Page 8 of Endless Anger
Similarly, documentation of his time during the height of the crisis in Fury Hill have all but disappeared. Witnesses recall his intervention with unconventional methods of medicine and how he was one of the few who seemed unaffected by the illness. He is often blamed by residents for having taken advantage of the situation to gain ownership of the school and town.
While still revered as a medical marvel and important piece of Fury Hill history, it is important to note that the Anderson bloodline is?—
See index for more information.
The last part of that paragraph cuts off, having been scribbled out with a permanent marker. I glance up, a strange feeling clutching at my chest. Mom’s a few rows down, flipping through a tattered copy of some town periodical.
Beneath the entry for Cronus is a host of others, each with the same surname, indicating direct relations. My stomach twists as I drag my finger along each bullet point, pausing only when I get to the bottom few.
Deidre Anderson.
Kallum Anderson.
With quick fingers, I turn to the index and find my apparent ancestor’s name.
A note is written in the margins—in fact, the entire back end of the book is handwritten anecdotes, some pages falling out as if they were stapled in after the fact.
The bloodline is tainted. Cronus placed this fate upon their heads. If a descendant steps onto this campus, it is the duty of Avernia to ensure they do not remain if we are to avoid the curse that plagues them.
Remember the law of three. Unity will result in our failure—they will be the destruction of us all.
Snorting, I snap the book closed. What kind of an encyclopedia includes a call to action?
Andcurses? Tainted bloodlines?
It almost feels like a prank, and I’m tempted to ask Quincy about it when we meet back up later, just to see if she’s aware of the apparent connections we have here too. Maybe that’s why she stays—she’s always wanted a deeper family history.
What could possibly bedeeperthan fable?
“Find anything interesting?” Mom asks when we finally exit the thirteenth floor, heading in search of the rest of our party. “Not a good selection for fiction, and unfortunately, I’m not that interested in the town’s story. But at least there were no ghosts.”
“Oh, there’s fiction up there all right. Some of those entries were just plain weird.” I pause, looking at her from the corner of my eye. “Did Q ever tell you why shehadto come here?”
“Well, historically, Avernia was a place for students to step into the world of liberating thought and social practices. They emphasized and highlighted the arts and humanities as tools to bridge histories and psyches, and they’ve created many loyal alumni from those practices. I assume she wanted to come here based on that, and because it was one of the top colleges in the country for classics studies.”
Glancing up, I meet her soft gaze. “Do you think this is a normal school? I mean, they have books about town curses and conspiracies. That’s weird, right?”
“Everyone has their lore.” She lifts a shoulder. “It seems normal enough. They’re incredibly difficult to get into, they have rigorous programs, their endowment is impressive, and Quincy says student life is pretty typical, even in the classics department. Parties, tailgates, fundraisers. Why? Does it not appeal to you?”
I swing my face forward, staring at the ground. “College never has, but Lucy wants to go here so bad. She thinks it’ll be some miracle worker for her. I don’t see the point.”
“Ah.” She quiets for a moment. “You know who you sound like?”
“Who?”
“Noelle.”
My face twists into a mask of horror. “Gross.You think I sound like that spoiled brat?”
Laughing, Mom tugs me closer. “Don’t for a second think you’re any less spoiled there, my sweet son. Your father and I are just as indulgent to your whims as we are Q’s and Noelle’s. It’s just that usually yours have to do with Lucy.”
Grumbling under my breath, I lean into her and stop talking.
We meet up with the others as they’re walking past the four dormitories, which sit in their own square a ways off from the main academic building and close to an entrance into the Primordial Forest, the woods that surround the school and block it off from the mountains.
Dad kisses Mom’s forehead but allows us to stay toward the back, continuing our conversation even as our group moves on with its tour.
“Mortui vivos docent.” I pause under the iron gateway, staring up at the words.
