Branwick does, and Branwick actually was one.
The house is a relic from an earlier time.
Apparently, a very generous Beecher alum donated a serious amount of cash for a new Theta Iota house in the early 2000s, and the brothers ended up with a nostalgic design that looks like a set for an old movie.
One featuring popped collars, puka shell necklaces, and guys named Chad and Brad.
Thankfully, the old cemetery across the street, with its oversized mausoleum, worn-thin headstones, and blank-faced angels tipped at odd angles into the sunken ground, does kill that vibe a little, making it more “Camp Crystal Lake Goes to College.” Which is not particularly reassuring at the moment, frankly.
On the sidewalk out front of Theta Iota, I stop and turn in a slow circle, trying to pin down what I’m sensing.
I’ve walked all of Greek Row, and the twang of magic, the uncomfortable reverberation I felt earlier on my drive with Carter through campus, feels stronger over here. That can’t be just an echo or ripple effect from what happened to Lennie.
No. If anything, it’s like a combination of that and … whatever Devon is doing inside to the fraternity brothers.
I grimace. I’ll be the first to admit that frat houses are frequently hotbeds of questionable shit, but consent is consent. And Devon doesn’t have it.
Also, the Oats, as the Theta Iotas are known on campus, aren’t the stereotypical frat guys their house might lead one to expect.
Most of Beecher’s extremely competitive esports team are Oats.
And the president, Aadesh, and I are friends, having survived an excruciatingly dull poli-sci class together freshman year.
I pull Carter’s thick navy peacoat tighter around me—it smells of him—and step up the brick walkway to the double doors, ice crunching under my shoes.
When I press the doorbell, it echoes inside the house. I tense up, waiting, anticipating the thump of oversized feet.
But there’s only silence, the wind whistling sharply past my ears.
Strange.
I push the doorbell again, but with the same result.
The lack of response only draws my attention to how quiet it is in general outside. Even in this weather, there should be people scuffling their way to the union for food, cars going too fast for conditions, some obsessed music major hauling an instrument to a practice room. Something.
Granted, most everyone is probably holed up waiting for the all-clear from the admin; we grew up with active shooter drills since kindergarten, we don’t take this shit lightly.
Still … it’s an eerie feeling. A quick glance around shows that I’m literally the only person in sight.
I frown. Except for a couple across the street.
He might be a student, dressed in a gray hoodie with the hood up, baggy jeans with damp patches around the ankles, and black and white checkered Vans.
But the woman is in a dark blue raincoat, the expensive trench coat kind, not the kindergarten rain slicker variety.
She looks … is that the same woman who was looking for her car at the police station earlier today?
The two of them seem to be arguing about something; he’s making big dramatic gestures toward the street and she’s shaking her head.
But as soon as the woman clocks me watching them, she immediately pulls her phone from her pocket, seemingly consulting the screen.
The guy glances over at me, then back to the woman, still gesturing.
Okay, so maybe a parent, fighting with her kid about coming home.
The uneasy feeling in my stomach doesn’t let up, though.
I reach out and try the knob of the right-side door. It turns easily in my grasp and the door opens into the dim interior.
“Hello?” I call into the entryway. All the lights are off down here. But I was here enough times for study group freshman year that I know the layout roughly.
To my left is the chapter room, kind of an oversized living room, where there’s usually a couple of brothers hanging out.
It is dark and empty today, the blinds pulled tight.
Straight ahead is a huge stairway, double-wide steps that split to the right and left at the second level.
To the right is a hallway that leads to a kitchen and dining room. No signs of life back there either.
I don’t like this.
The wind whips in, scattering sleet and snowflakes on the polished hardwood floor.
I step in and close the door behind me, fumbling for and flicking on a light switch. I expect someone to come investigate, but nope.
Pizza boxes are stacked tidily in the recycle bin near the front door, along with beer bottles lined up with such precision that it looks like rulers might have been involved. Seriously, what is going on here?
The Oats, they’re good guys and they’re not complete slobs, but this is—
From upstairs, a low moan drifts toward me.
Well, that’s one way to know I’m in the right place, I guess.
I cross the entryway and start up the stairs. Magic prickles across my skin, raising goosebumps and making my skin ripple with it.
I steel myself for confrontation and a lot of nakedness. Like, I’m fine with it, when I’m part of it and everyone knows the deal, but walking in on someone else’s sexy time when they don’t have the ability to stop or even feel discomfort in the moment … it’s just wrong. And icky.
“No!” someone shouts from upstairs.
I freeze, halfway up. That’s Aadesh, I think. He sounds upset.
My pulse ratchets up, and I can taste the sourness of adrenaline bursting on my tongue.
Do I have this wrong? Is this not Devon? Fuck, what if this is the War spawn I’ve been looking for instead?
I close my eyes involuntarily, an image immediately springing to vivid life behind my lids. Blood everywhere, intestines strung out like forgotten party streamers. Like this morning with Lennie, but worse because there would be more.
Shit.
Would War spawn magic feel different enough at this distance for me to tell? If the brothers were already dead … maybe. As always, I don’t fucking know for sure how it all works. I didn’t want to be part of this world, so once again, I’m paying the price for my ignorance.
“No, no, no!” Aadesh shouts.
I bolt up the remaining steps and cut hard to the right, ignoring the closed doors where the moaning is coming from, to head for the room at the end of the hall. Light pours out into the dark hallway in a bright slash, and from inside, a sudden outcry of voices.
I burst into the room, anticipating another scene of brutal slaughter.
Instead, I find Aadesh standing in front of a gigantic television, headset on, controller in a slack hand at his side. A half dozen of the other brothers—Logan, Cameron, Braden are the only ones I know—are scattered around the room, on the floor and on the worn leather couch, similarly attired.