I grip the arms of my chair until my fingers are numb.
Terror slides into my esophagus, blocking my airway.
“What’s the matter, Elder?” the woman rasps, rubbing her face against my leg. “You seem pent-up. We can fix that.”
“Yeah,” the man agrees, the word vibrating against me. A deep gagging noise drowns out the sound of the piano for a moment, and I realize it’s him sucking me down. “Relax and use us. We’re here to serve you, Elder Dupont.”
Part of me wants to note that those are opposing forces—I can hardly let loose and use them at the same time.
I will myself to unclench, but nothing happens. It never does.
The breath stalls in my chest. I count to ten and then twenty, waiting for my dick to cooperate, but all I can do is focus on my breathing. It comes in short, angry bursts, choked by my own fear.
A migraine pounds behind my eyes, fueling the nausea roiling around my gut.
I flinch when one of them—the woman, I see when I open my eyes—presses her lips to mine.
That’s it. The final straw.
Gasping silently, I tear myself from the chair, stumbling over the masked pair when I get to my feet. My fingers tremble as I refasten my pants and slide them casually into my pockets, clearing my throat.
Other partygoers look over, pausing mid-fuck to stare at the commotion. A figure in a dark crimson cloak watches from the shadows. Her mask—gold and oblong, with two snakes slithering up the sides like horns—hides her face, but her pale skin is exposed when she lifts a hand as if to stop the party altogether.
The Director. Mainly responsible for throwing these soirees—ornamental and not much else. She holds no real power over the Death’s Teeth organization, especially if I’m around, despite my objections to claiming responsibility.
Once you do that, the line between selling your soul and giving it away for free is erased. There’s no way to differentiate: You’re just as awful as the rest of them.
She looks at me for several beats, as does the rest of the party. After a moment, though, she flicks her wrist and turns away, sending a shiver down my spine.
The party resumes. Moans fill the air again, drowning me in their noise.
I should stay, if only to keep up appearances. The more I leave early, the more they pay attention to what I’m doing—or rather,notdoing.
But I don’t want to focus on that at the moment, so I duck out instead.
Again.
The Director’s voice is a sensual caress as I pass by on my way to the exit. “There’s always next time, Professor.”
Yes, I think as I extract myself from the crowd, keeping my face down.That’s precisely the problem.
I makemy way through Avernia’s overlapping quadrants, past the Lyceum—the main academic building, a large castle-like structure with its courtyard bordered by various sculptures—and toward the Elysian Dorms, a section of campus home to the four main student housing buildings.
A bright orange haze cuts against the starry night sky, filling me with the heavy dread that’s been a perpetual nuisance since an incident in the caves last semester ended with the deaths of several students.
Only a few made it out alive. My younger brother, Beckett, was one of them—though not a hero by any definition.
He was the match who incited the slaughter, and he nearly paid for it with his life.
I don’t want to imagine the catatonic state Mother would’ve been pushed into had she lost a second child. Bellamy’s death is still a sore subject eight years later.
For all of us.
The clock tower in front of the Obeliskos chimes midnight, and I cut to my left, heading for the light.
At the edge of campus property, where a wrought iron fence cuts off the Primordial Forest, a house is engulfed in angry flames.
It’s the dean’s. The double-paned windows on the second floor are lit up as a fire ravages the lower level, snaking through the wraparound porch to cut off access inside and out.
