Page 132 of Endless Anger
Cocking my head, I study him for a few seconds; there’s some faint shading beneath his left eye, possibly a bruise, and a scabbed-over cut on his chin. His knuckles are a little raw, as if he’s been getting into physical altercations as of late.
Or perhaps one altercation in particular, though his eyes aren’t the right color.
Still, I’m not sure it’s a smart idea to write him off entirely. Heknowsthings, and whether that’s because he’s involved in them or because his organization really is the lifeblood of the school, I don’t know.
“It sounds like you have the hots for me,” I tell Beckett, crossing my legs.
Aurora nods, twisting her mouth up, but doesn’t look away from her phone. “It really does, dude.”
He almost seems offended for a split second, but then his lips twitch, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “And if I do? I’ve seen the way you look at me, how badly you wanted me to put you on the inductee roster. It’s okay to want this. In fact, Fury Hill would probably be delighted?—”
“Not interested.”
His face falls. “What, because ofher?”
Hooking his thumb over his shoulder, he points at Lucy, who’s out of flyers and gathering her things now. She spins in a circle, likely looking for her dorm room key, since she’s finally allowed back in there, before crouching down and picking something up.
“She’s not like you and me, Asher.” He sounds jealous, but I’m not sure who of, truth be told. “Jesus, she’s not even like fucking Eli, who at least has a real shot at making a name for himself now that he’s trying to switch into the Curators.”
I glance at Eli, who just blinks back.
“Whatever, man.” Beckett turns on his heels when I don’t say anything else, shoulder-checking Eli as he starts toward the Lyceum. “Your funeral.”
As he walks away with his friend in tow, I can’t shake the feeling that he means it.
38
LUCY
Tag’s dead.
For some reason, I’m having a difficult time wrapping my brain around that tidbit.
There’s no memorial service, no formal email from the dean’s office, no flags flown at half-mast. Pythia is quiet on that front, detailing the schedule for finals and a wine tasting being held in the basement of the Apollodorus—the second largest library on campus—in a few weeks.
If not for the empty chair in Professor Ouellette’s class, I might not even believe the rumor. Yet school feels off, and I feel guilty.
“You didn’t kill him,” Quincy says, making notations in her desktop calendar. “Actually, you weren’t even around for this one, so there’s nothing to feel guilty about. Hazing takes dozens of lives across the country every year. Survival of the fittest.”
“Yeah, how many kids died when you were a student here?” Asher asks. He’s sprawled out on the sofa beside me with a copy of some manga propped open. His mere presence is too large for his sister’s cozy little office, his long legs draped over my lap.
“Well, there’s never been an official tally.” She pauses, toying with the rings on her fingers, her long black nails dark against her pale skin. “Which is shady for multiple reasons. But there were a lot. Some were…odd, and others were pretty standard.”
Standard deaths. At school.
Yet these two were afraid of being here.
I hook my thumb in one of Asher’s shoelaces. “It just feels really…weirdthat Avernia doesn’t seem at all concerned with the fact that at least three students have died since the beginning of the semester. Dean Bauer spends more time harassing me than he does investigating, and I doubt the Fury Hill police department cares, since no founding family members have wound up dead.”
“Yeah, that hasn’t happened since I was a student.” Quincy exhales, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, and pushes her glasses up her nose.
“Who?”
She freezes as if just realizing what she said. “Ah…no one?”
Asher looks at her from over his book. “Sounds like you killed her.”
Her?
