Death’s Teeth protects their own.
I hoist myself up onto the lip of the stage, reaching for the class roster and my apricot. “In the back of these pamphlets, you’ll find an index card where you can request enrollment in Visio Aternae. Don’t worry if you’re not interested—I won’t be offended—butdonote we’re the only philanthropic organization on campus, and we don’t accept new members midsemester. This is your one shot to join until the fall.”
Heads bow as they begin writing their answers, and I wait a few seconds, reveling in the sound of pencils scratching on paper.
“When I call your name, I want a quick ‘present’ and then for you to form a line in the center aisle righthere”—I smack the space next to me with my free palm—“where you’ll place your card and winter essays in a neat pile. Please use the name listed on your student IDs, as that will be your proof of attendance. Lexington Abbott.”
Lexington is Angelica—the owner of Lethe’s—and Zane’s son, and he draws the attention of every student as he strides past: Tall, with light brown skin, loose curly hair, and a toned physique he often emphasizes in sleeveless shirts and athletic pants, he’s easy on the eyes.
As far as I can tell, he’s one of the few founding family members who cares very little about the school’s curse or the rules of law revolving around Fury Hill. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he enrolled as a theater major, but as he drops his essay and blank note card on the stage, I wonder if he’s planning on joining any organization at all.
It’s not common in our circles for a founder to be totally uninvolved, though if the higher-ups allow it, I can’t deny the envy I feel over his freedom.
He looks me over with clear blue eyes. “Assigning essays over break was cruel and unusual punishment, by the way.”
Straightening my spine, I nod. “That was the point.”
He tsks, seeming to swallow a reply before spinning around and heading back to his friends—a girl with dark brown skin sitting in a wheelchair at the very back, furiously writing on her note card, and a ghostly pale blond guy who keeps stealing glances at Sabrina.
New faces. Acting for Beginners is a lower-level course, so I rarely expect to see many familiar students—although I’m notentirely sure why Sabrina’s here, considering she’s been in other classes with me before and was my TA.
But if I ask, she’ll assume I care, and I don’t need her getting the wrong idea.
Clearing my throat, I move to the next name on the list. “Noelle Anderson.”
No one in the auditorium moves.
I take a bite of my fruit and scan the classroom, searching for a kid with headphones or one who’s too busy talking to someone they’re sitting by, but everyone’s looking at me, dutifully waiting.
“Noelle Anderson?” I repeat after swallowing, a strange sensation slithering down my spine.
Asher Anderson was in my Staging the Greeks course last semester, and the new classics department head shares the last name. Both part of the disgraced founding bloodline, thus two-thirds of the prophesied curse.
Despite Dean Bauer’s many shortcomings, I doubt he’d actually let all three enroll at once.
Chest tight, I call out the name one more time. When no one comes forward again, I shake my head and cross it out. “There’s always one who drops the first day?—”
“Wait, no! I’m here!”
Exhaling, I lean back on my free hand as one of the doors at the top of the room flies open, the silhouette of a leggy woman appearing. She nearly stumbles over the first step but manages to catch herself at the last second.
“I’m so sorry. There was an issue with the showers in my dorm, and then I got stuck in the elevator,” she rushes out, gripping the railing that separates the wheelchair accessible seats from the lower levels. “But I’m here now, so…”
That voice…
It’s melodic and full, resonating throughout the auditorium like she’s used to speaking for a crowd.
A voice I’ve replayed in my mind since I last heard it in the passenger seat of my car.
Suspicion claws at my bones, and I slowly get to my feet, rounding the front row. The apricot falls out of my hand, rolling as I walk past it. I stop at the bottom of the aisle, staring up at the newcomer as she white-knuckles the railing.
Soft, dark brown locks spill down her shoulders in gentle waves, framing a delicate face with pouty pink lips. Beneath a charcoal-colored overcoat, she’s wearing a cream blouse tucked into a short, tight brown skirt, and I follow the length of her pale legs down to the block heels she wears, buckled over frilly white socks.
Somehow the combination works, and she almost manages to blend in a bit with the rest of the student body, most of whom prefer earth tones, solid colors, and blended fabrics.
It’s a far cry from the siren I met at the gas station and again at Lethe’s, though no less devastating.
Her eyes are obscured by shadows, making it difficult for me to confirm that this is in facther.
