"I knew I liked you, Mercer," he said when we'd finally stopped cackling, and I was glad I could blame my suddenly red cheeks on the laughter.
"But wait," I said, leaning on one of the shelves, trying to catch my breath. "If everybody gets betrothed at thirteen, isn't she already set to marry somebody else?"
He nodded. "But I told you, it's a voluntary thing. A betrothal can always be renegotiated. I mean, I'm considered something of a catch."
"And so modest too," I replied, tossing my pen at him.
He caught it with ease.
From above us, the door gave its death scream, and we both leaped to our feet guiltily, like we'd been making out or something.
Suddenly the image of me and Archer kissing against one of the shelves flooded my brain, and I felt the blush in my cheeks spread to the rest of my body. Without meaning to, I glanced at his lips. When I raised my eyes to his, he was looking at me with an expression that was totally inscrutable. But just like the look he'd given me on the stairs the first night, this one left me feeling breathless. I was actually glad when the Vandy shouted, "Mercer! Cross!"
Her harsh grating voice was the auditory equivalent of a cold shower, and the tension of the moment vanished. My lusty thoughts were pretty much gone by the time we were out of the cellar.
"Same time, same place, Wednesday," the Vandy said as we practically sprinted for the main staircase.
Naturally, Elodie was waiting for Archer in the second-floor lounge.
She was sitting on the grubby blue couch. A nearby lamp cast a soft golden glow on her flawless skin, and picked up the ruby highlights in her hair.
I turned to Archer, but he was staring at Elodie like . . . well, like I was staring at him.
I didn't even bother saying good night. I just jogged up the stairs to my room.
Jenna wasn't there, and after all that cellar grossness, I was in definite need of a shower. I grabbed a towel out of my trunk and a tank top and pajama bottoms out of my dresser.
Our floor was fairly deserted. Boys and girls didn't have to separate until nine, and it was just now seven, so I figured everybody was hanging out in the drawing rooms downstairs.
My mind still on Archer (and the general suckiness of having an unrequited crush on someone dating a goddess), I made my way to the bathroom and opened the door. The room was shrouded in heavy steam, and
I could barely see in front of me. As I stepped forward, warm water sloshed around my feet. I could hear the sound of running bathwater.
"Hello?" I called.
There was no answer, so my first thought was that someone had left a faucet on as a joke. Mrs. Casnoff would not be amused. Hot water isn't great for two-hundred-year-old floors.
Then the steam began to part, flowing through the open door behind me.
And I saw why the faucet was still on.
It took a long time for my eyes to accept what they were seeing. At first I thought maybe Chaston was just asleep in the tub and that the water was tinted pink from bath salts or something. Then I realized her eyes weren't closed, but sort of half-mast, almost like she was drunk. And the water was pink from her blood.
I noticed the tiny puncture wounds just below her jaw, and longer, more vicious-looking slashes on both her wrists, which were dripping blood onto the floor.
Without even thinking, I rushed to her side, mumbling a healing spell.
It wasn't a very good one, I knew. The most I'd ever been able to get it to do was heal a skinned knee, but I thought it was worth a try. As I watched, the small holes on her neck seemed to pucker briefly, only to sag back open. I made a sound like a sob. God, why was my magic so shitty?
Chaston's eyes fluttered for a moment, and she opened her mouth like she was trying to say something.
I ran for the doorway. "Mrs. Casnoff! Anyone! Help!"
Several heads appeared in doorways.
"Oh God," I heard someone whimper. "Not again."
Mrs. Casnoff appeared at the top of the stairs in a robe, her hair in a long braid down her back. As soon as she saw where I was, her face paled.
And for some reason, seeing her look so scared was what broke me. My knees started shaking and I felt my throat tighten with tears. "It's . . . it's
Chaston," I managed to get out. "She . . . There's blood . . ."
Mrs. Casnoff grabbed me and looked into the bathroom. Her hands tightened on my shoulders. She leaned down and stared into my face.
"Sophia, I need you to go get Cal as quickly as you can. Do you know where his quarters are?"
My brain felt like a scrambled egg, like in those old drug commercials. "The groundskeeper?" I asked stupidly. What could Mrs.
Casnoff want with him? Was he like an EMT or something?
Mrs. Casnoff nodded, her grip still tight on my shoulders. "Yes. Cal," she repeated. "He lives next to the pond. Get him and tell him what's happened."
I turned and ran for the stairs. As I ran, I saw Jenna coming out of our room. I thought I heard her calling my name, but by then I was already out the front door and into the night.
Even though the day had been warm, now it was cold enough to make goose bumps stand up on my arms. The only light came from the school behind me, those huge windows making even bigger rectangles of light on the lawn. Knowing the lake was to my left, I turned that way and kept running, the cool air going in and out of my lungs like knives. I could just make out a dark lumpy shape that I really, really hoped was Cal's house, and not, like, a storage shack or something. Even though I was trying to push the panic away, all I could see was Chaston bleeding to death on those black-
and-white tiles.
As I got closer, I saw that it was definitely a house. I could hear faint music coming from inside, and there was a little bit of light in the window.
By now I was breathing so hard I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get any words out.
I only had to bang on the door for about three seconds before it was flung open, and Cal stood before me.
I'd assumed he'd be old and burly with a side order of crotchety, so I was really shocked to find myself facing the jock guy I'd seen on the first day, the one I thought might have been someone's older brother. He couldn't have been more than nineteen, and his only concession to burliness was a flannel shirt and his vaguely annoyed expression.
"Students aren't allowed--" he started, but I cut him off.
"Mrs. Casnoff sent me to get you. It's Chaston. She's hurt."
As soon as I'd said "Mrs. Casnoff," he'd closed the door behind him.
Then he was moving past me and running across the yard toward the house.
Wiped out from my earlier sprint, I lagged behind.