“We are. Now it’s just me and my brother keeping it afloat.” She shrugs. “You know how it is.”
I don’t. Not really. My family doesn’t struggle; they don’t survive. They conquer.
She unzips a duffel bag and pulls out a Blackstone map. “Wanna walk the grounds once we’re unpacked?” she asks. “Scope out the routes. Figure out who’s here this year.”
I nod again, this time with a little more ease. She doesn’t treat me like I’m precious, doesn’t treat me like I’m poisoned either. For the first time today, I almost feel like I might breathe normally again. Almost.
By the timeour bags are unpacked and our beds claimed, the sun’s crawling through the high windows like it’s reluctant to shine here. Blackstone Academy doesn’t feel like it belongs to the real world. It feels like it exists between lives, where past sins breathe, and future ones wait to be born.
Nora stretches, arms overhead, and smirks. “Ready to meet the wolves?”
“Let’s get it over with,” I mutter, pulling my blazer back on.
We step into the corridor, and the air is even thicker than before. It always is when the place is filling with power. You can taste it in the silence.
We wander through the east wing first, high arched ceilings, massive oil paintings with cracked varnish, and rows of lockers more like private vaults than school storage.
Nora walks like she owns the place, even if she doesn’t. In a place like this, confidence keeps you from being eaten. I respectit. She nods at people in passing, mostly Irish kids. Some I recognize. Some I don’t.
In the courtyard, three guys in Blackstone jackets smoke like extras from a gangster film. The tall blond waves us over.
“You two look like fresh meat,” he says, grinning.
“Seasoned enough,” Nora fires back.
We laugh, and it eases my chest. Sean Gallagher, Rory Burke, Lena Doyle. Names that matter back home, kids raised in loyalty and fear.
“Heard they still run midnight sessions,” Lena says, voice low.
“Still not allowed to talk about nights,” Sean says. “Old stories.”
“Ghosts,” Rory mutters.
“What happens if someone breaks the rule?” I ask.
Silence. Maybe they don’t know either.
Rory flicks ash. “You disappear.” True, or just a story to scare us. I don’t question it.
Maybe it’s best not to talk about what we don’t know.
We keep walking toward the west garden.
And I feel it again, that crawl down my spine, like eyes sliding over my skin, stopping at the back of my neck, pressing between my shoulder blades. I don’t need to look to know who it is.
Matteo.
He’s here.
I feel him like static, like a storm cloud rolling in slow and quiet. I grit my teeth, keeping my gaze forward, and head down the corridor like nothing’s happening.
But it’s happening.
I round the corner and slam into him. My breath hisses. His warm calloused hand snags my elbow. I jerk back, his touch still ghosting my skin.
“Hello, little lamb,” he says, low and smooth, mocking, dangerous.
My jaw clenches. “Get out of my way.”
