At least one, possibly all three, of the students Ophelia spent her free time with were part of Moloch’s cult. Once I’d noted their early and eager interest in her, it only took some digging into their families and cross-referencing with my older notesto uncover their lineage. Descendents of apostles and already granted the gift of transforming into stolas. An oversight on my part that I hadn’t noticed sooner. I’d succumbed to Ophelia’s captivating aura as much as they had.
The way sharks were attracted to blood in the water, the monsters were lured to the essence of their traitor. It was their mistake thinking they would ever get their feathery talons on her. She was mine, and I would burn them all to the ground to keep her.
Undeterred by her current denial of the situation, I knew she’d find herself in my arms again. I had done my part and spread the truth out before her; it was on her to grasp it and come to terms with the monsters creeping closer to her backdoor.
The attacks were increasing in frequency, and tonight one of the hideous owls was creeping up the back steps to the wrap-around porch. This one must be young given the hubris to march right up to the house as if to knock on the door and be granted entry. Their surging desperation was almost worrisome.
The Ashcroft dagger slipped from my sleeve and landed in my gloved hand.
Breath slow and steady, heart thumping with anticipation, I silently crossed the night-darkened yard. So focused on the dampened noises of Ophelia inside the house, the monster failed to register my presence nearing. My eyes narrowed on the gap between the monster’s wing where ribs met spine.
The stolas reached a clawed hand toward the knob of the back porch door.
Adrenaline and possession spiked in my blood.
My every thought, every instinct, revolved around Ophelia.
They couldn’t have her—she wasmine.
The silver blade gleamed under the moonlight when I lunged.
Sticky, hot blood dripped from my face as I grimaced down at the corpse in the dewy grass. Hot breaths sawed from my lungs as I came down from the high energy of a fight, but concern and agitation still coursed in my veins like a plague.
I swiped the stained dagger on my trousers before sheathing it at my hip. Eyes narrowed and frown set, I crouched to examine the body closer; shaved head, vacant eyes, mouth parted from the unheard gasp of their final breath. A familiar face, sure, but more importantly, another opposing piece struck from the playing board.
Mere yards away, Ophelia slept comfortably in her bed, none the wiser about the fight and consequent death in her backyard. It was better that way. She was a brilliant girl who needed all the rest she could get. And I would provide that for her along with the peace of mind that her home was the safest place for her.
After all, I took care of my belongings.
24
Professor Quinn had a habit of darting through the door as soon as his instruction ended. Better to flee from overzealous students before they could entrap him with a circus of questions. No, he thought himself above that menial drivel and senseless waste of time. A man of his status had better things to do than listen to young adults question him on the syllabus or why a missing historical artifact mattered in the long term.
He’d stared during the lecture, of course.
Eyes darting in my direction and lingering longer than necessary as he paced behind the barrier of his podium. If I caught his eye and bit my lip, his throat would bob on a thick swallow. That oceanic gaze would drip lower on every pass, sending electric frissons over my skin, knowing that he was admiring the shape of my legs.
But maybe that was exactly why he ended class early and fled like his life depended on it. Avoidance.
A taste of my own medicine.
When all the other students drained out of the lecture hall in that gradual trickle of fatigued bodies shuffling through a tight threshold, I stayed behind. No one looked back or second-guessed their departure. All too eager to make their escape from academia into the fog-shrouded night where their tired feet maintained the energy to ferry them to frat parties and crowdedbars. If I were smarter, maybe I’d be one of them and not a frantic mess chasing after her professor.
I left the class in the dark, scurrying from the lecture hall toward his office. Determined to find him and demand answers, my boots clicked on the sidewalk as I rushed through the cold. My breath swirled from my lips, and the chill crawled over my skin as incessant as hundreds of icy ants. I hurried, not wanting to spend more time in the dark than strictly necessary.
A hair-raising prickle at the back of my neck served as a reminder that the school wasn’t safe.
Silence had acted as a security blanket to me for most of my life. I found peace in the quiet, sanctuary from the noise and traffic of the world. Now that same silence bore a crushing oppression in the form of an unseen obscenity. Monsters lurking on campus grounds and acting as a foreboding pest, threatening shadows rippling on the edge of my periphery, and the edge of terror always balanced knife-sharp over my neck.
Feelings worsened by the abnormalities rising in an ebb and flow around me as consuming as a daunting tide. Things in my room and bathroom weren’t always where I left them. My books had a disturbing new habit of growing legs and waltzing off when I wasn’t looking. There was always a freshly brewed pot of coffee in the morning, even when I knew I had forgotten to prepare it the night before.
I passed a dew-coated bench at the back corner of the quad. Mini ghost-like wisps swirled around the iron-wrought legs, and browned leaves skittered along the pavement. A lonesome, whistling gust of air lifted the ends of my hair.
A rustle turned my head.
Awareness prickled through me.
I had become familiar with the sensation of being watched.
