Lana’s fury rolled over her face in a tidal wave. “It’s incredible how you think being a bigot is still trendy or that no one will report your asinine comments. Because I will. There’s zero tolerance for bullying in this school.”
Bryce smirked. “Zero tolerance for murder, too.”
Thomas tried to lunge, but Lana grunted as she held on while Andrew put both hands on his shoulders and pedaled him backward.
“That’s your comeback?” Lana’s serrated smile could haveflayed skin. “No defense for how you’re obsessed with talking about the supposed sex life of minors? Aren’t you already eighteen, Bryce? It’s looking a bit predatory now.”
His smile dropped. An ugly purple flushed over his face and he moved toward her. “Slander me again, Lang, and I’ll—”
Chloe popped out of her chair, voice artificially cheerful. “Oh, I think Ms. Bevan is coming over.”
The threat of anyone with authority seeing the ugly side of the school’s golden boy had Bryce rearranging his simmering rage into a sneering smile. He swept past, pausing only to pat Thomas on the head, each thump harder than the last, then he took off with his vultures in tow. Andrew’s bones felt like dust, his lungs full of feathers, and he was sure Lana had done the true work of holding Thomas back. He was a wisp of cloud barely gripping a comet.
With the coast clear and no teacher appearing, Lana released Thomas’s shirt and he stumbled forward only to be caught by Andrew.
Lana gave Thomas a scathing once-over. “You need to cool it.”
A muscle flexed in Thomas’s jaw. “If he touches Andrew again, I’m killing him.”
“Or maybe don’t talk like that?” Chloe said, small and timid. “After everything…”
Thomas didn’t even spare her a glance. “I hate this school. I hateallof them. Everyone pretends to be so perfect and clever, so bursting with ‘potential,’ and all they do is layer money over their shit. This school grows foul, poisonous spores and calls them roses.”
Andrew plucked at Thomas’s sleeve. “It’s okay.” It barely made it out of his mouth, the words breathless, too thin to offer comfort.
But Lana watched Thomas with something almost curious behind her glower. “I mean, you’re not wrong. Who hit you, by the way?”
Andrew shoved his hands in his pockets, but her eyes tracked his quick movement and he wished he’d done nothing.
“I’ll tell them you said thank you,” Thomas said, cold.
Lana rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I’m reporting Bryce Kane. Some people get high off making other people feel worthless. They’re monsters.”
Something flickered behind Andrew’s ribs.
They knew how to deal with monsters.
TWENTY-TWO
The forest came alive that night as they slipped between the trees. Leaves skittered in their footsteps on a breeze they couldn’t feel, and something crawled through the underbrush with a form they couldn’t see. It was the witching hour and Thomas held a sketchbook and Andrew gripped the hatchet.
The prince and his poet climbed over fallen logs, soft with moss and fungi, and the shadows made it look as if they wore crowns of holly berries and thorns.
Andrew would write them as a story someday. He’d make the blackest parts beautiful and he’d write the kisses bloody and the vengeance sweet.
It was going to work tonight. They’d win, they had to. They had the answer.
Ink already stained Thomas’s fingers as he put his back to a shadowed pine and sank into a crouch. He balanced the sketchbook on his knees and propped his flashlight up beside him.
“I finished drawing the monster in study hall,” he said. “As soon as it appears, I’ll draw a noose of vines around its throat.”
Blood crusted behind Andrew’s ear. He rubbed his head against his shoulder and tried to reassure himself the wound was only oozing pus now, not mud. An improvement… sort of.
He adjusted his grip on the hatchet and zipped his fleecy jacket up to his throat. “How do we know that’s the one that will come out?”
“I’ve destroyed everything else.” Thomas sounded strained. “It doesn’t even make sense how they’re still appearing. If I’m not drawing monsters, why haven’t we won?”
“What about art class?”
