Chapter Fifty-Six Farewell the tranquil mind
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Farewell the tranquil mind
THE MAIN BUILDING WAS EMPTY. Despite the screams raging outside, you could almost hear a pin drop in the halls.
Jojo and I were quick to arrive at the president’s office. The door was open when we entered, the entrance empty of the secretary who’d once been stationed there. I texted Angelica, updating her and Vivian on what had happened and where we were. Angelica’s response was instant.
Dozens of students and faculty poisoned. Medical center is overwhelmed. The fan boats can’t get medical attention or firefighters here fast enough. I’ve sent Vivian.
As I read the message, Jojo was at the door, picking the lock expertly. A remnant of his time away from his wealthy family.
Inside, books littered the president’s desk, as if a violent storm had struck only the inside of his office. The computer screen was smashed, and the floor was covered with torn pages. A bottle of gin was half empty, and a stack of student files lined the desk.
Behind us were footsteps.
“This way,” Jojo said, and he pulled me into a standing wardrobe in the back corner of the office where the president kept his coats, wrapping his arms around me and tucking my feet away just as the president returned.
His footsteps were loud, a distinct thump, thump, thump of a military march. He sighed when he entered the room, immediately reaching for a drink and settling in his seat. He was mere feet from where we watched him through the tiny crack between the wardrobe doors.
“Oh, there you go again. I’m sick of your complaining.” He slammed the desk, his voice booming.
“Please spare them. They’re innocents.”
“They are human waste. A blight on the earth. Look at how they tarnish the legacy of this school I rebuilt with their vile disregard for tradition.”
He was talking to himself. Arguing with someone who wasn’t there. My stomach dropped, all my fears and suspicions confirmed.
“Have mercy. I will not let the Westfield estate go to his lineage. One of them has already completed the ritual of disinheritance. The other will be dead soon. Why go to such extremes? Poisoning the students. The staff. Members of the board of trustees. How will we ever repair the name of Westfield if so much blood is tied to it?”
President Saint James screamed, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, the second voice, the one he’d been arguing with, speaking now.
“How dare you defy me? Never again tell me what I should do with my school, my land. My bounty.”
Silver oozed from the president’s mouth; bloodred veins bore into his skin and eyes. One of the rings on his finger gleamed gold. And then the oozing silver goo manifested into the form of General Winhall.