I close my fingers around the lighter as he withdraws. “But it looks expensive. Or important at least. Is it a family heirloom? Memorabilia from your veteran great-grandfather’s estate?”
The man chuckles, and I find the sound intoxicating. My lips part as if to ask to hear it again, but I bite down on the urge.
“Nothing like that,” he says. “Just consider it a loan.”
“But loans are given with the intent of being returned.” I frown. “I don’t know anything about you really. How am I supposed to find you to give it back?”
A smirk tilts his face. “Should something catch fire tonight in Fury Hill,temptress, perhaps it’ll be I who finds you.”
2
SUTTON
Moonlight filtersthrough the skylight of a secluded stairwell in the Apollodorus, the second-largest library on Avernia College’s campus. Its basement is a spiraling labyrinth, used for storage and sealing off depravity from the general public.
The celestial glow is the only illumination afforded me as I knock on a door markedSTAFF, though it’s technically mislabeled.
More than staff come through here. Just not everyone is welcome.
You need an invite. A stamp or brand.
And amask.
I flash the gold-embossed invitation at the door, and a slot opens, snatching it from me. Within seconds, I’m welcomed into an expansive underground territory of antiquated luxury.
I’m still reeling a bit from the encounter at the Stop N Go earlier, my fingers tingling where they’d voluntarily touched another person, even if through the sleeve of their jacket. But there’d been something about that woman that drew me in from the instant I saw her glaring at the gas station’s selection of condoms.
Normally, I resist such interactions, but her face had flushed a deep red, and I found myself unable to stay away. She’d smelled delightful too, like freshly ground vanilla beans and warm honey.
Which makes her bad news, but that’s all right. It was clear she was a tourist of some sort, so I have no expectation of seeing her again.
Dvorak’s Romance in F Minor caresses my ears as I step inside the underground ballroom, its elegance almost enough to obscure the reality that we’re tucked away where many have met their untimely demise over the centuries.
It’s one of the school’s better-kept secrets, but you can still feel it in the air. That volume of blood doesn’t leave the walls it’s shed upon, no matter how many coats of dark green paint or what polished hardwood floors you place over it.
Nearly every building on campus has a similar story though. Death is as much a part of the fabric of our university as the intricate network of references and stellar academics needed to apply.
An ache flares behind my temple, splitting my skull in half. I should’ve taken a pill to ward off the migraine before I came, but I suppose there’s no time now.
One doesn’t leave a Death’s Teeth function until they’ve fulfilled their duties.
Mors neminem manet.
Death waits for no man.
Two large black marble fireplaces flank the immediate area, their warmth seeping beneath the mask I’ve donned for the occasion. Discomfort radiates over my skin as I’m guided into a tall ebony chair with red wine–colored cushions at the center of the room, then handed a short glass of amber liquid and instructed to relax.
A masked man and woman in velvet gold cloaks kneel at my feet as I spare a quick glance around the room; three halls are blocked off by similarly costumed guards, who remain expressionless even as the atmosphere ripples with lust.
The grand piano in the corner next to a harpist dilutes the sounds of moaning and slick flesh being manipulated, but I’m aware of the acts happening around me nonetheless.
Shiny gold candle sconces and floor candelabras light the room, shrouding my fellow patrons in flickering tenebrosity. Only their silhouettes are revealed as folks grind and writhe against one another, seeking pleasure down here like they somehow deserve it.
Debussy’s Estampes replaces the sonata from before, and for a moment, I’m not participating in this space at all. I’m eleven years old, watching my twin sister twirl around in a ballerina’s tutu while our mother enchants us with tunes from her favorite French composers.
It would be only a few short years before arthritis would rob her of the ability to play the piano at all.
The man at my feet slides his large, brown hand up my thigh, pinching the material of my slacks, and I’m pulled from my rumination. Suddenly, I’m back in the basement, where Avernia’s most depraved can exploit my weaknesses.
