Page 42 of Escaping Hallow Hill Academy
“I can take a hint.” He tosses aside the covers and slips out of bed and into his shoes before he stands. I almost think he’s not going to address what happened between us last night or say anything about it. I don’t care. Do I? Do I want him to acknowledge what we did?
He turns and leans down, brushing his lips across my cheekbone. “I’ll see you in class, ma chère.”
And in a blink, he’s gone.
Kira sighs at his departure and fans herself. “Giiiiirl.” She plops herself onto the edge of my bed, startling Styx. “I have one word for you.”
My eyebrows rise in question.
“Yaaasssssss.”
Chapter Eleven
"The headmistress wishes a word with you."
Great.
Just what I fucking need. Marcen, also known as Rachel Ray, to pull me out of class and say those damning words after everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.
Kira was gone when I woke up. I oddly missed her whiplash-style judgment and envy. I also enjoyed the silence. It gave me time to really assess what happened.
No one came after us last night for what we did in that secret room or to the hybrid. I don’t doubt they know. I don’t doubt that Headmistress Krist knows what we did.
I know I am going to pay for it now. I wonder what type of punishment she’s going to dish out. I wonder if it even matters. I already have metal embedded deep into my spine and a nice dose of belladonna constantly coursing through my veins. I’ve grown used to the cruelty. I’m no stranger to the darker sides of things.
To pain. To blood. To suffering.
What more can this academy do to me that they haven’t done already? I’ve been stripped of my freedom, collared, and forced to kill without question. These are the fates worse than death.
So, when Marcen says those words to me, I feel no fear as I follow him through the halls of Hallow Hill. I can feel the baker’s disdain swirling around him like an aura. His bright, flickering blue gaze keeps straying to me, but I can’t bring myself to read the expression on his features. I know nothing good will come of it.
He’s collared like the rest of us, but he isn’t like us. He’s a puppet. A very, very good puppet.
He leads me to an office in the professor’s wing. Surprisingly, it’s not the same one where she tricked me into signing my name. It’s different. Someone else’s office, perhaps.
But whose?
He takes me up a flight of winding stairs that lead up to a tower. My heart thumps as I take in the thick, wooden door. It's splintered in places, with claw marks raking down the surface of it like someone or something tried to force their way inside.
He doesn’t knock, but pushes it open and gestures for me to enter. I do so with reluctance, steeling my whole body against the appearance of pain, of . . . anything.
The first thing that hits me is the smell. Like flesh burning. Like sulfur and antiseptic. Like something dark and dangerous assaulting my nostrils. I know the scent of magic. I’m no stranger to it. But this scent is vile, so unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before, and I can’t quite place why.
In the supernatural world, there are many different types of magic and many different ways to practice it. There is no white or black, no gray. There is only the power of our deities. And this? This isn’t from any realm I know. It’s magic that’s tainted.
Unholy.
The stench burns the hair in my nostrils, and nearly makes me gag, but I pretend like it doesn’t bother me at all. I step deeper into the office and scan my eyes across the space. It’s dark and barely illuminated. Tiny rays of sunlight filter through the stained-glass windows. I consider rushing to one and jumping straight out of it, but I know it’s barred from the outside. A rug is at my feet, and it looks like it's seen better days. There is a massive scratched-up desk, a chair, and tapestries fraying at the hems hanging from the walls.
This definitely isn’t the pretentious, sleek office Krist would prefer.
I look up, my neck craning as I notice the bell hanging from the high ceiling. It’s a dull, coppery color with veins of black running through it, dulling its shine. The walls are a crumbling structure that leave piles of debris in corners and shroud the room in dust.
All in all, the room looks like a demon’s honeymoon suite.
“The headmistress will be with you in a moment.” Marcen’s voice grates annoyingly down my nerves, and when I turn, he’s already closing the door. A resounding click follows and the sound strums through my chest.
He locked me inside.
