She opens her mouth, but I jump down into the area and shove the others out of the way. My hands tremble, and I’m unable to look away from her eyes.
“I slipped,” she manages, cringing as she tries to lift an arm. “Hurts.”
Pointing at Percy, I still don’t look away from her. Can’t look away—fire scalds the inside of my chest when I try. “Call campus police. Get someone out here to treat her. Now.”
Sutton stands above us and drags a hand through his hair. He hovers so close to me, like he’s trying to silently offer support, but I wave him off too.
“Give her space,” I bark, turning for a second just to shoot the hyenas watching a nasty look. “Stop staring at her like she’s a zoo animal, and go figure out what the hell is wrong with your equipment.”
“We did the full rundown on these lights at sound check, right?” Sutton asks someone, but I’m curled protectively over Sabrina’s body and not willing to move to see who.
A tear slips over her cheek. “Am I gonna be okay?”
I nod, tapping her finger, even though I’m not totally sure. I’m only using the very basic knowledge Dad taught us about head injuries. I don’t know what other signs to look for or what sort of response she should be having. But I feel the need to reassure her anyway, because as I’m maintaining eye contact to ensure she doesn’t lose consciousness, I’m not in the auditorium anymore—I’m a helpless seventeen-year-old girl lost in the Primordial Forest.
I’m a girl who reacted without thinking and sent someone else into that lake. Someone who never came back up.
The body before me isn’t Sabrina but the battered, limp form of a guy bound and soaked as if he somehow pulled himself out of the water.
Maybe that’s why I sprang into action, the need to save Sabrina from a similar fate surging so thoroughly in my chest that I couldn’t just stay still. A repeat of that night—of every time I’ve ever been fucking useless—couldn’t happen. Not again.
Or maybe it’s because when I look up into the darkened rows of the auditorium, I see the mangled silhouette of a man disfigured by brutal violence, and I know somehow that this is myfault.
Again.
43
SUTTON
“And she’ll be dischargedin the morning?” I pause, staring at my front door with the phone pressed to my ear as Dean Bauer relays Sabrina’s condition. A concussion and some stitches from where she hit one of the music stands as she tumbled into the pit—frankly, much less severe than any of us expected.
“Yes, her mother’s come to stay overnight. They’re only keeping her for observation. Scans showed no signs of internal bleeding or swelling from the fall, but you know the board wants us to be certain.”
“Anything to avoid a lawsuit,” I mutter. It’s why they’re so eager to cover up anything that happens here—all the murders and disappearances, the claims of the supernatural, the unfairness across the campus organizations and their exclusionary practices.
Avernia is the greased wheel that keeps Fury Hill functioning, and it only manages that balance because of how hard people work behind the scenes.
Otherwise, I’m certain the school would no longer be in operation. It likely wouldn’t have seen much past its conception had the founders not been the heart of the corruption.
Hanging up, I let out a long sigh and exit my foyer, stuffing my hands into my pants pockets. Elle sits on my couch with her knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around them, staring off into space.
There are no lights on, only candles lining the coffee and end tables, casting shadows across her pale skin. She’s even more breathtaking surrounded by flames.
Quincy’s warning blares in my mind, a bright red alarm telling me to make her leave. To stop engaging this way with this student before it ruins our lives, but I can’t.
I don’t fucking want to.
“The good news is the neurological staff at Fury Hill Medical anticipate Sabrina will be just fine,” I say, moving toward the couch. “Bad news is she has to stay overnight, but all things considered…”
Flopping down next to Elle, I stretch my arm over the cushion back and reach for her chin, turning her face toward me.
“That’s great,” she says, moving away from my touch. She looks down at a loose thread in her skirt, wrapping it around one finger and tearing it from the fabric.
I hum in agreement, waiting for her to face me again. To melt into my embrace the way she normally does or at least let me get closer.
When I scoot forward an inch, she clears her throat and leans away. Rejection pulses in my forehead, and I narrow my eyes.
“What are you doing?”
