He kisses my forehead, then slips away, standing by the fountain with the others.
I stand on the steps, lighter in hand, matchbox in my pocket, blood drying stiff on my arms and legs. For the first time all night, I am alone.
It feels perfect.
I turn and look at the doors of Westpoint. I press my hand to the glass and watch my reflection—hair wild, face striped red, dress ruined. The girl I see is not the girl who arrived here, or the one who tried to escape, or the one who begged to be seen. She is someone new. Someone worth being.
The door pops open as I push against it, the sound masked by the wind and the shrieks of birds that sense something about to die.
Inside, the school is empty and echoing. The lights are on in the great hall—always are, some timer programmed to welcome the lost souls of overachievers—but the air is dead, unmoving. I walk the corridor, dress dripping behind me like a bridal veil, and I listen to the tick of my own heart. It’s slower now. Steady.
I move down the main hall, past the photos of every valedictorian and Hunt champion, their perfect faces staring out from behind glass. I pause at the Class of 2003, trace a bloody finger across my mother’s smile, then keep going.
The alarm box is at the intersection of the four main wings, hidden behind a glass panel. I punch through it with my fist, skin splitting open on the edge, but I barely feel the pain. The blood smears the panel as I yank down the red handle.
For a second, nothing. Then the world ends in a howl. The fire alarm shatters the quiet, a scream that pulses through the walls and vibrates the bones of the building. It is an animal sound, a warning, a challenge.
I stand and listen for a count of ten, then slip into the shadow behind the founder’s statue. The old man stands, granite and stern, clutching a book in one hand and a dagger in the other. He looks like every man I have ever hated, every man who thought his own rules would never burn.
The sound works fast. Doors slam open up and down the hallway. The first wave is faculty, already dressed, faces set in the blank efficiency of people who think emergencies are always for someone else. They don’t even glance at me. I am invisible, a ghost, just another stain on the wall.
The next is the students. They come in clumps, pajama pants and rumpled shirts, some sobbing, some laughing. Some bring their phones and livestream the chaos, the screens glowing pale as they file past me. I see girls in slippers, boys in boxers, a few in full prep uniform. Some have their arms around each other, some move alone, some in packs. The humanity of them is both sickening and touching.
No one sees me. I am not what they expect to see.
I recognize a few—girls who were sweet to me, boys who mocked me, faculty who wrote the notes that said “Amara is a promising candidate.” I don’t feel anything for them. Not anger, not joy. I just want them to be gone.
The last straggler is a man I don’t know, maybe a visiting professor or a Board intern. He trips in the rush, books scattering. I watch him try to scoop them up, then give up and flee, leaving the work of his life behind. When the corridor is empty, I step out.
The alarm keeps screaming. The statue’s eyes seem to track me as I move back the way I came.
Through the open door I see them—my army, my monsters, my family.
I step onto the steps and wave.
They surge in as a group, boots smearing red across the tile, gasoline already dripping from the lids. The smell is immediate—rich and danger, and the memory of so many summer barbecues my father never let me attend.
Julian moves to my side. His arm goes around my waist, tight and claiming, and for a moment I feel safe.
Then he leans down, mouth warm against my ear.
“Where to first?”
I know what he wants. I want it too.
“My dorm.”
He grins. “Lead the way, my lady.”
I do.
We skip down the main corridor, flanked by the laughter of my new kin, the promise of violence in every stride.
“Everyone fan out, let’s light this joint on fire.”
We are not quiet. We don’t need to be.
This is ours now.
