“Don’t,” Brontë warns again, like I’m a cat pawing a cup toward a table’s edge. This time, though, he’s not hostile; he’s disturbingly somber. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what.”
A teasing grin toys with the edges of my lips. “Your hand is around my throat,monsieur.How else am I supposed to look at you?”
His mouth opens for a retort, but it closes when his eyes flick over my shoulder. “What are the odds?”
My eyebrows pinch as he guides me aside then releases me. I rub the phantom feel of his fingers on my neck as he lifts the lid off a box labeled: Lovecraft. Chills slither up my spine.
Whatarethe odds we find Margot’s belongings by pure chance?
Brontë rifles through manila folders and knick-knacks the sorority advisor left behind. Most of it is meaningless: a name plaque, potted succulents still clinging to life, pastel pens and colorful highlighters. Then he plucks an object woven with twine, raven feathers, animal bones, and blood.
Drawing an invisible pentagram over my heart, I breathe, “Stars bless me.”
“The fuck is it?”
“A death sentence.” I take the poppet, shivers wracking my frame as the bones prick my skin. “I’ve only ever heard of these in Grandpapa Lucian’s stories. Leviathan sends them to those who they want dead, marking their prey before hunting them down.”
“Why the hell would Leviathan target Margot?”
“Lions don’t concern themselves with lambs until they grow claws and teeth.”
Brontë blinks. “Are you still concussed?”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean. Leviathan wouldn’t have bothered Margot unless she was a threat.”
“Margot was harmless.”
“No one is harmless.” My chin tilts as I consider the possibilities. “You mentioned before that Sebastian was related to a Leviathan member. Maybe Margot learned about the connection and got herself mixed up in cult business?”
Brontë’s expression steels over as he scans the stacks we have yet to peruse. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”
Hours and miles of walking later, we find nothing. My feet are dragging as we meet at the exit with sagging shoulders. Tapping his phone light off, Brontë reaches for the door.
Before he can touch it, the lock slides loose, and the handle turns.
I trade my phone for my knife, but then Brontë throws me over his shoulder and sprints for the farthest reaches of the room. Plopping me down in the corner conveniently located behind the messiest shelf in here, he flattens himself against me, pancaking me to the wall.
“Ouch! What are you—”
Brontë claps a hand over my mouth, a finger to his own lips as footsteps methodically pace the stacks. Light flickers back and forth, keys jangling noisily over the faint sound of music and off-pitch humming. A badge glints from between the shelves.
Security. We must’ve stayed past shift change.
If we’re caught, Leviathan will be the least of our worries.
My heart rebels against the fear leaking into its chambers. I can’t stop shaking, my breath bursting from my nostrils in audible blasts.
Brontë, reading me like a book, gives me an incredulous look. I shake my head, unable to contain my growing fright. I’ve avoided the back of a cop cruiser my entire life. It’s not the police I fear. It’s the crown on my head painting a target on my back in the cement blocks after.
Slowly, his hand moves from my mouth to cup my nape. His eyes don’t stray from mine as he lightly massages the tense muscles. I wince as he works a knot free, and his other hand curls around my fist clenching the knife. He thumbs my knuckles, sweeping in soothing strokes. He’s as close as he could possibly be, yet he finds a way to get closer by dipping his chin and pressing his cheek to mine. His warmth caresses me like a blanket, wrapping me in comfort.
My lashes flutter as my nervous system relaxes. Years could’ve passed, and I wouldn’t feel it. All I know is the darkness andhim.
I hear the door close. I don’t move.
