Page 20 of Shattered Ice
Zoë blows in on a gust of expensive perfume and glitter eyeliner, sequins on her top scattering weak light across the walls of my ten-by-ten cell. Her hair is curled and glossy, her skirt cut to provoke. Genny follows at her own pace, pausing in the doorway as if weighing the space for threats. Oversized blazer, silk camisole, jeans tailored to slice—her whole posture is a weapon. Where Zoë is chaos, Genny is calculated control.
Zoë spins in the center of my room, arms wide. “God, you live like a monk. It’s Saturday night, the world is happening, and you’re in here communing with the ghosts of academia.”
“It’s called organized,” I mutter, shoving my notes into a tight stack. Organization is my only defense, the one fortress between me and the chaos of my own life.
“It’s called depressing,” she counters, then claps her hands. “Good thing we’re rescuing you. Elm party. You’re coming.”
“No,” I say, the word automatic. The last thing I need is a crowd, a room full of eyes, the potential of seeing him.
“Yes,” she chirps, already elbow-deep in my closet, tossing out options with ruthless efficiency. “You are not hiding in here and letting him win. Tonight, you show up. You exist loudly. It’s a strategy.”
Genny slides into my chair, crossing her legs. “You’ve had two days to brood about Captain Ice Veins and his wolf pack. Enough. Shoes.”
Zoë shoves a black top and a skirt into my arms, eyes daring me to argue. I change fast, the fabric clinging unfamiliar againstmy skin, my fingers fumbling at the zipper while their voices fill the silence. The air smells of Zoë’s perfume and Genny’s expensive lipstick, like I’m being dressed for battle, not a party. I tug on boots that feel heavier than usual, the leather biting into my calves, grounding me in a role I never asked for.
My throat tightens. The memory is still too raw. “You don’t understand. Thursday—”
Zoë freezes mid-twirl. Her gaze sharpens, hungry for detail. “Oh my god. Is this about him? Did something else happen?” Her smile is all teeth, more threat than comfort.
I groan, pressing my palms to my eyes. “I am not talking about Adrian Hale.”
Genny folds her hands, surgeon-steady. “You just did.”
So I tell them. The words come out clipped and clinical, scrubbed of all emotion because feeling them is still too much. I leave out my own hammering heart, and the way I caught myself admiring the precision of his brutality. Just the facts: marching through the steam and stares, folder clutched like armor, refusing to let my eyes wander from his face.
Zoë gasps when I’m done, one hand to her chest. “You went in there? Alone? Jesus, Clara, that’s not babysitting, that’s gladiator combat.” She wheels on Genny, eyes narrowed. “Wait—how the hell didyouknow and I didn’t?”
Genny just smirks, crossing one elegant leg. “I’m always in the know. It’s a perk of being a legacy. People talk where I come from; they never bother hiding it from me.”
Zoë groans, throwing herself backward on my bed in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable. I get gossip scraps, and you get the full feast.”
“Exactly,” Genny says, dry as ever. The words are aimed at Zoë, but they land in the hollow of my chest with a familiar sting. Even with my best friends, there are doors I’ll never have the keys to.
“Maybe,” Zoë says brightly, already tugging me toward the door, her nails digging into my wrist hard enough to leave little crescent moons. “But you’re still coming. If we’re going to survive Briarcliff, you need to remind them you exist outside that library.”
“I hate you,” I mutter, grabbing my keys.
Elm House quakes with bass, the walls rattling like a beast waiting to swallow us whole. The sound vibrates through the soles of my shoes before we even reach the porch—a physical, invasive pulse. The front lawn is a battlefield of red cups trampled in muddy grass and bodies sprawled across the steps. The humid night air reeks of beer, sweat, and greasy pizza.
Zoë surveys the carnage and grins. “If this place doesn’t leave scars, it’s a miracle.”
Genny gives her a sidelong glance, already scanning the crowd with her quiet, surgical calm. “The CDC should do field studies here. Or maybe just send a hazmat crew.”
I tighten my grip on my bag, letting Zoë lead the assault. Heads turn as she cuts through the mass. Genny follows, silent and precise, cataloguing faces and threats. I trail behind, shoulders locked, every instinct screaming to keep my back to a wall.
Inside, the living room is a furnace. Bodies press in on every side, a wall of heat and noise that makes my skin feel slick. The floor is sticky under my sneakers. The air is thick with cheap vodka, perfume, and sweat clinging to the walls like smoke.
As we squeeze past the staircase, I see Maya near the edge of the kitchen, notebook in hand, trying to ask Dante a question. He doesn’t break stride as he moves past her, just shakes his head once in a final, dismissive gesture. She says somethingsharp to his back, but he just smirks without turning around. Cole trails him like a loyal shadow, but his gaze flickers toward Maya for half a second. There’s something almost sympathetic there, a sibling tether he can’t quite sever, but then it’s gone, buried under the same arrogance Dante wears like armor.
We push deeper. The music pounds, frantic and relentless, making my teeth ache as the old anxieties crawl up my spine. A familiar, cold poison. The urge to count doors, to measure corners, to map an escape route from a threat I can’t even see. A memory flickers—a shadow in a dark hallway, the feeling of being small and trapped. I force it down, digging my nails into my own palm until it stings.Just a party, Clara. You’re not a target tonight.
Then Genny stops, her hand lightly touching my arm. “Look.”
She nods toward an alcove near the back door where Talia is trapped in a conversation with two guys in letterman jackets. Their laughter is too loud, their bodies angled to close her in. Her expression is polite but strained.
Zoë sees it too, her eyes lighting up with a new mission. “Oh, hell no. The new girl does not get fed to the wolves on our watch.Rescueoperation is a go.”
Before I can protest, Zoë is cutting a path toward her. “Talia! There you are! We’ve been looking for you.”
