Page 3 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
I clutch the pamphlet, glancing down at the logo. Strode University, with a single orchid underneath. Theorchids litter the school grounds as well, dark flowers in bloom anywhere you look.
A flash comes to me—a memory. After Poppy died, I did something stupid. Something I shouldn’t have done. I swept the scene for clues. The investigators didn’t find anything, but I did.
One useless thing. It was a heavy, ivory mask shaped like a bird skull. On the back was this very logo—the orchids and the familiar S.
I’m supposed to be here.
The grounds are well-kept, and the students wear designer clothes. They put my simple outfit to shame.
Strode is more than a beautiful campus; it’s a haven for the supernatural, home to the things that go bump in the night.
Against all odds, Strode accepts me. It helps that I have a connection to the supernatural world myself, making me—possibly?—the first human who was able to trick the system. They bought my lie of being awerecattoo easily. There was practically no screening process.
It was almosttooeasy.
I step lightly through the courtyard, knowing each student—and teacher—has the power to drain me of life. There are vampires who can drain me of blood, demons to suck my energy, and werewolves to… eat my flesh? I don’t know what they’re going to do, and the witches are more elusive.
But I know they’re all here. I watch each of them like a hawk as I push through the growing crowd. Many of the students have been here for years, or they received their acceptance letters while they were young. I am a fish out of water, but there’s no way I’malreadystanding out.
Am I being paranoid if I feel like someone is watching me? I must be. Anyone would be in my shoes. I tuck myhair behind my ears and wrap my coat around myself as a protective barrier.
Not that it’s of any use. I am waiting to be someone’s meal, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a reason I’m here—revenge.
I poke my head into the dining hall. Long, dark mahogany tables fill the area. Students perch on dining chairs with meticulous carvings, and portraits of past deans are on display. It’s miles ahead of the university I attended before—the University of Southern Maine. It had a dining hall I would compare to a high school cafeteria.
Maybe that sounds harsh, but next to Strode…
Well, anything is dull in comparison.
The only thing greater than my fear, and thirst for revenge, is intrigue.
I spent so much of my life knowing the supernatural existed, but I was far removed from the world. I was five years old when they first came out of hiding. More than anything, I remember my mother’s fit of panic. She draped garlic over our door, warned me about flashing red eyes, and invested in wolf traps as soon as they were on the market.
Twenty years ago, their council decided to reveal the supernatural world, but most prefer to stay undercover. They have their own government and little pockets they inhabit. Places like Strode.
Our human government loves keeping secrets—letting the supernatural hide in plain sight is ideal for them, I imagine.
The journalist in me yearns to discover more about this thinly veiled world. Some have tried, but I will be the first to succeed.
I step into the room and instantly regret it.She’s looking at me.
It’s too late to turn around, but I nearly do anyway. It would be better than the alternative. Running into her this quickly is enough to throw a wrench in my plan.
She meets my gaze with parted lips, looking like she’s seen a ghost.
It’s Margaux, the snobbiest woman (read: vampire) in the world, with a pretentiously spelled name to match. She hovers a few inches above me, with jet-black eyes and spirals of raven hair that trails to the middle of her back. Summer is over, but her flawless complexion is still golden and sun-kissed. She single-handedly kills the rumors that vampires are all pasty.
I narrow my eyes.
The shock on her face is a small reward, but it isn’t enough. I despise her. From the silver spoon jammed down her throat to the secrets she keeps, everything about Margaux was made to anger me specifically.
Except that she used to be my best friend. That’s one thing I can’t erase, and it makes me hate her more. At a point in my life, I had found something about Margaux enjoyable… or at least tolerable.
I tear my gaze away, holding my head high as I march off. The school is small enough that there are only four tables in the room—and, of course, the only free spot is at Margaux’s. I ignore her as I head to the other end of the table, precariously perching myself on the dining chair.
I don’t know where to begin. Breakfast should be the easiest part of what lies ahead of me. It’s simple, the most important meal of the day and all that. Instead of settling in and filling my belly, I’m overwhelmed with options.
This isnothinglike the dining situation at my last university. There’s no line to wait in, and there are no trays of half-frozen food. Instead, there’s a feast spread across the table: waffles, eggs benedict, French toast, chocolatecroissants… and bar bottles filled with a liquid I hope is wine. It’s likely not; it’s too early to drink.
