Chapter 4
Apathy is Genetic
ELLIOT
Fuck me.
This is a terrible idea.
No, not just a terrible idea. It’s probably the worst idea I’ve ever had.
Worse than that time Dame and I swapped bodies for a week when we were nine, and definitely worse than the day I convinced Vanessa to challenge Kitty.
But knowing that doesn’t stop me from waiting by the door until I can no longer hear her footsteps. And it certainly didn’t stop me from scraping her scent clean from the grove tonight.
Masking it was no easy task.
Her fragrance is unique, a heady blend of cherries, smoke, and honeysuckle, like spiced sugar over an open flame. It makes her easy to find, and, as Dred so kindly pointed out, very hard to forget. But one of the few perks of being a Cross is that you learn quickly how to keep a secret.
Some mint and a bit of unicorn horn, and not even a hellhound will be able to sniff her out. But the Inquisition will sure as hell try. They take their role very seriously, despite their shitty track record.
People disappear at Highcrest all the time—girls, guys, students, professors—never to be heard from again. But very rarely do we see a murder, which means the Inquisition will feel the need to devote its full force to finding the culprit. Or should I say, finding Iris.
Honestly, we’re just lucky St. Grey wasn’t high-born. Then we’d have to deal with the magistrate, and they’re not as easy to outmaneuver.
The pack house is quiet when I get back.
Practically spotless save for the scent of sweat, sex, and brew lingering in the air.
No doubt Dame had everyone clear out as soon as the body was found.
It’s standard protocol for Fright Night.
We can have the house swept and cleared in about eight minutes flat.
It’s always confusing your first time, but most people get the hang of it by second year. And no one’s dumb enough to resist Dame’s command, so I’m not surprised to find everything is in order.
I take a deep breath as I enter the foyer, sorting through the scent threads and plucking Iris out from the cloud.
Her trail begins by the door, then veers off toward the kitchen and down into the den.
From there, it should lead out onto the back porch, then deep into the forest where they encounter St. Grey’s sweaty desperation and bloody end.
But it doesn’t, not anymore, because the scent lines have been rewritten.
Beyond the den, our paths are tied together. Two clear lines drifting around the house as one.
I made sure to eliminate any trail leading outside, changing the path to go up the stairs, through the residence hall, and terminate in my bed. I even left the door cracked for the nosey inquisitors.
Usually, I don’t like people sniffing around my things, but there was no room for error this time. So I left it open, just a hair.
Not enough to raise concern, but enough for our tangled threads to seep out into the hallway.
I laugh a little as I stand there inhaling the odd concoction.
Together, our fragrance is spicy and potent, almost cloying.
She’d hate it. Probably complain that it gives her a headache.
Which would at least make us even.
I press my thumb into my eye socket as I roll my shoulders.
My head feels like it’s going to explode, and the dampener around my neck has been seconds away from strangling me all night. I pry at it as I wander into the kitchen for a glass of water.
I know it won’t do anything to calm the rage in my chest, but it’s better than standing around letting the events of this evening replay on an endless loop.
I can still hear her quiet sobs. See her tear-stained cheeks and the hollow look in her eyes as she told me what he’d done.
The sound of my name passing through her lips echoes in my mind like a bell that can’t be unrung. It makes my heartbeat pound in my ears, and I wince as it grows deafening.
A love potion.
A fucking love potion.
And I didn’t smell a thing.
I choke down two more glasses of water and force myself to think of anything else before I make myself sick. But the only thing that comes to mind is her love-drunk babbling.
It seems so obvious now. She was so eager, I should have realized something was wrong.
Iris never feeds in public. And all that touching…
My wolf rises as I remember her fingers dragging across my chest.
Gods, it was so obvious.
I walk the lower levels again, just to be certain there are no remnants of the truth, and head upstairs. But I don’t make it very far before fate decides to test my patience one more time tonight.
“Ah, there he is.”
A voice calls as I pass by the upper den, and my feet drag to a halt.
It’s Deacon.
He’s lounging in one of the big, leather armchairs with a few other wolves idling around him. Two second-years I know by name, one I don’t, and a pretty, blonde first-year girl who has no business sitting propped in his lap like a doll.
My better judgment tells me I should keep walking.
But I haven’t listened to my better judgment all night. No sense in starting now.
“What’s this?” I ask. “Some shitty little after party?”
Deacon does his best to hide the twinge in his jaw, but it’s a losing battle when you’re so easily goaded.
“Some of us weren’t ready to turn in after the Inquisition cut things short,” he says. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that since you weren’t here.”
I make a dramatic frowny face.
“Aw, did I miss all the fun?”
Covington, the white-furred second-year, butts in.
“Yeah, you’re lucky. I wouldn’t call it fun.”
“That ain’t luck,” Deacon corrects. “He slipped out and left us high and dry. But who’s surprised? A Cross knows no loyalty but their own.”
A smile spreads on my face as I realize we’re doing things the hard way tonight.
Deacon, like many young wolves who pass through this house, has delusions of grandeur, and he’s been pushing back since first term, which isn’t unusual for first-years.
There are always a few who like to test their limits.
We typically work it out of them by the second term.
But he’s still clinging to his hopes of something greater.
Unfortunately for him, I can tell just from how he’s sitting that he’ll never be anything more than a pack mutt.
His short legs are spread wide open, and his arms are splayed out on the armrests as if he’s trying to cover every inch of them.
Too much of his attention is going toward making himself look big, and not enough toward the people around him.
He’s too busy posturing to realize the girl in his lap is uncomfortable, and his “friends” are bored with his voice.
The entire image smacks of a child playing in their father’s chair, and I start to laugh. But he’s too stupid to realize it’s him I’m laughing at, so he laughs too.
That is, until I cross the room and my hand wraps around his throat. Then, the sound stops, replaced by a choking noise as I lift him from the chair.
“You’re not very bright, are you, Deacon?”
His fingers claw at me as he looks around for someone to help him.
The girl has enough sense to make herself scarce, but otherwise, nobody moves.
“Do you know what those words mean?” I ask, unable to stop myself from grinning as I watch his veins start to swell.
He doesn’t answer my question.
I expect it has something to do with the fact that I’m now crushing his windpipe. The best he can do is shake his head while his lips turn a strange shade of blue.
“It means that while the rest of these idiots only think about ripping your throat out every time you speak, I actually will.” I squeeze a little tighter, and he kicks his feet through the air. “I could snap your neck right now, and I wouldn’t feel a thing. Wanna see?”
I wedge a finger under my dampener as it starts to press in on my throat. Not for the first time tonight, I think about taking it off. But why waste such precious energy on a welp like Deacon?
He shakes his head, eyes watery, lips swollen.
“Good.” I loosen my grip. “And you will apologize to Iris Ashbourne.”
“For what?” he asks, provoking an anger in me that feels too good to let go of.
I should have let her rip his tongue out like she wanted.
Shit, I still might.
“For drooling over her like a fucking dog. Are you a fucking dog, Deacon?”
His head shakes again, almost imperceptibly, as if he isn’t really sure. But I release him anyway, watching as he crumples against the worn carpet.
He makes his way to his hands and knees, dry heaving, and I crouch down to whisper in his ear.
“Don’t worry. You couldn’t handle her anyway.”
Deacon sputters and coughs as I pat him on the back, but no one rises to help him up.
I leave him to his choking.
With any luck, he’ll never catch his breath. But I don’t really care either way.
Another perk of being a Cross? Apathy is genetic.
I make my way to the dormitory floor, ignoring the soft sounds of chatter coming from the common rooms, hoping fate might grant me a little peace tonight. But that’s wishful thinking as the door across from mine squeaks open.
“Where were you?” Dame asks.
I groan as I turn to find him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, face grim.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
“I took Ashbourne home. Didn’t want her mixed up in an inquiry.”
I give him the truth, but I’m careful not to give him the whole truth. It won’t do him any good anyway.
“A heads up would have been nice,” he says, leaning on the door jam.
I match his position, too tired to keep holding myself up.
“Yeah, about earlier...we were running short on time, and I just—”
Dame holds up a hand.
“It’s fine. I get it.”
He’s lying, but I’m not sure he even knows it. So I don’t say anything.
“You gonna tell me what happened out there?” he asks.
“Do you want to know what happened out there?”
He considers my question, but I already know the answer.
“No,” he confesses.
I don’t blame him.
I wish I didn’t know either. But the difference between the two of us is that Damien feels guilty about that answer. I don’t.
“Is everyone okay?” he asks.
“Everyone who matters.”
He nods but asks no clarifying questions. He doesn’t need to.
Iris may not be Crescent, but she’s as good as. Rosewater too.
“I take it you called Dred?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
Having a mind weaver on call was my idea. After one too many fights ended in a bloody mess during our second year, it was too risky to have no backup plan. Dame was against the whole idea. Said it seemed shady. But now every time we have to call Dred, he says the same thing.
“Thank you,” he mutters, a little more begrudging than usual.
I shrug and chalk it up to lack of sleep and wrangling first-years all night.
“They find the body?” I ask.
Dame nods.
“In the grove. Just inside Crescent territory.”
On sovereign land. As I intended.
“Good, they’ll have to go through the council for the inquisition. That should slow them a little.”
He nods in agreement, and I step away from the door, ready to sleep for the next fourteen hours.
But Dame’s not finished yet. There’s one more thing he has to get out.
“So…you and Iris…”
There’s a healthy skepticism in his voice, and a bit more than he’s probably aiming for written on his face.
Dame isn’t a very good liar. You can always see what he’s thinking as soon as it crosses his mind. I suspect it’s a family trait because Kitty is the same way. Ever since we were kids. It’s the reason they always look so shiny and new, despite being two of the most lethal wolves in this house.
Typically, being a shitty liar would be an occupational hazard for an alpha. But lucky for Dame, I wasn’t even shiny and new the day I was born. So I do the lying for him.
“Yep,” I answer.
His skepticism turns to confusion.
“I thought your family couldn’t…” He frowns, dropping his voice. “I thought you couldn’t feel anything.”
Dame and I have known each other for a long time. The Broussards and the Crosses even longer. So it’s no secret among us that the Cross line is cursed. But we aren’t in the habit of sharing the specifics. Even now, I can hear my mother’s voice whispering to hold my tongue. I abide out of habit.
“I can’t,” I say. “But that’s never stopped a Cross from reproducing.”
Damien nods, but I can tell this answer only confuses him more.
Casual sex isn’t really his forte. He probably thinks everyone fucking in this house is in love.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, patting him on the shoulder.
He shrugs me off.
“I wasn’t going to. But you’ll have to claim her formally if you want her covered by the treaty.”
He says that as if it’s supposed to scare me. But it won’t.
A few words in exchange for the protection of the Crescent pack? Seems like a small price to pay if you ask me.
Besides, I’ll never mate anyway. What difference does it make who I claim?
“I will,” I say, reaching for the doorknob.
Before I can make my final retreat, Dame grips my arm, stepping out into the hallway and pressing his forehead to mine.
If I were an ordinary wolf, the simple gesture might bring me some relief: peace or gratitude.
I’m not really sure because I’m not an ordinary wolf; I’m a Cross. So even as the pack bonds begin to hum with recognition and power passes from his wolf to mine, I only feel what I always feel—nothing.
“Get some sleep,” I say, patting him on the back. “We’re gonna need it.”
He nods, muttering one last thank you before ducking back into his room.
I collapse at my desk the moment my door shuts behind me.
Turns out staging a crime scene is exhausting. But I’ve barely unlaced my boots when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I ignore it for a while, choosing instead to stare at the blank ceiling. I’m hoping it might do something to clear the image of her bloody body from my mind. But really, all it does is leave it burned into my retinas.
A motherfucking love potion…
Thank fate it didn’t stick.
I take a deep breath, enjoying the odd fragrance drifting from my bed as I strip down to my boxers and crawl under the sheets. Her scent is especially strong here, unburdened by her clothing or the sweat from her dancing, and my dampener loosens with every inhale.
When I finally have the energy to look at my phone, there’s only one notification, from an anonymous sender with a single attachment.
It’s a shitty photo, taken from a distance, but the image is unmistakable if you’re familiar with the scene.
On the left side is Iris, sitting cross-legged in the grass. Beside her is a mangled shape that I know first-hand to be Oliver St. Grey. And, in case that wasn’t enough to make a point, in the middle, on their knees, holding Iris’s blood-soaked hands, is me, Elliot Cross.
“Fuck.”