Page 75 of Endless Anger
No, not the wall—someone’s closed dorm room.
I step outside, gripping the bat tight.
It takes approximately three seconds for me to realize who it is.
Lucy’s completely still, the ends of her hair tucked into her cardigan, as if she’d put it on in a hurry.
Foxe walks ahead of me, his stride lazy and confident as he approaches her. “Goddamn, Lulu, if you wanted some attention, all you had to do was?—”
He cuts off abruptly when he reaches her side, his face twisting in horror.
My eyebrows draw inward, and I close the distance between us, wondering what the hell their problem is.
I don’t get the chance to ask though, because just inside the room are two faceless corpses, hanging by their feet behind the doorframe.
And even though they’re mostly unidentifiable, their eyes mere holes in their skulls and their skin mutilated, I recognize the three-headed beastcarved into their stomachs and note the waterlogged bloating. Probably from being tossed in Lake Lerna.
One is Lucy’s roommate.
The other is the Curator I killed.
24
LUCY
There’s onlyone professor employed by Avernia College who truly has no qualms when his students show up late, so long as they’re doing well in his class.
When I slip inside the back of a dusty auditorium in the Lyceum, and meet the intense jade green eyes of Professor Dupont, I know I’ve fucked up.
Still, I quietly slide into a seat in the last row, setting my bag in the chair next to me.
I’m notthatlate—by my usual standards at least. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t manage my time well. Add in the fact that I spent the better half of the night giving a bland statement to the police after thenightmarein my dorm, and being on time hardly seemed like it was an option.
Avernia should be fucking grateful I’m here at all, considering.
It’s doubtful Professor Dupont will let me explain that though. Especially since I didn’t finish theAntigoneassignment or any of the ones from the previous six classes.
The man is forgiving to a fault unless he thinks you’re falling behind.
A small tear in the knee of my tights draws my attention, and I groan under my breath, pinching the fabric.
Professor Dupont draws a theater on his mobile chalkboard onstage, cross-referencing the places where actors would have stood in ancient Greece.
As I try to focus on what he’s saying, my gaze snags on someone several rows ahead of me: a mop of jet-black hair obscures his face, but I’d recognize him anywhere.
I roll my eyes.Of course he’s in here.Never mind that it’s a course requiring an audition for admission and that he’s a late addition to the Avernia roster. Everything always seems to work out for him anyway.
Laughter surrounds him like a séance circle, and he sticks out like a tower in the middle. Girls flank his sides, the two seats before him and two behind. One with dark brown skin and tight curls tied back at the nape of her neck—Muna something. Other than Beckett, she’s one of the only Curators to speak to me since freshman year.
Considering it’s the first I’ve seen her in this Staging the Greeks course so far, I assume she was the guide assigned to the shiny new toy.
Back home, he abhorred attention; whether people studied him because of who his parents were or because they thought he was cute, scrutiny always got under his skin, drawing violence to the surface like baking soda sucking out a splinter.
Sometimes, I think that’s why he stuck so close to my side. Being left alone is so much easier when your existence makes others uncomfortable, though he did seem to get into more fights when I was around.
Not that he ever complained.
A redhead sits next to Muna, his pale, freckled skin almost moon white in the overhead lighting. He’s got on a dark sports jacket and oval-framed glasses. He’s the only one of the group not paying Asher any mind.
