He sets the cans down with a grunt and wipes his hands on his pants, which are already so ruined it barely matters. He says nothing at first, just looks at us—me and Julian, Bam and Dahlia, Colton and Eve, Rhett and Isolde—and there is an understanding that whatever we did tonight, whatever high-water mark we thought we reached, it’s not finished. He shakes Cai’s hand and nods.
It won’t be finished until there’s nothing left to bury.
Slade finally speaks. “The rest of the school’s waking up. Time to move.”
He tosses a matchbox towards me. The cardboard is sticky as I catch it; the blood on my hands makes it glue to my palm. I stare at it for a moment and tuck it into the pocket of my dress.
Suddenly, I’m hyper aware of the dress. The way it clings to my skin, heavier now that it’s soaked through and gone from white to blotched pink, a deranged tie-dye of my father’s blood. When I move, it tugs against my legs. I am covered in it, painted and baptized.
Probably the most honest baptism I’ve ever received.
I thought I’d feel something, watching him die.
But…
I don’t. I feel nothing. Nothing except hope that my brother will understand and leave me the fuck alone. My father never treated him right either.
Julian licks the blood off his lips and smiles, something ugly and beautiful in the same breath. He finds my hand, weaving his fingers with mine, and the heat of his palm makes my bones feel real again. The blood on his arms is not all his own, but he wears it like a king. Like every drop is a mark of victory.
The Feral Boys step forward, each grabbing a can of gasoline by the handle. They carry them with ease, as if the weight means nothing, and fall into a loose formation. The girls fall in beside them, dresses all turned the same ruined red, faces wild and unmasked by fear. There is no symmetry to our group. We are a ragtag group with one mission.
We don’t speak as we move out, but I hear their breathing, the scrape of shoes on wet leaves and mud, the creak of bones stiff from violence. Bam walks up front, the can dangling in one hand, the other wrapped tight around Dahlia’s shoulders.
Colton and Eve follow, arms slung around each other’s waists, chatting to each other like this is a Sunday morning walk. It’s cute, if you ignore the fact that they look like they just showered in a blood waterfall.
Rhett holds the can in one hand, the other bracing Isolde’s elbow. She walks slow, each step careful, but there’s a pride to her, a refusal to let her body make her a spectator. She still looks perfectly beautiful but there’s a touch of sadness on her. Like she was disappointed that she couldn’t participate.
Cai walks with Slade, his phone to his ear as he fills Ophelia in about how it went. There’s a sweetness to his tone, like he’s reassuring her that she’s safe. That their baby is safe.
Julian and I bring up the rear. His eyes never leave my face, scanning for something I don’t know how to name. Every so often he squeezes my hand, and I want to ask him what feelingnumb that means. Instead, I keep pace, every step carrying me farther from the person I was.
We walk for what feels like hours but is only minutes. Time has stretched and snapped so many times tonight I no longer trust it.
When we finally hit the path, Westpoint sits ahead, a dark mass against the lightening sky. The old part of campus—stone and slate, built by hands that thought they were founding something eternal—rises from the ground like a tombstone. The new wings spread off from it, glass and chrome and steel, ugly as hell in the daylight but easy to burn.
We pause at the edge of the forest. There’s no one out, but lights are on in some of the dorm windows. I see a janitor’s golf cart cruise the service road, orange beacon twirling. I wonder if he’ll even notice when the flames start.
Julian stops me just short of the quad. He drops his can and pulls me in, so close I feel the heat coming off him, and tilts my head up with two fingers. He uses his thumbs to smear the blood on my face, marking my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. He does it slow, so I feel every trace, every little ritual caress.
When he’s done, he leans his forehead to mine, and I inhale.
I don’t know when it started, but his scent has become my drug.
“You know what to do?” he whispers.
I nod, though I don’t. I just know I have to be the one to do it. Maybe it’s the only way to prove—to myself, to him, to everyone still alive in this hellhole—that I’m not just the Dean’s bitch. That I am what I choose to be.
He smiles. His mouth is so soft it almost cracks me in half. “Go pull the alarm. Once you’re done, come out and we’re going to end this. I’m right behind you.”
There is no more talk. No more planning. We look like a wedding party marching to the altar, except the only vows we’re making are to never take shit again.
At the Academy’s front steps, I halt and let the others fan out. Bam peels off to the right, Dahlia hissing in his ear as she points to the admin building. Colton and Eve head for the chapel. Rhett, Cai, Slade and Isolde hang back, waiting for me to go pull the alarm.
Julian keeps his hand in mine until the last second, then presses something into my palm—a silver lighter, engraved with the crest of his family. “For good luck.”
I stare at it, feeling the weight of expectation settle on my shoulders.
“Be a good girl,” he says, voice so low only I can hear it. “Set us free.”
