Page 94 of Riot Rules
Christ.
I swallow, working to steady my erratic pulse.Houses creak and crack, Carrie. They groan with the wind. No house is ever perfectly silent.Still, it’s better to check. “Elodie!” I call from the bottom of the stairs. “Was that you? Did you hear that?”
She doesn’t reply, and my imagination leaps into overdrive. She’s dead. She’s been murdered by the ghost of the paranoid old bastard who lived here before Wren bought the place. “Elodie!What the hell!”
“I’m coming! Just a second!” She leans over the railing on the very top floor of the stairs. I catch a glimpse of her blonde hair and then she disappears again.
Seconds drag out, turning into minutes, and my mind snags on the sheet music. The loose pieces of paper scattered everywhere, skidding all over the floorboards and twisting in the air, landing on the rug by the window. The moment Dash walks in and sees the mess, he’s going to know someone was in his room. Somehow, he’llknowit was me. I’ll never be able to live down the mortification if he figures it out. Eventually, I can’t handle the thought of it anymore. Against all better judgement, I climb the stairs again. Halfway up, I hear a voice and my blood turns to ice water on the spot. It’s Wren’s voice. I’d know it anywhere.
I hurtle up the remaining flights of stairs, desperate and panicked. “Elodie! Oh my god, Elle! I think he’s in the house! Move, move, move!” Elodie appears over the side of the handrail again. “I heard a voice. I can’t see anything, but I think he’s in th—OH MY GOD! FUCK!”
I nearly fall ass backwards down the stairs.
Wren Jacobi, a wraith dressed in black, stands on the top floor landing, right next to Elodie. “Hi, Carrie. Yeah, I’m in the house.”
How the fuck did I not notice him come in? How long has he been here? Why is my heartrate going up instead of down? I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. “You should be ashamed of yourself. I tell you to stay away from her, and then you go out and steal her phone? You’re fucked in the head.”
“Jesus. Stop. I’ve had enough screeching for one night, thanks. The drive back from Boston was miserable. I had to hike all the way back here from town because the Uber driver wouldn’t come up the mountain. And then I arrive home to find two petty thieves in here, sneaking around in the dark.”
I lunge for Elodie and take her by the hand, ignoring Wren. “Did you get what you came for?”
Elodie’s eyes are wide. A little stunned. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Good. Then let’s get out of here.”
“Elodie, wait.” Wren shoves away from the wall. “Here. Take the book. I want you to have it.” He does have a book in his hands—a small, leather bound affair with gilded edges that shine in the moonlight.
Fuck. Maybe there’s still time to save my friend from this nightmare. If only Mara had stuck around and talked me out of falling for Dash, then I wouldn’t be so fucked up and broken now. I know it’s hopeless, but I have to try at least. “Don’t! Remember Persephone? She accepted those pomegranate seeds from Hades and doomed herself to the fucking underworld.” Okay, it sounds waaaaaay over the top, now that’s out of my mouth, but thisisWren Jacobi we’re talking about. Nightmare creature that he is, I can totally see him as the king of the underworld.
Wren grins at me, and my skin prickles from the malice on his face. “I appreciate the comparison, but you’re being a little dramatic. It’s nothing but a book. There’s nothing magical about it. Or…rather, it’s magical in the same way thatallbooks are magical. But it’ll hardly bind her to hell.”
“Elodie.” I pull at her arm more this time. She can’t resist without falling down the stairs and landing on her butt. I’m relieved when she finally gives in and turns at last. It’s only once we’re outside, with the icy northerly wind driving into our faces and we’re running for the Firebird, that I see the stupid book in her hand.
43
DASH
My phone ringseighteen times on the way home. Fifteen of those calls are from my father. His voicemails are borderline hysterical. The first starts out wheedling, asking me to come back and be civil for once in my spoiled existence. By the fifteenth message, he’s done with the shouting and screaming that messages five through fourteen featured so heavily, and he’s moved onto a quiet and deadly, ice-cold rage.
“No more Wolf Hall. No more position with the Estate. No more title. No more expensive car. Drive the Mercedes to Boston first thing in the morning, Dashiell. I’m taking it back. You are officiallycut off, boy.”
Pax winces, sucking air through his teeth when I play it out loud in the car, but I brush off the message for what it is: absolute fucking garbage. I turned eighteen on New Year’s Day. He can’t make me do anything now. He can come and get his ugly ass Maybach himself if he wants to take it back. The only place I’ll be driving it is off a fucking ravine. Wait. Correction. I’llpushit into the ravine. If I’m gonna be committing suicide in a car any time soon, it sure as hell won’t be in something as clichéd as a fuckingMaybach.
While Wren’s been buying up bars and houses off-campus, I’ve been investing my money wisely. All of the various inheritances I’ve come into over the years have been put into the stock market. I’ve made a decent return on every penny. If my old man thinks cutting me off will have me crawling back to Surrey with my tail tucked between my legs, then he has another thing coming.
The remaining calls are from a number I don’t recognize. The caller ID reads:Uncle Bob’s Retrofit & Repair.I let it go to voicemail the first two times, but the caller doesn’t leave a message. The third time my phone rings, Pax thumps the Charger’s steering wheel, his teeth bared. “Fuck’s sake. Just answer it, man, or I’m gonna throw the damn thing out of the window. The incessant vibrating’s giving me a migraine.”
I roll my eyes, but I also take him seriously; Pax doesn’t make threats unless he plans on following through with them. “Yes?”
“Dashiell.” The cool voice on the other end of the line makes my hand throb unexpectedly. My body remembers the owner of that voice before I piece together who it belongs to. And then I remember.
“Oh. Great.You.”
“Me,” Alderman agrees. “Uncle Bob. Your friendly local car mechanic, calling with a reminder that your oil change is shortly due.”
“Well. As much I’d love to chat,Uncle Bob,I actually really don’t. I’d rather cut out my own tongue than have another conversation with you—”
“It’s done,” he says, sighing loudly.
