What had it gotten her? A safety net of a person that only she remembered. A thousand questions with answers that would make her sound like she should be committed. A nightmare she couldn’t wake up from that had taken the one thing she hadn’t realized she had to give.
No more.
She could not, would not accommodate this. She could not, would not accept it.
She was tired of making herself small so that other people could feel larger than life. She was tired of lies and secrets, of being controlled by hidden figures in the dark. She was tired of feeling scared and powerless, especially at the hands of people scared ofherpower.
If they wanted a problem, then she would become a problem—and she would make them regret that they had pushed her to this point.
Interlude
For magic to live, something must die. Luckily, death comes in as many forms as magic. The world requires balance, and magic collects its debt in sacrifice. To rewrite the rules of reality is to give away something one can never get back. The cost of the sacrifice must equal the power of the spell, or the magic will take and take until it’s satisfied. Until there’s nothing left.
Some say that’s why the Godwin Scholars rebranded themselves. Magic was no longer something to be worked for, studied, or exalted. Magic was their master, and they were its slaves—a role reversal that sat poorly in the parts of their minds that knew, in theory, that owning people was wrong but felt, in practice, that only owningwhitepeople was intolerable. In the 1980s, magic became evil and dark, a putrid shackle that linked its wielder to Lucifer himself.
This turn did not inspire the Satanic Panic that launched with the 1980 publication ofMichelle Remembersby Michelle Smith and Dr. Lawrence Pazder. But, as with most societal upheavals, the right sort of people found a way to use it to their advantage. By that point,three of the Lost Eight had gone missing, enough to raise eyebrows but not enough for true alarm. Three students in thirty years was hardly newsworthy, except maybe at a Hartford bar just before last call when the stragglers began to speak of spirits that existed outside their glasses.
For the length of a decade, Warren University was no more than what it appeared to be: an Ivy League institution, accessible to only the highest echelon of society and the handful of scholarship students they peppered across the campus to corral in time for brochure photos. Magic was a direct line to hell, and no learned man wouldevermess with demonic forces.
Unless, of course, they were not the ones who had to sacrifice.
35
“Are you moving out?” Stasie asked as Ellory raided the room for more things to stuff into her backpack.
She had a Taser, a water bottle, granola bars, Greek yogurt, a flashlight, a change of clothes and shoes, and a portable battery for her phone, but she still felt like she had packed too light. There was no instruction guide on how to confront a secret society of possible magicians about messing with her life, her head, and her heart. She was making it up as she went along.
“Maybe,” she said, as she shoved a hoodie, a notepad, and a pen into the bag. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, so you might get your wish for a single after all.”
“Should I be worried?” Stasie lowered her voice as if there were anyone but them around to hear her. “Is this a cry for help?”
“If I were going to cry for help, it wouldn’t be in front of you. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Ellory added batteries for the flashlight, the pepper spray and rape whistle they’d been given during welcome week, and her wallet.Then she zipped up her bag and hoped it would be enough. She’d gotten by on nothing but her own determination so far, a drive to solve this mystery that not even she could explain sometimes. But this wasn’t just dangerous. It was potentially lethal. A truly smart woman would have unpacked her bag, gone to bed, and waited for whatever spell had been cast to erase Hudson Graves from her mind.
But Hudson had gone through hell just to help her. She had to do the same for him.
“Hey,” Stasie said before Ellory could go through the door. She took what might be her last look at her roommate and was struck by just howyoungshe was. Her face was bare of makeup, and her hair was down; she wore a pair of baby-pink silk pajamas, and her eyes were Bambi bright. Stasie O’Connor was only eighteen years old, fresh out of high school, and determined to find her place at college, and she looked it. “You weren’t, like, theworstroommate in the world.”
Ellory smiled sadly. Maybe in another world, another life, they could have been friends. Stasie was spoiled and vain, inconsiderate and churlish, but she would have the rest of her life to grow out of that. Maybe they could have learned from each other, helped each other, listened to each other.
But this was the hand this life had dealt them, where Ellory felt a rush of affection for her roommate only when it seemed likely she would never see her again.
“You kind of were,” she said, smile widening at the offended wrinkle of Stasie’s nose. “But I like you, too.”
Then she hurried out of Moneta Hall before anyone—especially Tai—could stop her.
***
The ground floor of Colt’s house was already lit like he was in the middle of a party. The next salon wasn’t for a few more weeks, but the shadows passing behind the windows made it clear that he wasn’t alone. Ellory had been hoping to break in, to get the drop on him, to confront him with what she knew. She considered returning to the dorm, regardless of how much Stasie would make fun of her, and trying again tomorrow. But by tomorrow it might be too late. By tomorrow, she might have forgotten Hudson and Boone, too.
She would try to sneak in the back, hide in a closet until the party was over, and—and what? Threaten her meal ticket with a butter knife? Who did she think she was?
Before she could make a decision either way, the front door swung open. Colt stood bathed in golden light like Zeus on Mount Olympus, a small smile on his face. She didn’t know if it was the shadows cast or if it was because she knew the truth of him now, but he cut a sinister figure, and his smile was an austere slash across an otherwise-remote face.
“Our guest of honor. I saw you coming.” He stepped back, one hand still on the doorknob. “It’s time we have a frank conversation, don’t you think?”
