Page 12 of Virgin Sacrifice

Despite my terrible first day, the rest of the week flew by like a breeze. Autumn popped by often enough that we fell into a sort of easy rhythm of eating and hanging out together. I wouldn’t quite call her a friend yet, but for the first time that I could remember, I was spending time with someone my age and enjoying it. She was a fountain of knowledge regarding everything related to Hollow Oak, and there was something about her bubbly persistence that was slowly eating away at my resolve, like a corrosive acid.

Even my economics tutorial session was uneventful. I was worried that Professor Blackwell would bad-mouth me to the TAs or that word of my public humiliation at his hands would have spread, but luck seemed to be on my side for once.

I had to admit that the stories Autumn shared about the Blackwells left me more curious than fearful. We joked about me not being able to afford to be killed by a Blackwell, but in a sense, she was right. Part of what made my conflict with Locke so infuriating was that we both knew that he already held all the cards—socially and academically. The idea that he would need to go so far as to kill me to destroy me was laughable. A life like mine was probably already a death sentence to someone like him.

Still, she wasn’t wrong about the level of influence the Blackwells exerted on campus, and it wasn’t just Locke. No, apparently there was a whole gaggle of entitled jerks.

The identical twins I had seen on the first day of classes were apparently the infamous Blackwell twins, Alister and Nixon. According to Autumn, they were babies of the family and the reigning kings of the campus. As Blackwells, they remained unaffiliated with any of the fraternities or any other associations on campus. Instead, they lorded above the rest of us plebeians from their private house on campus that was only ever available to Blackwell descendants. It didn’t matter if you were new money or old money; everyone who was anyone was desperate for the twins to make an appearance at their parties.

“And practically every girl is just as desperate to get in their pants,” Autumn said with a dismissive roll of her eyes that said their appeal was lost on her.

So far, we had avoided discussing our own romantic inclinations, so I didn’t know if her lack of interest in the twins related to them as individuals or as men more broadly. Given my lack of experience with the opposite sex, which, regrettably, was the one I was attracted to, I was grateful that the subject hadn’t come up yet. Mami’s experience with men had made me want to stay as far away from most of them as possible. Still, even I could admit that Nixon and Alister had a certain allure, not that I had any intention of getting within ten feet of them.

I had enough Blackwells in my life already, thank you.

Dr. Locke Blackwell, economics professor and bane of my existence, was the twins’ cousin and second in line to inherit the empire after their older brother. His mother was the only daughter of Victor Blackwell, the aging patriarch of the Blackwell family who had retired from Shady Harbor over a decade ago. As per family tradition, her husband took her name when he married into the family.

“It would be kind of, like, feministy and cool if only it weren’t all based on making sure that any sons born to a Blackwell would carry on the family name,” Autumn said, wrinkling her nose.

Lucian Blackwell, the twins’ older brother, was the eldest of the younger generation and the heir to the family empire.

“Lucian’s mother died in a tragic accident, and his father was never the same after. After her death, he started drinking and sleeping with anything that breathed,” Autumn confided in me on the Friday night of our first week. We had decided to forgo the many parties that night in favor of crashing in her suite, eating junk food, and gossiping.

“My mom said that back in the day, the rumor was that Victor had ordered his son to get his shit together or he would disown him and leave everything to Lucian,” she recounted with the wide-eyed credulity I had come to associate with her. I wanted to believe it was as much a measure of her sincerity as it was her naivete, but only time would tell.

Grabbing a bag of Sour Patch Kids, I began sorting through them, organizing them into color-coded pairs. “But you just said Lucian was the Blackwell heir.”

Autumn rolled her eyes. “Just listen and let me tell the story.” She pouted for a moment before continuing. “Okay, so, Victor threatens to disinherit Tyler, and so Lucian’s dad starts to, like, clean up his act. He signs up for rehab, says he is going to get sober and everything. But on the way there”—she paused for dramatic effect—“his car crashes, and he dies on the spot!”

“So then, Lucian moved up to inherit everything?”

“No, would you just shush and let me finish?”

I held my hands up in submission.

“No, apparently Victor’s threats were all bluster, because when Tyler died, he made Locke’s mom the heir instead of Lucian.”

“So, what happened to her?” I said, popping two red Sour Patch Kids into my mouth.

Mmmm, the best flavor.

“They said she died of breast cancer a couple of years later but, like, don’t you think it’s suspicious?”

“That she died of breast cancer?” I asked, confused.

“No, Luz,” Autumn said with exasperation, tossing one of the many neutral throw pillows that littered her room at me. “Don’t you think it’s suspicious, that like everyone who stood in the way of Lucian inheriting the Blackwell empire died young?”

I raised my eyebrow skeptically. “You said they died from a car accident and breast cancer and that he was only fifteen when his father died.”

“Well, yeah, but isn’t that exactly how you would do it?” she asked. “You know, if you were some kind of teenage murder prodigy like Lucian Blackwell probably was.” She rambled on, and for a moment, I wondered how much she really knew.

“Like maybe he cut the brakes on his dad’s car, and he found a way to poison his aunt but make it look like breast cancer,” she said, waving her hands with a flourish.

“Unlikely.” I snorted. “Most carcinogens are dangerous to handle and take too long to work. And a toxic poison wouldn’t be mistaken for breast cancer.”

Now it was Autumn’s turn to arch her eyebrow at me.

I shrugged. “My mami was obsessed with true crime podcasts, so I know all sorts of random morbid information. In fact, I am exactly who you want with you if you ever need to hide a body,” I added, wiggling my eyebrows devilishly and tossing the pillow back at her.

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