Chapter 4
Four
Rose
It all happens so fast, I almost miss it.
Helena circles, her black robe swirling. She’s got the knife, the bowl, and every eye in the Hall glued to us. The chanting rises, drowning out all other sounds in the room. The mark on my arm is burning, and I know that whatever comes next is not going to be pleasant.
She steps in, and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back so my throat is exposed. The only thought I have is disbelief that this is actually happening.
This is it.
This is how I die.
Helena leans in, her reeking breath making me want to hurl. “Any last words, Rose?”
“Yeah.” My voice is surprisingly even. “You should brush your teeth.”
She bares her teeth. If looks could kill, I’d already be a bloodstain on the floor.
The blade touches my skin right over my jugular. The bowl waits, ready to catch every drop, and all those witches watch with dead-eyed anticipation. A few look a little queasy, but none of them are stepping in.
Not one.
For a second, I think about all the things I never got to do: see Paris, have breakfast in bed, punch Ash in the face just once for fun. But mostly I think about my mom, and I wonder if I’ll see her again, assuming there’s anything for me beyond this mortal life.
Helena’s hand tightens in my hair. The knife presses harder.
I close my eyes.
The doors of the Great Hall explode open. I mean, the goddamn doors slam back with enough force to shake the fixtures and rattle the bones of every witch in the place. The entire room jumps. So does Helena, which is the only reason I don’t get an instant tracheotomy.
Every head whips toward the entrance as the chanting falters, then dies.
A woman stands framed in the doorway. She’s tall, taller than Helena, maybe even taller than Ash, with this wild silver hair that hangs down her back. Her eyes are a strange yellow, almost like an animal.
Helena’s face goes from smug satisfaction to pure, pants-wetting terror. Her grip on my hair loosens. The knife wobbles.
“No. Not you.”
The woman smiles. It’s not a very nice smile. Not at all.
“Hello, sister,” the woman says in a soft, almost sweet tone.
Jasmine Wickersly. The third sister.
Helena staggers back a step, eyes wide. “You’re supposed to be—”
“Locked up?” Jasmine finishes for her, strolling forward, a panther stalking a deer. “Oh, sister. You should know me better than that.”
She doesn’t slow down. She doesn’t raise her voice. She just keeps coming.
Helena tries to recover, raising her hands, the knife shaking in her grip. “You can’t.”
But Jasmine is already in the circle.
The next three seconds are a blur. One second Helena’s got the knife, the next it’s spinning across the floor, and Jasmine’s hands are wrapped around Helena’s throat.
Helena struggles, but Jasmine’s grip is unbreakable. Her yellow eyes gleam, and I swear I see a flash of excitement. Of glee.
There’s a sickening crack.
Helena’s body drops like a sack of bricks, right at my feet. Her head lolls at an angle that’s not even remotely survivable.
For a second, no one moves.
Then the screaming starts.
The witches who are Helena’s loyalists, her little murder squad, lose their shit completely. They run for the doors, nearly trampling each other in their desperation to get away from Jasmine.
Jasmine doesn’t seem to care. She stands over Helena’s body, head cocked as if she’s trying to figure out how she ended up there.
Within thirty seconds, the Great Hall is empty except for me, Jasmine, and the corpse of Helena Wickersly.
And I’m not sure if I should try to run or just drop dead from shock and save Jasmine the trouble.
Jasmine stoops, picks up the bloody knife Helena dropped, and wipes it on her skirts. Then she looks at me, with eyes that are too bright and terribly unhinged.
“Well,” she says, “aren’t you going to say thank you?”
I can’t form words.
So I just stare. Because what else do you do when a legendary psycho has just saved your life by murdering her own sister in front of you? There’s not really a script for this.
Jasmine’s smile grows a little too wide. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be,” she muses. “You remind me of myself.” She twirls the knife in her fingers, casual as flipping a coin. “That’s a compliment.”
I swallow, my mouth dry. “Thank you?”
Jasmine throws her head back and laughs. It’s a crazy, shrieking sound that bounces off the walls as if it’s coming from everywhere at once, surrounding me.
She lightly steps over Helena’s body and offers me a hand. I hesitate, but refusing seems unwise at this particular moment.
I take her hand, and it’s freezing, and her grip is way too strong. My bones feel like they’re about to be crushed.
“Let’s go, Rose Smith. We have things to do.”
I glance down at what’s left of Helena. Her eyes are open, but they stare at nothing now. The silver bowl sits next to her, empty.
Jasmine gives me a little shove toward the doors. “Move along, dear. Unless you fancy ending up like her.” She jerks her chin at Helena’s body.
I absolutely do not fancy that at all.
As we cross the Hall, the candles sputter out, one by one. I don’t know if Jasmine is doing that, or if the room itself is reacting to her presence.
Jasmine doesn’t seem to notice. She’s humming quietly, a tune that sounds like something you’d hear in a creepy music box.
I glance back at the room. Helena’s body is still sprawled there, the center of a ritual that never got finished.
Guess the final girl is still standing. But I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.
Jasmine doesn’t wait for me to catch up.
I hurry after her, looking around for any sign of Helena’s minions, but they’re long gone.
In the corridor, it’s quieter, but I’m not sure it’s safe.
Jasmine leads me down a flight of stairs, then another, until the air goes damp and cold and I realize where we’re heading.
The dungeons.
Where Ash is.
Where Lucien and Soren are being held.
The stone steps seem to go on forever. Jasmine walks with purpose, and it’s a struggle to match her pace.
At the bottom, there’s a corridor lined with solid doors, and I can hear movement from behind at least one of them. Voices, I think. I strain to listen.
Jasmine stops at one of the doors.
She stabs the knife into the lock. There’s a spark of magic, blue fire licking up the blade, and the door groans open. Inside, Ash is chained to the wall, looking like he’s about five seconds from breaking every bone in someone’s body.
He looks up. Sees Jasmine. Freezes.
His expression is very much not that of ‘oh thank god, a rescue!’ and very much more like ‘oh fuck’.
Jasmine steps in, knife still in hand. “Hello, pretty boy.”
Ash doesn’t flinch. “Jasmine Wickersly. I heard you were locked up.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” She points the blade at his chains. “Let’s get these off, shall we?”
She slices through the magical binds as if they’re paper. The shackles fall away, and Ash straightens, rubbing his wrists. His eyes lock on mine, and in that split-second, we have an entire conversation:
This is bad.
Very bad.
Do not piss her off.
Jasmine lingers, her face inches from Ash’s. “You’re in charge now, aren’t you?” She whispers it, but I hear every word.
Ash doesn’t blink. “I am.”
“Then you’ll love working with me!” She claps one hand against her hip. “Helena was always so boring.” She tucks the knife into her belt. “Let’s go. We have an academy to run.”
Ash glances at me, and even though he looks calm on the outside, I can feel his anxiety through the mark. Whatever spell Helena had him under must have broken as soon as she died. “You coming, Rose?”
I shake my head.
Jasmine seems amused. “You want your little brutes back, don’t you?” She laughs, then digs into her pocket and tosses me a heavy key ring. “They’re all yours. Do tell them to mind their manners. I hate rude boys. So tedious. We’ll all get along fine if they do as I say.”
She sweeps away, Ash trailing behind her. For a second, I just watch them go, marveling at the fact that I managed to avoid getting murdered, thanks to a murdering sociopath. I’m starting to suspect that the rumors about the missing Wickersly sister weren’t far from the mark.
I turn down the hall, listening for the sound of Lucien and Soren. It doesn’t take long. There’s a ruckus coming from the farthest cell that involves a lot of swearing, some thumping, and what might be Soren singing a dirty limerick.
I grin despite myself. “You boys decent in there?”
Lucien’s voice, clipped and furious: “Rose? Are you unharmed?”
Soren’s voice, lazy and delighted: “Is that our little witch? Come to let us out?”
I jiggle the keys. “I figured you two could use a rescue.”
I find the right key, twist it in the lock, and the cell opens with a creak. Lucien is on his feet instantly, blood on his knuckles and his suit a mess, but otherwise he looks like a perfectly aristocratic model. Soren sprawls on the bench, grinning at me.
Lucien grabs me, checks me over from head to toe, then pulls me into a hug so tight I can barely breathe. “You’re safe,” he mutters. “Thank God.”
Soren is next. He stands, dusts himself off, and slings an arm around my shoulders, nuzzling into my hair. “You’re a vision, Rose. A blood-spattered rescue fantasy.”
I snort. “Don’t get too excited. I only did it because the alternative was listening to your singing for another five minutes.”
Lucien glares at Soren, who just laughs.
We stand there for a moment, all three of us battered but alive.
“Come on,” I say, heading for the stairs. “Let’s get out of here before Jasmine changes her mind.”
I hear Soren whistle. “She’s here.” He exchanges a look with Lucien.
“She killed Helena,” I tell them, but they don’t seem surprised by this.
“You wouldn’t be standing here alive if she hadn’t.” Lucien’s hand reaches out and skims my arm.
I nod, acknowledging that the game has changed once again, then turn and head for the stairs. Lucien and Soren follow, matching my stride, with a brand new set of problems waiting upstairs. But for now, I’m calling it a win, because I survived.
Again.
But I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep that up. Even a cat only has nine lives.