His shoulders slump as he falls into the chair, reclining it. I watch him curl into a ball, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve done too much for him at this point. Even if, by some strange miracle, he took his last breath tonight and I didn’t have to worry about him anymore… I’d still remember, right? The shame and guilt don’t go away if he does. I’m still here. Still me.”
Something about the way he says that makes me uneasy. I reach down, grabbing a stack of paper-clipped essays, and drop them at his feet, tossing a pen on top. “Well, while you’re here, why don’t you do something useful and grade some of those?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You trust me to do that?”
“Hey, you’ve got the same theater background as me. Either one of us could act circles around even the upper-level students.”
After a long moment, he shrugs, bending to scoop the papers up. Better he do something productive with his mind than keep letting those parasitic thoughts fester.
That way only lies disaster.
I watch him for a long time, trying to place exactly what it is about his movements, his avoiding eye contact, that bothers me, but I keep coming short.
My gaze falls to his broken knuckles again, and I pause, folding my hands in my lap.
He refuses to look up at me.
Tension threads through my stomach, knotting the organ. I swallow, my mouth arid, and force a deep breath. “Becks. What did you do?”
52
ELLE
I wakewith a start on a hard surface, my eyes covered, and drenched from head to toe in sweat and urine.
A part of me wants to believe it’s water, but the acrid scent assaulting my nose leaves no room for interpretation.
The second thing I smell is smoke with a hint of burnt flesh—that isn’t an aroma you can forget, no matter how hard you might try. Chatter echoes around me, quiet but present enough that I can use it to determine where I’m at exactly.
My heart plummets as I concentrate, noting the way the noise seems to carry down narrow passages and bounce off solid overhead structures.
I’m in the caves.
I can feel it in the cool air that lashes against my skin when I’m hauled to my knees by my armpit. The ground is harsh on my joints when I land, but I swallow my wince, unwilling to reveal anything to people I can’t even see.
Only a coward strikes someone when they’re not expecting it—because they can’t risk their victim fighting back.
When I get my hands on the person who attacked me, I’ll gouge their fucking eyes out.
A solitary thought crosses my mind, temporary reprieve from the nightmare: Did Sutton show up for me? Is he waiting, hoping I come?
What will he think if I don’t show?
And then, a more horrible thought than that: He didn’t write the note.
He wasn’t trying to meet up with me at all.
Agony strikes my heart, and I hang my head a little.
Idiot. And now look what fucking trouble you’re in.
Why is this stuff always happening to you, Elle?
Footsteps approach me, soft and short, stopping a foot or so away. I peer through my blindfold, trying to get even just a hint of a silhouette past the fabric, but it’s too thick to see anything at all.
“Noelle Rose Anderson. Granddaughter of Deidre Anderson. Descendant of Cronus Anderson. Anathema. Have you come to stake your claim in our organization?”
Fear grips my muscles. “I’m not sure who you are exactly, so…”
