Page 137 of Endless Anger
“Creepy.” I pull on her hair again until she whimpers. “Explain what you mean by that.”
She shakes her head. “That isn’t part of the deal. You don’t get to know what’s going on before they get you and everyone you love.”
“Look, I don’t have very much patience. Really, any at all. So if you don’t tell me something important in the next three seconds, I’m going to take that as a threat and act accordingly.”
A maniacal laugh comes from somewhere deep within her. “Stupid, stupid boy. Just like your sister and your grandmother and your ancestor. People like you think they own the world, when really, it’s just waiting to swallow you whole. Cronus Anderson took gleefully from our town, and you and the others will pay for his transgressions.”
I make a face, wondering why this student talks like she just stepped out of a novel from the nineteenth century, and shove her away. Exhaling, I bring my hand to my forehead and twist in a circle, trying to decide what the hell I should do.
Coming here was a mistake, but I can’t really go back. Especially not with the cryptic email sitting in my inbox, suggesting actual danger to the people I care about. Leaving Lucy and Aurora alone now is not an option.
Not this time.
Still, the people at this college are clearly convinced that this family curse is real or are at least interested in making me think it is. Maybe the idea is that if enough people believe in the curse, fewer will question motives when I wind up dead.
I’m only half paying attention when the little bitch launches herself at my back, slipping her bound hands over my neck as she tries to strangle and tackle me. Unfortunately, I’m half a foot taller and much stronger, so I overpower her easily, shoving her into the ground face-first.
Digging my boot into the back of her skull, I push down until she begins to panic, letting up only enough for her to suck in some frenzied gulps of air. She cries out, and I almost feel bad about doing this for a second as I twirl the knife between my fingers, contemplating.
Pausing, I crouch and wait for her sobs to subside.
“They curate it all, you know…” she manages, glaring at me. “The deaths and deception. They run the papers, the online forums, the local authorities. What you see is not reality. This school, this town… They’re cruel. Evil. And they won’t rest well knowing you’re around. Or knowing I failed.”
“Why do they want me dead so badly?” I don’t even know who they are, but at this point, the reasoning behind it all feels a bit more important.
“Not dead,” she says. “Suffering.”
I don’t see where the new knife comes from, just see her hand shift from the corner of my eye, and then she’s rolling, driving the thing right into her own throat.
The force of it causes blood to splash across my chest and face. She assaults herself multiple times until finally dropping the handle.
Somehow, she’s still breathing, despite her head almost being detached from her body. I’m soaked in crimson, staring in disbelief as she clings to life.
Her glassy eyes find mine. Something passes through them. An evil I don’t understand.
Chest heaving, I take her knife and finish the job.
And then get to work leaving a message for whoever sent her, noting the distinct screams echoing from somewhere else in the forest. Not Lucy’s screams, but she could be next.
When I’ve finished with the stranger, temporarily hiding her in a carpet I found behind the abandoned house, I take off in search of my former best friend, aware that I have fewer answers, more problems, and no way to explain the blood.
Swallowing down those memories, I look at Muna. “Say I believe you. Who, in theory, do you think is behind the shit going on?”
She scratches at the back of her hand. “Who says I have suspicions?”
“I’m assuming you wouldn’t waste my time otherwise.”
“At the beginning of the semester, I thought Beckett and some other Curators were acting kind of…weird. They were skipping classes, throwing way more parties than usual, and disappearing for days on end. It’s not uncommon for Curators to go off and do their own things, because their parents call them back home a lot for events and stuff, but we’re required to submit logs detailing our whereabouts. They weren’t requesting leaves to travel. All their absences were off the books.
“We have these weekly meetings that are required for active members to attend, unless there is a well-documented and sponsor-approved excuse, and the dean was suddenly stamping a lot of forms, or students wouldn’t show up at all. Curators areveryserious about their membership; if you’re put on probation, there’s a good chance you’ll be removed, and if you’re removed, you can’t join again. Most kids don’t want to risk their families’ wrath.”
Ugh. College fucking blows.
“So it seemed odd to me that our president especially was one of those students we couldn’t keep track of. But no one’s reported his or any other absences to the school board or the Curator chapter heads. No one seems to care aboutanythinghere, and it’s almost like…”
She trails off, and I lean forward, draping my arms over my knees. “Like if they don’t care, they figure no one else will either?”
Muna nods. “I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but I also found this.”
