Page 61 of The Alchemists

She tore down the hallway, blindly headed for the exit at the far end of the building. One of them collided with her, taking her down from behind, and a vivid spike of pain traveled up her shoulder from her wrist as she slammed into the ground. Hands clawed at her legs and she sobbed, choking hoarsely, as fear pressed down speech.

He flipped her onto her back, and she kicked and bucked, even as she knew, intrinsically, that she was completely fucked. Her mind was a blank sheet, so whited out that she couldn’t even imagine what they wanted with her. All she knew was that only one of them was in the hallway with her, on top of her, and she would do anything to get free.

“I’ve got it!” Braithwhite’s voice sounded very far away.

Suddenly, Hawleyhurst stilled. The fact that she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t attempt to read the intention behind his own mask, made it so much worse.

“Well then.” His voice was closer than she’d expected, and she flinched. He laughed. “That’s all then. Thanks, Lils.”

He swung his knee over her hips and she didn’t wait—she ran.

Hawleyhurst’s laughter echoed down the hallway after her and followed her into the night.

SEB

It was a mistake. He knew it as soon as he saw Gemma, swathed in soft folds of silver gauze. She was gorgeous, impeccable. She looked exactly like what he should want. Instead, all he could think of was that her outfit reminded him of Dream-Lily. Dream-Lily, who paved a bone-white road across the lake and drowned him in the most benevolent way possible, all while ringed by a nimbus of glittering moonbeams.

Gemma was even wearing a halo crown. There was a nonzero chance of him losing an eye tonight. He stared blankly at her for a moment, sure that he either talked in his sleep or that she had secretly attained PhD-level prognostication skills. Both seemed equally plausible.

“Wow,” he said, because he had nothing else to say.

“You ready to go?” she said from beneath endless silver-black lashes.

“Y-yeah.”

He stared at the folds of her robe. They were translucent, slipping around her curves, enchanted to protect what modesty she wanted to hold on to. His cravat felt suddenly tight. He loosened it with a finger and turned to the apartment.

“You guys ready?”

Tori whistled as she saw Gemma. “Let’s get fucked.”

The dance was in the campus center, beneath vaulting glass ceilings, closed in by brick walls. The round tables that normally flocked the first floor were gone, replaced by refreshment stands and ringed by elaborate candlescapes. Artificial stars hovered near the ceiling. The bass throbbed steadily.

Seb slipped Gemma out of her coat, deposited it, and returned with drinks. As they clinked glasses, Gemma fixed him with a hunting look and his stomach twisted. He was stupid, so fucking stupid, and he didn’t know how to fix it. Of course there was no fixing it now, only damage control. He dragged her over to Asher and Tori, joined by her date, an underclassman.

Asher handed him a flask full of O Muse, and Seb drank gratefully. Anything to avoid the truth. Where was Lily now, he wondered? In the faded Victorian on Fountain Avenue? Somewhere on campus?

The thought of her on campus, within reach, was almost unbearable. Once it entered his mind, he couldn’t dislodge it. He needed to get away somewhere he could text her. Ever since that first night in Québec, the letter had been running through his head, one line in particular: Yet somehow Fate, that slow weaving, merciless and merciful mistress, has thrown us together, like twin opposites, into the alembic.

Twin opposites.

Fate.

The alembic.

Chant had said that alchemy was the study of that which is commonly held between two things, no matter how disparate they may seem. There was a thread, invisible, running between him and Lily Perkins. If you boiled them down to their essence, that thread would remain.

“We should have done a couple’s costume,” Gemma said, her voice low.

Seb said automatically, “We always go in a group costume.”

She shrugged, and he didn’t quite know how to read it. He found, more than anything, that he was upset that she was taking up space in his thought process when there was only one thing he wanted to think about.

“Here, Asher, take a few of us?” Gemma thrust her phone at Asher, whose sudden wide eyes rendered him a pretty passable, extremely tan Percy Shelley. She draped herself over Seb’s shoulder. “At least our costumes don’t clash.” Her crown stabbed him in the ear.

“Let’s make the rounds.”

He nodded, trying to keep the building hysteria at bay. Eventually she steered them toward her sister and a group of her friends, dressed as the Muses, and Daphne glowered at him, or her sister, or at them together—he wasn’t sure which.