Chapter 30
30
Sonny
I f I had any hope of bailing from the Falconry, Ava and Beatrix squashed it by slamming their fists into my door at the ass crack of dawn on Saturday and insisting to spend the day with me. In truth, my curiosity has officially gotten the best of me. Skipping the event feels like I’ll be missing out on witnessing an odd, once in a lifetime social experiment. I’m genuinely intrigued.
That doesn’t change the fact that having them here, insisting that I go, makes me want to dig my feet into the ground and refuse even harder.
Ava attempts to tame my hair while Beatrix paints my face with a light dusting of makeup, lecturing me about covering the splatter of freckles dances across my nose and cheeks. Jonah controls the music and entertains us with his wild daring stories until Beatrix swipes some dusky red lipstick across my lips just as Ava shoves the final bobby pin against my scalp. We fight to pull the black dress around my curves, and then they step back to examine their hard work.
“Hot damn,” Jonah catcalls from behind them, resting his chin on one hand as the other drapes across his abdomen. “Forget a snack. You are a whole freaking meal.”
Ava and Beatrix mumble their agreements, causing my cheeks to heat in embarrassment. Poppy usually garners all the attention while I linger in the background, where I’m comfortable.
We take a few photos and they force me to promise a full rundown first thing in the morning before I’m sent on my way to hobble across campus in my new high heels.
The Falconry Ball is held in the historic ballroom of the Landry chateau—an enormous space that’s otherwise closed off to students and staff outside of special events. Perfectly polished floors reflect the ambient lighting from way above, where chandeliers line the center of the alcove ceiling. A large mezzanine with matching light fixtures wraps around the room for those on the second story to gaze at the activity happening on the main floor. And for any mysterious, masked men to narrow in on their dates for the night.
No expense was spared in the making of this part of the home, and it appears to be one area that the school hasn’t torn into or altered to fit their own purposes.
A man dressed in a full tuxedo greets me inside a doorway that’s set ablaze to hand me a champagne glass that appears out of nowhere, then quickly moves on to the three women behind me.
I shuffle off to the side and out of the way to examine the fire more closely, reaching my hand out to feel it when I realize there’s no heat radiating from the glowing flames. To my surprise, it’s completely cool to the touch, and the stained wood door frame appears unaffected. I gaze at it in wonder, fully appreciating the work of what has to be pyrokinetic gifts.
Allowing my feet to carry me into the space slowly, I take in every detail—from the beautiful architecture to the groups of my classmates gliding past me from every direction, masks securely in place. Their nervous anticipation crackles in the air, soaring off in every direction. It takes a concentrated effort not to be overcome by it myself.
I know I’ll never make it out of here if I succumb to the panic that’s clawing against my chest.
Cocktail tables line the room beneath the mezzanine and once I’ve fully absorbed the sheer magic of the space, I rush over to grab one in the back that appears unoccupied and take in the surrounding crowd.
I’m glad I splurged on the more expensive gown, though I still feel like a cheap, knock-off version of the women surrounding me. Even my lower classmates have secured the top of the line gowns for the event, as if they somehow anticipated being invited long before receiving their package.
Actually, they probably did.
And I’m just a misfit, trying to squeeze into a mold that isn’t mine. All for the slim chance I’ll run into someone who will help my future.
As soon as that familiar, ugly envy begins twisting vines around my chest, I try to stamp it down but it only tightens its grip. My head pounds in the rushed rhythm of my heartbeat as blood somehow pumps harder through my body, deafening my ears to the surrounding sounds.
I can’t lose it right now. Not here.
Poppy doesn’t have these problems. If I’m going to be her, I can’t either.
Expanding my lungs in a breath so deep, my ribs stretch against the unforgiving fabric of my gown. I hold it for a beat, collecting every pointless insecurity I’ve been hit with since being invited to this thing. Then, with one long exhale, I force myself to release them.
When I lift my eyes from the impossibly black tablecloth, I’m startled by the terrifyingly familiar gaze of Dr. Whitlock just a few feet away.
“You’re okay,” he mumbles beneath his breath. Not a question or a comforting command. Just a confirmation.
You’re okay, so I don’t have to have you hauled off somewhere.
Nodding, I flatten my lips into a line and look around for some excuse to escape his intense stare. Hopefully, he’s only passing by. I’m not sure my nervous system can take another encounter with him right now. Especially after all the warnings I received this past week.
He proves me wrong by setting his drink onto the table beside me, then dropping a second one beside my wringing hands.
Giving me a once-over, he lifts one side of his mouth in a smirk that somehow looks more miserable than his usual grimace. “Nice to see you were able to put off your studies long enough to prance around Nocturne Valley for a gown.”
I can’t help the way my eyes roll at his comment. It’s like this guy has his own secret access point to dance directly on my nerves.
“I made it work,” I reply, my tone as cold as ice.
I wish I could tell him how everyone seems to hate him there, but I don’t have the heart to be that cruel. Besides, he probably wouldn’t care, anyway. He doesn’t seem to care about anything.
I’m hoping he’ll take the hint and move on, but the way he taps his fingers on the table and casts his judgmental glare around the room tells me otherwise.
“This is all such a gross display of privilege, don’t you think? An excuse for all these families to flaunt their wealth and power over everyone else?”
Pursing my lips, I blink at him. “And why would I think that? I’m here too, aren’t I?”
Never mind that I stick out like a sore thumb.
“You aren’t one of them,” he dismisses confidently, confirming my thoughts.
“Sure, I am. And so are you. Why else would you be wasting your Saturday night here if not to show everyone how important you are?”
The miserable smirk lifts even higher until—dare I say—it blooms into something pleasant, stretching up to his smiling eyes. He’s pleased with my sharp tongue. But the seemingly happy expression falls when he examines the mask across my face, as if he’s only just now noticed it.
“Do you know why it’s called the Falconry?”
“No,” I admit, shaking my head. “There’s a lot about this that I don’t understand.”
He shoots me a knowing look, raising his brow as if to say, you’ve got that right. I’m so sick of his games and condescending comments—especially the ones he doesn’t ever say aloud.
“Falconry is the sport of using birds of prey, such as ravens , to hunt other animals.” Twirling his hand around to gesture toward the surrounding people, he continues, “They’ve set up this little game to gather women in a small space and hunt them down like rabbits. They think they’re clever.”
“It’s a smart play on words,” I admit.
I don’t particularly enjoy being compared to a small, helpless animal, though. As a student of the university and a raven myself, I’m just as much a bird of prey as whoever sent me the invite. It’s insulting when he puts it like that.
“Is it? A raven isn’t even technically considered a bird of prey. A simple Google search can tell you that. How clever can they really be?” He levels me with a chastising glare, lowering his brows in a way that only makes his dark features stand out against his smooth, pale skin.
God, he’s such a smart ass. A handsome, attractive smartass who appears to know the effect he has on women. I want to slap him just as deeply as I want to wrap my legs around his waist. Or run away from him. It changes with every passing minute.
“Why are you here if you hate it so much?” I snarl, more irritated with myself than the man before me.
He opens his mouth to rattle off what I’m sure will be a cryptic, nonresponse, but slams it shut when a large hand claps over his shoulder.
Dean Hatchcroft stands behind him, face bright and smiling as he gestures to the man standing to his left. “Raze . . . Speak of the devil. I was just trying to tell Richard about that research project you did a few years back, and I’m failing miserably. Maybe you can do a better job.”
Whitlock shakes the hand off with a scowl, and Dean Hatchcroft’s face falls at the harsh rejection. His round eyes pass over me, lingering just a moment too long before I drop my gaze to the table, subtly shaking my head enough to let my hair fall over my face. My fingers fidget with the drink Professor Whitlock placed in front of me as I send mental daggers at him for even being here, attracting the one man I’ve been avoiding all semester.
If he realizes I’m not Poppy, all of this will come crashing down.
Hatchcroft clears his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, miss . . . ”
“Ellery,” Whitlock finishes, and I lift my eyes to find a wolfish smile spread across his lips. That bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, and I hate the fact that I still can’t figure out how he’s caught on to our lie so quickly.
“Ah, yes. Divina’s girl,” Dean Hatchcroft says excitedly, shoving his hand in front of me. His eyes unapologetically stray to the plunging neck of my gown, and then stay there. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. Well, part of a face.” He gestures toward the mask I forgot I was wearing and chuckles. “Your mother has been working hard to ensure your time here is enjoyable.”
Pushing past the panic lacing through my chest, I force a smile and take his hand. “Please, call me Poppy. And I’m sure my mother has been a dream.”
He laughs again, then makes a comment to Richard that I miss because I’m too busy wishing my professor’s head would spontaneously combust. Whitlock eyes me for a moment, his gaze much more violent than before. Though, his anger seems directed at the dean, instead of me for once.
I’m sure he’s going to make another attempt at making my life hell when, by some small mercy, he turns to the two men and says, “I’d love to talk about the project, Richard. Let’s grab a table where it’s quieter.”
The two men agree and bid a quick farewell before they turn away from me. Before he leaves, Professor Whitlock leans in closer, so he can speak directly in my ear.
“Be careful, Little Nightmare. You’re being hunted as we speak,” he warns, then pulls back, subtly flicking his gaze to the mezzanine across the ballroom.
I turn my head to follow his line of sight, but don’t see anyone looking in our direction. When I go to ask what he means, he’s already a few paces away with his back toward me.