and bury it in the woods.
but you already
knew that, prince.
There had to be another way.
Class had been going on for fifteen minutes and their history teacher still hadn’t arrived, but no one complained. They clustered in groups with their phones and talked about the principal’s lecture during assembly hall that morning.Food poisoning after a senior prank gone too far.Wickwood was bent on convincing themselves nothing was wrong with this school, that no goddamn monster had ripped out of the wallpaper.It seemed impossible they would stick to this story, but then maybe everyone had only been blacked out for a few minutes. It had felt like hours. Andrew alone had been suspended in time, choked on shadows and vines and forest decay, and if he told the truth, he’d sound like he’d lost his mind.
“Happy Samhain,” Thomas muttered. “Pretty sure that means all the ghosts and demons and monsters will be at their strongest tonight. And probably their most hungry. We’re so screwed.”
Andrew shook out a hand spasm and kept writing. “The Halloween dance is still on.”
“Of course it is. Can’t have kids whining to their loaded parents that the school is creepy and, worse, boring.” Thomas’s fingers subconsciously pressed against his stomach.
Andrew should have asked about the wound, checked if the hole had grown or changed. His headaches had grown almost unbearable, and part of him knew that was because the forest had gone deeper inside him, nested down and rooted into his darkest places. If he put fingers in his mouth, he could feel it—moss growing at the back of his throat.
The kids in the desks in front of them were whispering about an after-party and who had smuggled alcohol. Listening gave Andrew a disjointed, untethered feeling, as if it was impossible everyone else planned to have fun tonight while he and Thomas would be fighting for their lives.
He flipped back a few pages to the story he’d written last night. A melancholy thing; he wasn’t going to let Thomas see it. A poet with his chest held together by rose vines climbed a tower to kiss his true love, but as their lips touched, a monsterwith a charming smile snaked into the room. It tore into them and stole a piece of their lungs, a liver, a cracked rib to gnaw on. The end only came when the poet sent his rose vines down the monster’s throat to strangle him. But when the poet tried to kiss his true love once more, he couldn’t. Thorns grew in both their mouths. All they could do was bleed.
He should have ripped it up. All his focus had to channel into figuring out the perfect story for tonight.
Cheek still on his desk, Thomas watched Andrew with a kind of hollow, aching want. “Are we…”
“We’re fine.” Andrew bent over his notebook.
They didn’t need to talk about it, not when he should have apologized as much as Thomas had for all the foul things that had been said yesterday. There would be time enough to figure it out later. All that mattered was the way Thomas had held him last night, reverent and desperate and terrified all at once, and how he’d pressed his mouth to Andrew’s head. It felt right. It felt perfect.
I want you always.
The history teacher finally hurried into the classroom, frazzled and stressed, and she gave them a waspish lecture about wasting time instead of doing independent study while they waited. She broke off as someone rapped on the doorframe.
“Open your books,” she snapped, and went to answer.
“What are you writing?” Thomas whispered.
But Andrew didn’t have time to answer, because the classroom door opened again, and this time Principal Adelaide Grant appeared, her white hair in a merciless, tight bun and her pantsuit impeccable. She cleared her throat, but she didn’t needto bother. The entire class had already ground to a halt to stare at her.
“Andrew Perrault. I need you to come with me, please.”
The wave of icy panic that swept through Andrew left him nauseous, too frozen to move, to understand why she would pull him of all people. All he could think was,She knows.
That he sacrificed Clemens.
That he killed the dream ravager.
That he hit a boy instead of confessed he loved him.
That if anyone peeled apart his ribs, they’d see the darkness knit into his flesh.
“Leave your things.” The principal looked impatient at his failure to comply.
He stacked his books, numb and clumsy, but grabbed his notebook at the last second because he always felt better with it in hand. One glance at Thomas, whose face had gone white under his freckles, made Andrew’s stomach flip over. Thomas started to rise, but the principal gave a dismissive wave of her hand as if he were but a moth drawn to the flame she was about to extinguish.
Dead silence followed Andrew out of the classroom and into the corridor. He should ask what was going on, protest this—or should he stay silent? His limp, traitorous tongue made the decision for him by turning to wood in his mouth, and he said nothing as he followed the principal up to the faculty floor. He had to pull it together because he looked guilty: his darting eyes, his trembling fingers, the way he could barely get a word past the mud in his throat. Walking down the newly refurbishedhall where Clemens had been murdered made his head spin. The worst part was how he was right next to the most powerful woman in this school and he couldn’t even tell her what was really going on.
There are monsters in the woods. You need to get everyone out—
