Chapter 8 Sutton
SUTTON
“Salvete! Welcome to Acting for Beginners.”
I walk onstage during my greeting as the auditorium murmurs its reply. Better than expected for an early-morning course on the first day back.
My fingers curl around the apricot I swiped from my apartment—a daily staple of mine for eight years now. Ever since the migraines first began.
The beginning of the semester is always my favorite, because everyone is still full of hope. No matter what’s going on elsewhere, within these four acoustic-friendly walls, they have a clean slate.
Sometimes, that’s all you need to really turn things around.
A student in the back of the large auditorium groans. “Professor Dupont, did we really have to learn all those Latin phrases you sent over winter break?”
“Vere. The title of the organization I run is technically Latin, you know, although a terribly imperfect translation. Does anyone know what the correct phrasing should be?”
“Visio Aeterna,” my former TA, Sabrina Taylor, answers, swinging her blond ponytail from left to right.
She sits dead center of the front row, leaning forward as if to physically capture my attention.
“Vision of the Eternal. Because the students who join work at bettering the community for the future.”
“Correct. And though our founders inaccurately named the organization, I think it’s important we learn about the words that are etched into our school’s existence. We want to respect the cultures that influence us, not exploit them, right?”
“But it’s a dead language,” someone else calls out.
“And this is an acting class,” another adds. “What’s the point?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that.” I set the fruit on the portable desk onstage and point at a pasty, curly-haired student frantically scribbling something down in his notebook. “What’s Avernia’s motto?”
“Uh…” He panics, glancing at the girl with a dark brown complexion sitting next to him.
She makes a face, then lifts her chin. “Mortui vivos docent.”
“Excellent. What does it mean?”
A few titters in the crowd, but no one comes forward with an actual answer. Not even Sabrina this time, though she at least has the decency to look ashamed.
Jesus. So much for a clean slate.
“The dead teach the living,” I offer. “Avernia was founded on the idea of learning from the past and the dead. Everything we use to progress as a society comes from what we glean from our ancestors, their societies, and how we utilize that knowledge to evolve.”
More silence.
I smirk to myself, clasping my hands together. “You all are in for a rough semester.”
“Professor,” the boy from before calls out. “Is it true that a bunch of students almost died in the caves this past winter?”
The question catches me off guard. I cock my head to the side, folding my arms over my chest. Deny, deny, deny. “Where on earth did you hear a rumor like that?”
He shrugs. “The Delphic Pages mentioned it a couple of times, although the posts keep getting removed.”
“That’s just urban legend,” someone toward the back replies. “Same as all the bodies that supposedly go missing in Lake Lerna. When’s the last time anyone was even close enough to that thing to fall in?”
“Yeah,” a blond with three eyebrow piercings and a pinkish freckled face agrees. “You can’t trust anything Pythia says. The Delphic Pages is just a site for gossip. Half the rumors end up not being true.”
“Well, they were right about the program cuts last spring and reported that new Anderson kid before he even showed up for class in the fall.”
My heartbeat grows louder, drowning out the noise as they descend into arguing among themselves.
Shit. This isn’t good. Discord on the first day rarely produces favorable long-term results, and I don’t need future castmates clashing already.
Nor do I need anyone poking around, looking for answers that will get them into trouble if found.
Holding a hand up, I wait for a hush to fall over the crowd. “Unless this discussion is directly related to Visio Aternae or has something to do with acting, I’m going to request you all put pins in the ideas and hold them until after my time with you is up.”
“If it was true,” the kid continues, ignoring my request, “I was just wondering… What would we learn from the dead students then?”
I stare at him for several beats, waiting for the erratic pace of my heart to relax.
Gritting my teeth, I bend down, grabbing a stack of Visio Aternae pamphlets and philanthropic guides from my briefcase, even as memories flank my vision, threatening to drag me down into complete and utter desolation.
There’s a reason the forest is supposed to be off-limits. What happened last semester is only part of why.
Hopping off the stage, I pass out the information to the class, ending with the inquisitor. As people chatter around us, he looks up and meets my gaze.
I don’t like how easily he does so—like he’s actually trying to figure something out.
Something he perhaps knows too much about.
“They’d probably learn not to believe everything they hear,” I tell him in a low voice, turning away to speak to the class again before he can respond.
“As you all are aware, Pythia is notorious for spouting mindless drivel on our school’s online forum, and you should take what she says with a grain of salt.
I would have petitioned to have her shut down years ago if she wasn’t so damned entertaining. ”
They laugh, but it’s true. My issues with The Delphic Pages date back to my undergrad years when it was still in its infancy.
In the wake of my sister’s death, the forum allowed Pythia to publish heinous lies about Bellamy and her involvements at the school. Those were the only things written about her at all—that we could find anyway.
Pythia said nothing of me, which always made me question who runs the account.
Death’s Teeth protects their own.
I hoist myself up onto the lip of the stage, reaching for the class roster and my apricot.
“In the back of these pamphlets, you’ll find an index card where you can request enrollment in Visio Aternae.
Don’t worry if you’re not interested—I won’t be offended—but do note we’re the only philanthropic organization on campus, and we don’t accept new members midsemester.
This is your one shot to join until the fall. ”
Heads bow as they begin writing their answers, and I wait a few seconds, reveling in the sound of pencils scratching on paper.
“When I call your name, I want a quick ‘present’ and then for you to form a line in the center aisle right here”—I smack the space next to me with my free palm—“where you’ll place your card and winter essays in a neat pile.
Please use the name listed on your student IDs, as that will be your proof of attendance. Lexington Abbott.”
Lexington is Angelica—the owner of Lethe’s—and Zane’s son, and he draws the attention of every student as he strides past: Tall, with light brown skin, loose curly hair, and a toned physique he often emphasizes in sleeveless shirts and athletic pants, he’s easy on the eyes.
As far as I can tell, he’s one of the few founding family members who cares very little about the school’s curse or the rules of law revolving around Fury Hill.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he enrolled as a theater major, but as he drops his essay and blank note card on the stage, I wonder if he’s planning on joining any organization at all.
It’s not common in our circles for a founder to be totally uninvolved, though if the higher-ups allow it, I can’t deny the envy I feel over his freedom.
He looks me over with clear blue eyes. “Assigning essays over break was cruel and unusual punishment, by the way.”
Straightening my spine, I nod. “That was the point.”
He tsks, seeming to swallow a reply before spinning around and heading back to his friends—a girl with dark brown skin sitting in a wheelchair at the very back, furiously writing on her note card, and a ghostly pale blond guy who keeps stealing glances at Sabrina.
New faces. Acting for Beginners is a lower-level course, so I rarely expect to see many familiar students—although I’m not entirely sure why Sabrina’s here, considering she’s been in other classes with me before and was my TA.
But if I ask, she’ll assume I care, and I don’t need her getting the wrong idea.
Clearing my throat, I move to the next name on the list. “Noelle Anderson.”
No one in the auditorium moves.
I take a bite of my fruit and scan the classroom, searching for a kid with headphones or one who’s too busy talking to someone they’re sitting by, but everyone’s looking at me, dutifully waiting.
“Noelle Anderson?” I repeat after swallowing, a strange sensation slithering down my spine.
Asher Anderson was in my Staging the Greeks course last semester, and the new classics department head shares the last name. Both part of the disgraced founding bloodline, thus two-thirds of the prophesied curse.
Despite Dean Bauer’s many shortcomings, I doubt he’d actually let all three enroll at once.
Chest tight, I call out the name one more time. When no one comes forward again, I shake my head and cross it out. “There’s always one who drops the first day—”
“Wait, no! I’m here!”
Exhaling, I lean back on my free hand as one of the doors at the top of the room flies open, the silhouette of a leggy woman appearing. She nearly stumbles over the first step but manages to catch herself at the last second.
“I’m so sorry. There was an issue with the showers in my dorm, and then I got stuck in the elevator,” she rushes out, gripping the railing that separates the wheelchair accessible seats from the lower levels. “But I’m here now, so…”
That voice…
It’s melodic and full, resonating throughout the auditorium like she’s used to speaking for a crowd.
A voice I’ve replayed in my mind since I last heard it in the passenger seat of my car.