Sweet Nightmare

PROLOGUE

NIGHT AFTER NIGHT-MARE

– JUDE –

I know your worst nightmare.

No, not that one. The other one.

The one you don’t trot out at parties.

The one you don’t whisper to your best friend late at night.

The one you don’t even acknowledge to yourself until it’s three a.m. and the lights are out and you’re too paralyzed with fear to even reach your arm out and flick on the bedside lamp. So you lay there, heart racing, blood pumping, ears straining for the slide of the window, the creak of the door, the footstep on the stairs.

The monster under the bed.

The monster inside your head.

Don’t be ashamed. Everyone has one—even me.

Mine always starts out the same.

Full moon. Hot, sticky air. Moss hanging low enough to brush your face on a late-night walk. Waves crashing against the shore. A cottage—a girl—a storm—a dream, forever out of reach.

I know it doesn’t sound like much, but the story isn’t in the setup. It’s in the blood and the betrayal.

So fall asleep if you dare. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Because the only thing I can promise is that my nightmares are worse than yours.

 

CHAPTER ONE

NO SUCH THING AS A QUICK ESCAPE

– CLEMENTINE –

Of all the punishments this school for misfits and fuckups could throw at a person, I can’t believe I’m stuck with this one. Just last week, one of the new vamps nearly drained a witch and all she got was dish duty.

Ironic? Absolutely.

Fair? Not even close.

Then again, here at Calder Academy, fair is pretty much a nebulous concept, right up there with safety and good judgment. Hence the reason my mother—aka the headmaster not-so-extraordinaire of this not-so-extraordinary establishment—thinks assigning me to chrickler duty is actually a reasonable thing for an administrator to do.

Spoiler alert: it’s not. It is, however, absolutely miserable. Not to mention dangerous as hell.

Still, nearly three years of this nightmare have taught me a few tricks—chief among them, to walk softly—and slowly—and carry a really big bag of kibble.

A quick scan of the large, shadowy enclosure shows me the food has once again done its job. The little monsters are actually distracted—at least for now.

With that thought in mind, I take a small, calculated step back toward the door. When none of the chricklers raises so much as a furry eyebrow, let alone actually looks up from their long troughs full of kibble, I take another. And another. The old, wooden door that separates me from the basement hallway is almost in reach. A couple more steps and I might actually make it out of here without losing any blood.

Hope, like assholery, springs eternal.

A drop of sweat slides down my spine as I take another cautious step backward. Then I hold my breath as I reach behind me for the old-fashioned latch that keeps the chricklers—and me—locked in this cool, dark pen.

But the moment my fingers touch the lock, a huge clap of thunder rumbles across the sky.

Shit, shit, shit.

Hundreds of heads lift at the same exact time—and every single one of them turns straight toward me. Eyes narrow. Teeth flash. Growls echo off the rough stone walls.

And just like that, I’m totally fucked.

Nails skitter across the floor as they race toward me as one.

Fuck slow and steady. I whirl around and dive for the door just as the first wave reaches me.

Nails rake down my calves as I fumble for the door. I shake off the first few then gasp as teeth tear into my thigh and hip. Reaching down with one hand, I rip several more of the little bastards off of me.

But one enterprising chrickler manages to hang tight as it climbs up my back. It’s got long, pointy teeth that scrape a gash across my shoulder while its longer, even pointier claws drag straight down my right biceps as it tries to hang on. I muffle a yelp as fresh blood—my blood—hits the toe of my battered but beloved Adidas Gazelles, but I don’t bother trying to pull it off a second time. Freedom is right here. I just have to reach out and take it…and avoid getting swarmed yet again while I do. I flounder around trying to flip the iron latch. The lever is ancient and likes to jam—but I’ve done this enough to know all the tricks. I push the left side in, jimmy the right side up, and pull as hard as I can. The latch gives way just as another chrickler—or maybe the same one, who can tell at this point—bites down hard on my ankle. To shake it off, I kick straight back as hard as I can and wildly thrash my leg around while simultaneously yanking on the door, also as hard as I can. It’s heavy and my shoulder is throbbing, but I ignore the pain as the door finally moves. I rip the last chrickler off my shoulder and dive through an opening barely wider than my hips before slamming the door close behind me.

To make sure nothing follows me out—chricklers are sneaky like that—I throw my back against the old wood as hard as I can. Just as I do, my best friend, Luis, saunters into the dim light of the basement hallway. “Looking for something?” He holds up my first aid kit, then stops short as he finally gets a good look at me. “Damn, Clementine. Has anyone ever told you that you really know how to make an entrance?”

“Don’t you mean an exit?” I rasp, ignoring the horrified look on his face. “The incoming storm must have riled up the chricklers more than usual today.”

“‘Riled up’? Is that what you want to call it?” he shoots back but is nearly drowned out by a loud, animalistic crying coming from behind the door. “What is that godawful noise?”

“I don’t know.” I glance around, but I don’t see anything. Then again, this entire hallway is lit up by exactly one sad, bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, so it’s not like I’ve got a fantastic view. Like the rest of this school, darkness is definitely the basement’s friend.

But the crying is definitely getting louder…and now I can tell it’s coming from inside the pen.

“Oh, shit.” As I slide the last lock into place, I see a small chrickler paw caught between the door and the frame.

Luis follows my stare. “Fuck, no. Clementine, don’t even think about it!”

I know he’s right, but— “I can’t just leave the poor thing like that.”

“That ‘poor thing’ just tried to eat your entrails!” he shoots back.

“I know! Believe me, I know!” Considering how many parts of my body are currently throbbing, it would be impossible for me to forget about it.

He rolls his silver wolf eyes so hard I’m a little surprised they don’t actually disappear into his skull.

By now the crying has turned into muffled little yelps and I can’t just leave the thing like that, monster or not. “I have to open the door, Luis.”

“Damn it, Clementine!” But even as he says it, he’s moving behind me to back me up. “I want the record to state that I oppose this decision.”

“The record shall so reflect,” I tell him as I take a deep breath and reluctantly flip open the lock I just closed. “Here goes nothing.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

AT YOUR BECK AND CALDER

“Keep your hand on the door!” Luis urges as he leans over my shoulder to micromanage, something he tries to do in so many areas of my life.

“I’m planning on it,” I answer, wrapping one hand around the handle and bracing the second one directly above it so I can push the door shut as soon as the chrickler’s paw slips free.

I pull what I’m hoping is just hard enough, and the second the paw slips back through the opening, I throw all my weight behind the door and slam it shut again as hard as I can. By some miracle, I actually manage not to create a new disaster.

A chorus of outraged yowls arises from the enclosure, but nothing escapes.

I’m safe…at least until the next time.

Exhausted now that the last burst of adrenaline has left my body, I lean back against the door, slide down until my butt hits the floor, and then breathe. Just breathe.

Luis sinks down next to me, nodding to the first aid kit he’s dropped a few feet away. He’s taken to bringing it down here for me every day that I have chrickler duty—and, unfortunately, I’ve rarely not needed it. “We might want to get started patching you up. The bell’s going to ring in a few minutes.”

I groan. “I thought I was getting faster at this.”

“There’s faster and then there’s fast,” he says with a rueful grin. “You really don’t have to make sure every single one of the little monsters’ bowls is filled with perfectly cold ice water. Room temp will suffice.”

“It’s September. In Texas. Cold water is a necessity.”

“And what thanks do you get for your concern?” His black hair flops over his left eye as he looks at the shredded sleeve of my T-shirt—and the deep scratches below.

It’s my turn to roll my eyes as I reach for the first aid kit. “The headmaster stays off my back?”

“I’m sure your mother would understand you giving them room-temperature water if it means saving yourself copious amounts of blood loss. She is the one who insists on boarding these damn things, after all.” He eyes the large Band-Aid I’ve extracted from the kit as we’ve been talking. “Want help with that?”

“Maybe,” I answer grudgingly. “Just do the one on my back, okay? And I think the whole point of chrickler duty is that it’s a punishment, so I am not sure my mother has my feelings at the top of her list.”

He snorts in acknowledgment of this truth as he drags the collar of my red uniform shirt down just enough so that he can slap the bandage on my scratched and still-bleeding shoulder. “But it’s not like you got yourself sent to this school for some nefarious deed or big, bad behavior like the rest of us.”

“And yet here I am. The joys of being a Calder…”

“Yeah, well, Calder or not, you’ve got to lay off chrickler duty or I don’t think you’ll actually make it to graduation.”

“Oh, I’m making it to graduation,” I tell him as I slap on a few more bandages, “if for no other reason than I can finally, finally, get the hell off this island.”

I’ve been counting down the days since freshman year. Now that I’m finally a senior, I’m not about to let anything stand in the way of me getting out of this hellhole and actually starting a life somewhere where I don’t have to watch my back—and every other part of myself—every second of every day.

“One more year,” Luis says as he holds out a hand for the first aid kit. “Then we’re both out of here.”

“More like two hundred and sixty-one days.” I shove the box of bandages back in the first aid kit and hand it to him. Then I push to my feet, ignoring all the places that hurt.

As we start down the depressingly dank hallway, the lightbulb starts to sway and sizzle in the completely still corridor. “What the hell is that?” asks Luis.

“A strong suggestion that we get a move on,” I answer, because lingering in the Calder Academy basement/dungeon is never a good idea. But before we can take more than a few steps, the bulb makes a popping sound. Seconds later, a bunch of sparks explode out of it—right before the hallway is plunged into darkness.

“Well, this certainly isn’t eerie at all,” Luis deadpans, coming to a complete stop to peer hesitantly into the black.

“You can’t honestly be afraid of the dark, can you?” I can’t resist goading him as I pull my phone out of my pocket.

“Of course not. I am a wolf, you know. I do have night vision.”

“Doesn’t make you less of a chicken,” I tease.

I swipe my thumb across the flashlight app on my phone and shine the light straight down the hallway.

After all, the chricklers aren’t the only monsters down here—just the smallest and the nicest.

As if on cue, the door directly in front of Luis shakes violently on its hinges.

We don’t need any additional motivation. We both take off running, the beam of the phone flashlight bouncing along with my strides. As I look behind me to make sure that nothing is following us, the beam catches what looks like a hulking shadow in the adjacent corridor. I swing the light in its direction, but nothing’s there.

My stomach clenches because I know I saw something. But then a loud thump comes from the room on the left, followed by a clatter of chains and a high-pitched, animalistic screech that doesn’t seem muffled—at all—by the thick wooden door between us.

Luis picks up the pace, and I join him as we pass several more doors before the one in front of us starts to vibrate so violently that I’m afraid it could shake off its hinges at any second.

I ignore it, forcing myself to stay calm. One more turn, a mad dash, and we’ll be at the staircase. Home free.

Apparently, I’m not running fast enough for Luis, because he grabs my hand and pulls me along with him as a loud, furious shriek follows us around the corner.

“Move, Clementine!” he shouts, throwing me into the stairwell in front of him.

We pound up the stairs and burst through the double doors at the top just as the warning bell rings.

 

CHAPTER THREE

ANOTHER ONE BITES THE PIXIE DUST

“You have the power to defeat the monsters inside of you,” a soothing voice says over the intercom. The affirmation that doubles as the bell fills the hallway as Luis and I pause to catch our breaths.

“No offense to your aunt Claudia and her daily affirmations,” he gasps out, “but I don’t think it’s the monsters inside of us that we’ve got to be worried about.”

“No shit,” I agree, even as I fire off a text to Uncle Carter to let him know that he needs to double-check the locks on the monster enclosures.

My uncle Carter is in charge of the basement menagerie. Back in the day, Calder Academy Island started out as a sanatorium where rich paranormals would ship off family members to “convalesce.” But rumor has it that the basement was actually reserved for the criminally insane—which explains the giant, eighty-pound doors on each of the cells. Not great for humans, but the setup comes in handy when you need to keep creatures from wreaking total and complete havoc.

“Remind me again why your mother thinks it’s a good idea to board some of the most fucked-up monsters in existence?” Luis asks as he finishes tucking his red polo shirt into his black uniform shorts.

“Apparently, the school needs the money to ‘keep the students in the style to which they’ve become accustomed,’” I quote.

We take a moment to admire that supposed style before we’re forced to duck as a loose ceiling tile falls to the floor. After the sanatorium closed, it didn’t take much work to convert the ornate Victorian buildings into a luxury hotel for paranormals, which occupied the island until my family bought it eighty years ago.

The buildings themselves were commissioned back in the day when they built beautiful buildings for architecture’s sake, even if those buildings were part of a hospital. The remnants of that bygone era still peek through the years’ wear and tear. Like the carved marble staircases now worn with steps and age, the large arched turrets, the bay windows, or the intricate brickwork that adorns the entrance to the Admin Building, where we have most of our classes. But all of that potential charm has been overshadowed by the institutional green paint that has been slathered on every wall and the drop ceilings that are surely covering up some pretty cool moldings.

Luis snickers and shakes his head as my phone buzzes with a text from my roommate, Eva.
Eva: Where are you?
Eva: I can’t be late to anger management. Danson’s a dick
Eva: If he gives me shit again, I swear I’m going to totally throat punch him
I fire off a quick reply letting her know I’m on my way.

“You okay?” Luis checks as we walk quickly in an attempt to avoid getting yelled at by the hall trolls.

“Thanks to you, I am,” I answer, giving him a quick hug before I push the door open to the girls’ bathroom in the center of the hall. “Love you, Luis.”

He brushes off my moment of tenderness with a snarky, “You’d better,” just before the door closes behind me.

“Damn, Clementine. You’re supposed to feed the chricklers, not be their feed,” Eva tells me as she straightens from where she’s leaning against one of the old-fashioned bucket sinks.

I snap my fingers. “I knew I was doing something wrong.”

“I brought you coffee.” Her long, black curls bounce as she leans forward to hand me a turquoise-and-pink string backpack.

Joy floods me as I see the two go-cups of what I know is Eva’s famous cafй con leche, a recipe from her Puerto Rican family that includes just a pinch of a special spice blend. It’s practically legendary among the seniors. I reach out a greedy hand for it. “Give me.”

She nods to the backpack. “Time is ticking. Change first, coffee later.”

I groan, but I’m already ripping off my shirt and tossing it into the trash can. I pull out the fresh polo she’s brought me and—after a quick glance at the mirror—add the red hoodie she’s packed on top of it.

Even though it’s over a hundred degrees of pure humidity outside, it’s still better than walking around for the rest of the day looking like open season has just been declared on my ass. Even the smallest sign of weakness tends to bring out the predator in the other students. Despite the fact that every student’s powers are locked down, they still have fists—and teeth—and are more than happy to use them.

Thirty seconds later, I’ve got my face washed, my hair pulled into a ponytail, and a long sip of cafй con leche in my belly.

“You ready?” Eva asks, her concerned brown eyes doing a final sweep of me from head to toe.

“As I’ll ever be,” I answer, holding up the coffee cup in silent thanks as we head back out into the hall.

A quick glance at my phone shows a text from Uncle Carter, saying that he’s on his way to check the basement. I wave goodbye to Eva before taking off down the hall toward my British Lit class.

A small pack of leopard shifters is loitering in the hall near the door to the science lab. One eyes me like I’m his post-lunch snack as a glimmer of ivory fang flashes at me. The girl next to him senses his excitement and starts prowling toward me. I keep my eyes averted—the last thing I need right now is a dominance challenge.

That’s when I see a freshman—I think she’s a witch—look directly at me and the shifters. Bad move, kid. They immediately smell chum in the water and turn their sights on her. If you want to survive here, direct eye contact is usually not the way to do it.

I pause, unsure of what to do next, when the girl suddenly lets out an ear-piercing scream that rings out through the hallway. It reverberates off every hard surface as it makes its way to my protesting eardrums. Not a witch, a banshee, I mentally note, as the leopards scatter to class.

Saved by the scream.

I quickly walk to my locker. I grab my backpack and slip through the door into my seat about one second before the final affirmation sounds.

“I am stronger than all of the problems and challenges I encounter. I just have to believe in myself.”

A groan goes up from the class even before Ms. Aguilar chirps, “And there’s the bell! Let’s dig deep today, shall we?” in a voice that is way more bubbly than the affirmation bell or this school warrants.

Then again, everything about Ms. Aguilar is too bright and shiny for Calder Academy. From her electric-yellow hair and her bright-blue eyes to her manic smile and frighteningly upbeat attitude, everything shouts that the pixie doesn’t belong here. And if that wasn’t enough, the snickers coming from the asshole fae currently taking up the last row warn that they’re about to make sure she, and everyone else in this classroom, knows it.

“Fuck, teach, did you snort too much pixie dust at lunch?” Jean-Luc calls, swishing his deliberately messy blond hair out of his eyes.

“And you didn’t even bring us any.” His friend and henchman Jean-Claude sneers. As he laughs, his green eyes glow with the unnatural electricity common to the dark magic fae. “Don’t you know, sharing is caring.”

The fact that the two of them—as well as the other two members of their little coterie of immaturity and evil, Jean-Paul and Jean-Jacques—start cackling tells everyone in the room that they’ve got something planned.

Sure enough, the second she turns her back to write on the board, Jean-Jacques sends a handful of Skittles soaring straight toward her.

I swear, these guys couldn’t get more annoying if they tried.

Ms. Aguilar stiffens as the Skittles hit her. But instead of reprimanding the obnoxious fae, she ignores them and keeps writing on the board.

Her silence just eggs them on, and they throw another whole round of Skittles at her—but this time, they’ve sucked on them first, so that when they hit her white blouse, they leave a rainbow streak of goo. And that doesn’t even count the ones that get caught in her spiky hair.

When she continues facing the board in what I’m pretty sure is an effort to hide tears, Jean-Luc flashes to the front of the room—fae are still preternaturally fast, even without their powers—and stands right in front of her, making crude faces and flipping her off.

Most of the class bursts out laughing, though some look down uncomfortably. Ms. Aguilar whirls around, but Jean-Luc is back in his seat by this point, smiling innocently and leaning on an elbow. Before she can figure out what happened, yet another handful of Skittles flies at her. Most hit her in the chest, but a couple strike her right between the eyes.

She squeaks a little, her chest heaving, but still doesn’t say a word. I don’t know if it’s because she’s a new teacher and has no classroom management skills or if she’s just afraid of shutting down the Jean-Jerks because they come from some of the most powerful—and dangerous—mafia families in the paranormal world. Then again, it’s probably both.

As spitballs soar toward her, I start to speak up like I usually do, but I stop myself. If she doesn’t learn to stand up for herself and fast, this school is going to eat her alive. I’ve already saved Ms. Aguilar’s butt three times this week—and have the bruises to prove it. After all, you don’t cross members of the fae court with the darkest magic in existence and not expect to get the shit kicked out of you. Plus I’m still shaky from all of the chricklers I spent the last hour fighting off. I’m not sure I have it in me to take on a whole different group of monsters after class.

She doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, she just turns back around and starts writing something in a flowery script on the board again. It’s the absolute worst thing she could do, because the Jean-Jerks—and a few other less-than-enterprising souls—take it as a sign that it really is open season.

A new round of spitballs soars straight at her, getting caught in the tips of her pointy hair.

More Skittles are launched at her ass.

And Jean-Claude—jackass that he is—decides now is the time to shout a bunch of suggestive comments.

And that’s it. That’s just it. Fuck the pain. It’s one thing when the Jean-Jerks were just being their regular asshole selves, but they’ve crossed the line. No one, not even the sons of fae mafia dons, gets to sexually harass a woman and get away with it. Screw that.

I clear my throat, resigning myself to another beatdown by the Jean-Jerks after class, but before I can figure out an insult devastating enough to shut their mouths, a rustling sound comes from the left of me.

It’s quiet, so quiet that most people in the class don’t even register it. But I’ve heard the slow, deliberate rhythm of that slide from stillness to action before, and though it’s been a while, it still makes every hair on my body stand straight up even as an unwitting relief sweeps through me.

Apparently, I’m not the only one in this class who thinks their foray into sexual harassment is worse than their usual bad behavior and has to be stopped.

I shift slightly to my left just in time to see all six-foot-seven, gorgeous, grim-faced, broad-shouldered inches of Jude Abernathy-Lee turn around in his seat. For one second, my eyes clash with his swirling, mismatched gaze, but then he’s looking straight through me to the members of the Jean-Jerk club.

I wait for him to say something to the fae, but it turns out he doesn’t have to. One look from him has their words, and laughter, crumbling like dust around us.

For several seconds, silence—long, taut, jagged-edged silence—hangs in the air as the whole class holds its breath and waits to see what happens next. Because the Jean-Jerks’ unstoppable assholery is about to meet Jude’s immovable everything.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

A FAE WORSE THAN DEATH

Lightning flashes outside the room’s lone Queen Anne–style window, slicing through the sudden, unnatural darkness of the early afternoon sky.

As if to underscore the seriousness of the upcoming storm—not to mention the current atmosphere in this classroom—thunder booms seconds later. It’s loud enough to rattle that same window and shake the ground around us. Half the class gasps as the lights flicker, but instead of breaking the tension in the room, Mother Nature’s temper tantrum only ratchets it up higher.

Maybe we’ll get lucky and lightning will strike a Jean-Jerk. Right now, fae flambй really doesn’t sound so bad.

Ms. Aguilar glances uneasily out the window. “With all this lightning, I certainly hope someone remembered to check the fire extinguishers.”

Thunder booms again, and more students shift uneasily. Normally the threat of a September storm wouldn’t so much as get a second look. They’re a way of life here on this Gulf Coast island—especially during hurricane season.

But this one didn’t grow and build the way they usually do. It pretty much came out of nowhere, and its intensity seems to mimic the explosive energy in the room even before Jean-Paul and his band of not-so-merry losers shift forward in their desks like they’ve been waiting for this moment their whole lives.

My stomach tightens, and I slide my legs out from beneath my desktop, preparing for the worst.

“Don’t even think about getting in the middle of that,” the new girl behind me—Izzy, I think her name is—hisses. “I’ve been waiting for them to get their asses kicked from the first day. Yours, not so much.”

“Thanks?” I whisper back even as I tell myself to listen to her.

But before Izzy can say anything else, Jean-Luc half coughs, half laughs as he runs a hand through his long blond hair. “You got a problem, Abernathy-Lee?”

Jude doesn’t answer, just raises one dark, slashing brow as he continues to stare Jean-Luc and the others down. Jean-Luc doesn’t look away, but there’s a sudden glimmer of doubt in his eyes.

The glimmer grows into a whole lot of concern as Jude continues to watch them, the unease in the room becoming so palpable it hangs in the air along with the humidity. But Jean-Jacques must be too self-absorbed to notice as he sneers, “Yeah, that’s what we thought. You’re fucking wi—”

He breaks off as—out of nowhere—Jean-Luc’s hand flashes out, slamming into the back of Jean-Jacques’s head and shoving his face straight into his desk before he can spew any more vitriol.

“What did you do that for?” Jean-Jacques whines as he wipes one dark hand across the small trickle of blood now coming from his nose.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jean-Luc snarls back, but his eyes continue to stay locked on Jude, who still hasn’t moved more than that one, lone eyebrow. But his stillness doesn’t seem to matter to Jean-Luc, at least not judging by the belligerent look on his face. “We were just fucking around, man. We don’t have a problem here.”

Jude’s second brow goes up, as if to query, Don’t we?

When no one else answers—or so much as breathes, to be fair—his gaze shifts from Jean-Luc to Jean-Claude, who is squirming uneasily in his seat. The moment their eyes meet, Jean-Claude suddenly develops a deep and abiding fascination with his phone—one the other three Jean-Jerks mimic with their own phones in short order.

Suddenly, none of them will look Jude in the eye.

And just like that, the danger passes, tension leaking out of the air like helium from an old balloon. At least for now.

Ms. Aguilar must sense it, too, because she lets out a relieved puff of air before pointing to the flowery quote she wrote across the board in bright-pink Expo marker. “‘The only means of strengthening one’s intellect is to make up one’s mind about nothing.’” Her voice rises and falls with the words, like she’s singing a song. She then gestures to the line written below it in teal blue. “‘To let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.’”

Looks like we’re just skipping straight over the elephant-sized fae problem in the room and going with a quote from a dead white guy. Then again, at the moment I don’t actually hate that decision.

After she’s given what I assume must be a dramatic pause, Ms. Aguilar continues. “That, my friends, is a quote from my favorite Romantic poet. Can any of you hazard a guess who it is?”

No one immediately volunteers the answer. In fact, we all just kind of sit there, staring at her in a combination of disbelief and surprise.

Her face falls as she looks around the room. “No one even has a guess?”

Still no response.

When she lets out a heartbroken sigh, one of the witches in the second to last row ventures, “Lord Byron?” in a tentative voice.

“Byron?” Somehow Ms. Aguilar looks even more disappointed. “Certainly not. He’s much more wicked, Veronica.

“Still no guesses?” She shakes her head sadly. “I suppose I could give another quote.”

She taps one cotton candy–colored fingernail against her chin. “Now, which one should I use? Maybe…”

“For fuck’s sake,” Izzy bursts out from behind me. “It’s John fucking Keats.”

Ms. Aguilar jerks back in surprise, but it quickly turns to joy. “You know him!” she crows, clapping her hands.

“Of course I bloody well know him. I’m from bloody Britain, aren’t I?” Izzy snaps.

“That. Is. Wonderful!” Ms. Aguilar practically dances over to her desk to retrieve a pile of packets. “I’m so glad you’ve read him before! Isn’t he just divine? ‘Heard melodies are—’”

“He’s an egotistical blowhard,” Izzy interrupts before the teacher can once again flit from one end of the room to the other. “Just like the rest of the Romantic poets.”

Ms. Aguilar pauses mid-flounder in horror. “Isadora! John Keats is one of the most brilliant poets—nay, one of the most brilliant people—to ever walk the face of the Earth, which I am sure you will all come to understand as we study him for our next unit.”

Oh, sure. Him she stands up for. Maybe if the Jean-Jerks threw Skittles at the pictures of the poets she has up all over the walls, she could actually talk back to them, too.

She walks over to me and dumps the stack of packets on my desk. “Clementine, be a darling and pass these out for me, will you?”

I say, “Sure,” even though my abused body would much rather go with, “Hell, no.”

The Jean-Jerks barely look up when I toss a packet on each of their desks. I expect Jude to do the same when I get to him—but instead he looks straight at me.

The moment our gazes collide, it’s as if everything inside me freezes and burns all at the same time. My heart speeds up, my brain slows down, and my lungs tighten until it hurts to breathe.

It’s the first time he’s looked directly at me—the first time we’ve looked at each other—since freshman year, and I don’t know what to do…or how to feel.

But then his disgustingly gorgeous face goes dark right in front of me.

His razor-sharp jaw tightens.

His light-brown skin pulls taut over slashing cheekbones.

And his eyes—one so brown it’s nearly black and the other a swirling, silvery green—go completely blank.

I’ve spent three years building a wall inside me just for this very moment, and one glance from him takes a stick of dynamite to it. I’ve never felt more pathetic in my life.

Determined to get away as fast as possible, I all but throw his packet at him.

The rest of the class passes in a blur as I beat myself up, furious that I wasn’t the one to shut it down first. That, even after everything that happened between us, he was the one who got to ice me out instead of the other way around.

But as the bell is about to ring and we all start packing up, Ms. Aguilar claps her hands to get our attention. “There’s never enough time, is there?” she laments. “But to combat that problem for next class, I’m going to assign your partners now.”

“Partners?” one of the dragon shifters calls out. “For what?”

“For your Keats project, silly. I’ll assign each of you a partner today, and when you come into class tomorrow, you can start on your projects right away.”

Instead of going down a pre-planned list based on proximity or even alphabetical order like a normal teacher would, she starts looking around the room and pairing people up according to “the vibe she’s currently feeling from them.”

I don’t know what kind of vibe I’m giving off, and honestly, I couldn’t care less. Now that the adrenaline from the chrickler cage has worn off, the pain is kicking in. Add that to the weird shit that just went down with Jude, and I just want to get through my next class so I can head to the dorm to take some painkillers.

Not to mention a hot shower.

I tune Ms. Aguilar out and spend the next couple of minutes daydreaming about copious amounts of hot water, but I jerk back to attention the moment she calls out my name…followed by Jude’s.

Oh, fuck no.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

BETTER LATE THAN CALDER

Ms. Aguilar continues pairing people up until everyone has a partner, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s just blown my shit straight up.

The bell finally rings less than a minute later. “You are on the right path for you. Stay the course.”

Geez, Aunt Claudia. On the nose much?

The rest of the class heads for the door, but I hang back. Once everyone has cleared out, I head toward Ms. Aguilar, who is watching me expectantly.

“No need to thank me, Clementine,” she says with a conspiratorial grin.

“Huh?” I ask, bewildered.

“For pairing you up with Jude. I could tell there’s something going on between you two.”

“There is nothing going on between me and Jude—”

“Oh, come now, you don’t have to hide it. I do have a poet’s soul, after all.”

“I’m not hiding anything. Jude and I have a…very strong mutual dislike of each other.” Or at least that’s the vibe he’s been throwing my way since he ditched me with no warning and absolutely no explanation.

“Oh.” She looks startled. “Well, then, maybe you can use this time to mend fences—”

Mend fences? There’s no mending fences with Jude Abernathy-Lee. How can there be when he obliterated the fence and the entire plot of land it was built on a long time ago? “Actually, I was hoping I could swap partners.”

“Swap partners?” Her eyes go wide, and she bats her naturally sparkly eyelashes like the idea of changing out of her assigned groups has never occurred to her. “Oh, I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you?”

“I absolutely do!” I give her my most winning smile. Or at least I try to. But judging by the way she rears back, I’m certain the day’s trauma has turned it into a frightening grimace. “That’s why I brought it up.”

“Yes, well, I can’t very well swap your partner around, Clementine. If I do that, then everyone will expect a change as well. And if I don’t do it for them, then I’ll be accused of favoritism toward the headmaster’s daughter, and I can’t afford that. I just got here.”

“No one has to know!”

“I assigned the groups in front of the whole class. Everyone will know.” She shakes her head. “You’ll just have to make the best of it. And maybe you’ll find out the two of you have more in common than you think. Now get to class. You’ll be late.”

She pivots to her computer to let me know the conversation is over. I give her a half-hearted goodbye and slink, defeated, out of the classroom.

I make it to my last class of the day, Anger Management with Danson the Dick, just as the affirmation bell sounds. I spend a miserable hour listening to him explain to us how much we suck and how we’ll never amount to anything if we don’t get our powers under control. I’m tempted to ask how anyone can be expected to learn how to control their magic if the school locks down every student’s powers from the second they land on this damn island to the second the graduation boat leaves, but I don’t have the fight in me today.

After class, I race for the stairs. This afternoon is Calder Conclave, and showing up in anything but a dress uniform is “completely unacceptable.” Only being late is worse—well, that and missing it completely. But I’m pretty sure you’d have to be dead for that to happen—although I’m not certain that would stop my mother from requiring my attendance.

Thunder booms overhead as I book it toward the dorms, but the rain that has been threatening all day still doesn’t fall. That only makes the heat and humidity worse—September in Texas is just another word for Hell—and by the time I reach the huge fence that separates the classroom buildings from the dorms, my uniform shirt is sticking to my back. Built by Giant blacksmiths, the two fences that surround the whole island and separate the academic buildings from the dorms ensure that every Calder Academy student is powerless with a combination of magic-dampening spells and paranormal technology. Eva and I like to call it the lack of honor system.

And I’m subjected to the same draconian rules.

Even if I didn’t philosophically disagree with my mother on absolutely everything, I’d be angry with her for that alone. She grew up with her magic. My aunts and uncles grew up with theirs. A special spell keeps them exempt from the dampening and lets the adults access their power while on the island. They even renew the spell every year, whenever it’s weakened. But, when it comes to my cousins and me, we can’t be trusted to have access to ours.

It’s what makes Danson the Dick’s lecture so infuriating and unfair. I’ve never abused my power, never lost control of my magic, never hurt anyone—how could I when I’ve never, even for a second, known what it’s like to have magic?

I’m in pain and annoyed as I head down the buckled sidewalk that leads to the dorms. On either side of the path, haphazardly placed live oak trees cast eerie shadows while the Spanish moss hanging from their branches rustles and chatters as it blows wildly in the wind. I speed up as I pass beneath them, their nefarious conversation sending chills down my spine until I can finally turn onto the long center mall that leads to the senior “cottages.”

Freshmen through juniors have to stay in the primary dorm, which was once the resort’s main accommodations—while the seniors get the privilege of staying in the now run-down guest cottages. The little New Orleans–style bungalows have front porches, storm shutters, and gingerbreading, though the pastel paint is now faded and peeling.

Eva’s and mine has two cracked windows and a family of mice in the pantry, but at least the air conditioning works, so we don’t complain. It’s part of that style to which we’ve become accustomed.

Eva’s not home yet, so I strip off my disgustingly sweaty uniform the second I hit the door before running for the shower. A quick soap and scrub of the chrickler bites is all I have time for—the luxurious shower of my daydreams will have to wait for later. Then I towel off, throw my wet hair up into a bun, and grab my dress uniform from the basket of unfolded laundry at the bottom of my closet.

One white button-down blouse and red plaid skirt later and I’m almost ready to go. I pull on socks, slide my feet into the black loafers my mother insists on, and grab my phone before making a mad dash back toward the admin building.

Conclave starts in five minutes, and unfortunately, it’s a ten-minute jog, so I lay on the speed. The one time I was late I ended up with chrickler duty until graduation. I definitely don’t want to level up to the bigger monster enclosures.

I’m sweating profusely—fuck humidity—and gasping for air by the time I make it to the conference room on the fourth floor of the admin building, but I’ve got ten seconds to spare, so I call it a win. At least until my phone rings as I slip into the room and all twelve members of my extended family turn to stare at me in obvious disapproval.

 

CHAPTER SIX

GASLIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

My phone keeps ringing in the total silence of the room. To spare further familial humiliation, I pull it out of my pocket to decline the call. It’s my friend Serena, who graduated last year and is now living in Phoenix, so I fire off a text telling her it’s Conclave and I’ll call her when it’s over. Then I slide into my seat—third from the left on the far side of the table, same as always.

“Nice of you to join us, Clementine,” my mother says coolly, brows raised and crimson-painted lips pinched. “Perhaps next time you’ll make sure your uniform is clean before you do so.”

She’s staring at my chest, so I follow her gaze only to find a large brown stain directly over my left boob. I must have pulled this uniform out of the dirty clothes basket and not the clean one.

Because that’s just the kind of day I’m having.

“I’d offer you some tea,” my cousin Carlotta snickers, “but it looks like you’ve already had some.” She’s in tenth grade this year and is downright sophomoric about it.

“Don’t listen to them, Sugar,” my grandmother tells me in her syrupy-sweet Southern accent. “The nice boys like a girl who doesn’t put too much stock in her appearance.”

“Don’t be talking to my sweet girl about boys now, Viola,” my grandfather scolds her with a wave of his hairy-knuckled hand. “You know she’s too young for all that business.”

“Yes, Claude,” my grandmother replies even as she winks at me.

I give them both a grateful smile—it’s nice to have someone in my corner. Sometimes I wonder if things would be different if my dad hadn’t left before I was born. But he did, and now my mother has made it her mission to punish him by taking his fuck-ups out on me—whether she realizes it or not.

“Now that Clementine is here, I hereby call this Conclave to order,” my uncle Christopher says, banging the gavel on the table hard enough to rattle all the tiny porcelain tea cups my mother insists we drink out of. “Beatrice, please serve the tea.”

Within seconds, the conference room is filled with kitchen witches pushing tea carts. One is loaded down with tea pots and all the accoutrements. Another is piled high with finger sandwiches, while a third has a variety of scones and elaborate pastries.

We all sit in silence as everything is perfectly arranged on my mother’s favorite floral tablecloth.

Flavia, one of the youngest kitchen witches, smiles as she puts a plate of small cupcakes on the table next to me. “I made your favorite cream cheese pineapple icing for the carrot cakes, Clementine,” she whispers.

“Thank you so much,” I whisper back with a large smile, drawing an annoyed frown from my mom.

I ignore her.

Flavia is just being kind—something that’s not exactly prized here at Calder. Not to mention she makes a crazy good carrot cake.

Once the oh-so-pretentious Calder family Wednesday afternoon tea is served and everyone has filled their plates, my mother ceremonially takes the gavel from Uncle Christopher. She’s the oldest of the five siblings currently gathered around the table. It’s a position she takes very seriously since she inherited it from their oldest sister when she died, sometime before I was born…and something she doesn’t let any of her brothers or sisters—or their families—forget.

Though she has the gavel in hand, she doesn’t do anything as gauche as bang it. Instead, she just holds it as she waits for the table to fall silent around her. It only takes a second—I’m not the only one in the room who has suffered one of my mother’s endless lectures or diabolical punishments—although I still maintain that chrickler duty is way better than when she made my cousin Carolina clean the monster fish tank for a month…from the inside.

“We have a full agenda today,” my mother begins, “so I’d like to break protocol and start the business part of the meeting before we finish eating, if no one objects.”

No one objects—though my favorite aunt, Claudia, looks like she wants to. Her bright-red topknot is quivering with either indignation or nerves, but she’s so shy and introverted that it’s hard for me to tell.

My mom, Uncle Christopher, and Aunt Carmen definitely like to be the center of attention at these meetings, while Uncle Carter spends most of his time trying, and failing, to focus the spotlight on himself. It’s a manticore trait, one that only Aunt Claudia and I seem to be lacking. Everyone else fights for center stage like it’s the only thing standing between them and certain demise.

“The first two weeks of classes have gone exceptionally well,” my mother intones. “The new traffic patterns that the hall trolls have instituted appear to be keeping the flow of students orderly in between classes as well as keeping fights from breaking out in the hallways, just as we’d hoped. We’ve had no injuries.”

“Actually,” Aunt Claudia speaks up in a breathless voice that’s little more than a whisper, “I’ve dealt with several fight injuries in the healer’s office. But they were all minor, so—”

“As I was saying, no major injuries,” my mother interrupts, narrowing her eyes at her sister. “Which is the same thing.”

One glare from my mother and Aunt Claudia knows this is a losing battle. Uncle Brandt reaches over to pat her knee, and she gives him a grateful smile.

“There’s a storm watch in the Gulf right now, but we should be fine,” Uncle Christopher manages to interject even without the gavel. “Our protections should hold, and if it does develop further, it should pass us right by.”

“Do I need to talk to Vivian and Victoria?” Aunt Carmen asks, jumping in—as she always does—at the first opportunity. “Have them cast another protection spell?”

Uncle Christopher twists the end of his auburn mustache around his finger as he contemplates her suggestion. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. What do you think, Camilla?”

My mother shrugs. “I think it’s unnecessary, but if it makes you feel better, Carmen, who am I to stop you?”

“Then I’ll have the witches take care of it.” Aunt Carmen’s voice is nearly as stiff and cold as my mother’s. There is no love lost between my mother and Aunt Carmen, who is the sibling closest to her in age.

She’s tried several times to launch a coup to replace my mother as headmaster. They’ve never worked, but they have made family conclaves extra entertaining.

“What about the, um”—Aunt Claudia lowers her voice like she’s about to tell a secret—“the matter in the, umm, lower level…?”

“You mean the dungeon?” my grandmother corrects with a shake of her head. “At least call it what you people have turned it into.”

I’m with her. That dank, dark area definitely qualifies as a dungeon.

“The matter in the basement,” Uncle Carter says, steely-voiced, “is well in hand.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Something almost got out of its cage while I was down there earlier.” The words slip out before I know I’m going to say them. Everyone turns to stare at me like I’m some kind of particularly nasty bug.

I know I should regret saying anything, but stirring the family pot is the only thing that makes Conclave bearable.

“Everything is perfectly secure, Clementine,” my mother tells me, eyes narrowed so much that all I can see now is a sliver of blue as she looks at me. “You need to stop making false reports.”

“It wasn’t a false report,” I say as I defiantly swipe some icing from my cake with my finger and lick it off. “Ask Uncle Carter.”

All eyes turn silently toward my uncle, who turns Calder Academy red.

“That’s simply not true. Our security is top-notch. There is nothing to worry about, Camilla,” he blusters, his goatee quivering in affront.

I think about pulling out my phone and blowing up the whole charade, but it’s not worth the detention I’ll surely get.

So instead, I duck my head and lean back in my chair. This time, it’s my shoulder Uncle Brandt pats, and for a second, I want to cry. Not because of my mom, but because his smile reminds me so much of his daughter’s—my cousin, Carolina, who died a couple months ago after escaping the scariest prison in the paranormal world.

She was sent there when we were both in ninth grade, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. But knowing she’s gone forever has made that ache so much worse.

My mother continues the meeting per her agenda, but after a couple more minutes, I tune her out.

Finally, just when I can taste freedom, she hands the gavel back to Uncle Christopher.

“Our last order of business tonight is a little more family oriented.” He grins with pride, and so does my aunt Lucinda, who is practically squirming in her seat with excitement.

The suspense lasts mere seconds before Uncle Christopher announces, “I’d like us all to take this opportunity to congratulate Caspian on getting early acceptance into the University of Salem’s prestigious Paranormal Studies program!”

The whole table erupts in cheers while I just sit there, feeling like I’ve been shoved off a cliff.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

LET THE PICKLE CHIPS FALL WHERE THEY MAY

“Congratulations, Caspian!” Aunt Carmen tells him, lifting her tea cup in salute.

“That’s fantastic news!” Uncle Carter jumps up, knocking over his chair in an effort to be the first one to clap Caspian on the back.

The others quickly follow, and it isn’t long before my cousin is preening under all the attention and well-wishes.

I force myself to walk over to him and give him a hug. After all, it’s not his fault I’m reeling. Any more than it’s his fault that my mother won’t so much as glance my way.

She refused to let me apply.

She told me I couldn’t go—that none of us fourth gens could leave the island for college.

She even asked why I couldn’t be more like Caspian and be happy to stay on the island after graduation—take over the academy like we’re meant to do.

And now I find out that he’s been applying to schools all along? That his parents have been supportive of him?

Anger rips through me as I give Caspian a hug.

He may be a bit of a tool, but I don’t blame him for finding a way off this island and taking it.

My mother, on the other hand? I definitely blame her.

“Congratulations!” I tell my cousin when he finally lets me go.

He beams at me, his bright-blue eyes shining against his copper skin. “Thanks, Clementine! I can’t wait to hear where you’ve been accepted.”

My stomach sinks, because what can I say?

Why didn’t Caspian and I talk about college before now? Why did I just trust my mother when she’s been known to play fast and loose with the truth?

My smile is forced as I try to figure out what to say when Carlotta elbows me out of the way to congratulate Caspian.

I try to calm down, try to tell myself there’s still time to apply anywhere I want to go. I’m not stuck here after I graduate. I can still leave this place in my rearview.

Her control over me is almost over.

It’s that thought that gets me through the rest of the Conclave. It gets me through Caspian’s ridiculously pompous speech and Uncle Christopher’s proud bragging. It even gets me through my mother’s continued refusal to meet my gaze.

But the second the meeting is adjourned, I race for the door.

I’ll confront my mother tomorrow. Tonight, I just need to get far away from her and the rest of my family.

Grandma calls after me as I book it down the hall, but I don’t turn back. If I do, I’ll end up bursting into tears. Tears are emotion, and any emotion is weakness. My mother doesn’t respect weakness. So, to keep the tears from falling, I just keep running.

My phone vibrates just as I make it back to the cottage. Part of me expects it to be my mom demanding that I come talk to her, but it’s all quiet on that front. Instead, it’s Serena.

Serena: I hope Flavia’s carrot cake made it more bearable. I want to hear all of the gory details

Me: It helped, but there’s not enough carrot cake in the world

Serena: I’m finally going to do it

Me: Do what?

Serena: My first spell

Serena: It’s going to be a full moon tonight. I’ve gathered all the ingredients I need. Once it gets dark, I’m going to cast a circle, channel the moon, and go for it

I send her a celebratory gif.

Me: What kind of spell is it?

Serena: It’s for luck. I still haven’t found a new job, and rent is coming due

Me: Why don’t you just cast a prosperity spell? Then you can take your time finding something

Serena: All the books say not to do that. Prosperity spells always backfire. But I’ve got an interview tomorrow, so I’m hoping the luck will help me get the job

Me: You’ll do great, with or without the spell. Send me pics of the circle you cast!

Serena: I will! Wish me luck!

Me: Always <3

I think about calling Serena and telling her about what happened with my mom, but she sounds so happy that I don’t want to kill her mood.

The front porch light comes on, and the moths immediately flock to it. A second later, Eva sticks her head out the door. “You coming in?” she asks. Then she takes one look at my face and says, “Uh-oh. Bad Conclave?”

“Bad everything,” I answer, heading inside.

She’s watching Wednesday on Netflix, and there’s a half-eaten bowl of M&M’s on the coffee table. “Apparently I’m not the only one who had a bad day.”

“Guys are dicks,” she answers.

“So are mothers.” I flop face down on the blue velvet sofa that takes up most of our sitting area and bury my face in one of the bright-purple pillows.

“And English teachers.”

She settles down at the end of the sofa, and a few seconds later, I hear her rattling the bowl of M&M’s next to my ear. “Chocolate makes everything better.”

“I’m not so sure it can fix this,” I groan. But I reach out and take a few anyway. “What’d Amari do?”

She snorts. “Cheated on me with a mermaid.”

“What an asshole!”

“It’s not like it was true love or anything,” she says with a shrug. “But I did like the big jerk.”

The leopard shifter does have a reputation for being a fuck boy, unfortunately. “How did you find out?”

“She was in the theater, bragging to her friends about their hookup and how I ‘didn’t have a clue.’ She didn’t know I was painting sets backstage.” She picks through the candy bowl until she has a handful of green M&M’s, then starts popping them in her mouth one by one. “For a minute, I really wished I had access to my magic.”

“I can punch her for you,” I offer. “I know it’s not the same, but it could be satisfying.”

Eva shrugs again. “She’s not worth it. Though I did think about punching Amari when I confronted him and he tried blaming it on me.”

“On you? Why?”

“Because I don’t ‘understand him.’ And because he thinks with his dick, obviously.” She reaches for the bowl of M&M’s again and this time starts picking out all the orange ones. “Now tell me what happened to you?”

“Caspian got into U of S.”

“What? I thought you couldn’t—”

“Apparently that rule only applies to me. Caspian is free to do whatever he wants.”

“Wow. That’s not cool.” She hands the bowl back to me. “So what’d your mom say?”

“Nothing. She wouldn’t even look at me.” I flop back down on the sofa.

Eva looks concerned. “Why not? You need to talk to her and—”

“Aguilar paired me up with Jude for a class project,” I interrupt.

Her eyes go wide. “Holy shit.” Then she stands up.

“Where are you going?”

“M&M’s aren’t going to cut it for this.” She opens the pantry and coos, “Oh, hi, Squeaky! Good to see you’re okay. We missed you yesterday.”

I roll my eyes. “I can’t believe you named the mouse.”

“Hey, mice need love, too.”

Seconds later, she’s back with a bag of our favorite dill pickle chips.

“Where’d you get those?” I ask, making grabby hands.

“I have my ways. I was keeping them for an emergency, and this is definitely an emergency.” She opens the bag of chips before handing it to me. “Now spill.”

So I do, telling her everything that happened in class today. She stares at me in rapt silence until the end.

“I can’t believe she wouldn’t change your partner,” she says when I’m finally finished. “Everyone knows not to pair you with Jude.”

“I am so unbelievably screwed.” I shove another chip in my mouth as a knock sounds at the door. “If it’s my mom, tell her I’m dead,” I snark as I toss the furry blanket over my head.

I need time to figure out what I’m going to say to her. Right now, I feel like I can’t even be rational when it comes to all her lies.

“It’s not,” Eva says, going to answer it.

I raise my brows. “So you’ve got x-ray vision now?”

“No. But I did call in reinforcements.” She throws the door open and reveals Luis standing there, carrying Korean face masks in one hand and a bottle of cyanide-green nail polish in the other.

“Green?” Eva asks, brows arched.

“You’ve heard of fuck-me red? This is fuck-you green, perfect for breakups.” He hands it to her, then turns to me. “You look awful. Tell me everything.”

“I can’t do it again,” I say, shoving a handful of chips in my mouth so I don’t have to talk.

He turns to Eva. “What did Jude do?”

“How do you know it’s Jude?” I squawk.

“Please.” He waves a dismissive hand. “The last time you looked like this was when I first got to the island and that boy had just broken your heart. It took forever to mend you, so tell me what that jerk did this time so I can go kick his ass.”

I put the chips away before I’m tempted to eat the entire bag. Then I say, sulkily, “He never actually broke my heart.”

“Oh, please.” He rolls his eyes. “You cried yourself to sleep every night for six months.”

“Because I’d just lost my two best friends. Jude ditched me for no reason, and Carolina—” I break off because I don’t want to think about her right now.

Luis sighs as he settles himself on the couch and pulls me in for a hug. “I didn’t mean to bring her up. I’m just saying, you’ve got two new best friends who are totally willing to kick Jude Abernathy-Lee’s ass if we need to. Right, Eva?”

“I mean, I’m willing to try,” she agrees doubtfully.  “But I don’t know how well it’s going to go. That boy is tough as hell.”

“True.” Luis contemplates for a second, then holds up the packets in his hands. “How about face masks, then? Looking good is the best revenge.”

I laugh, exactly as he intended. Then I say, “Only if I get the watermelon one.”

“Please, do you think you’re dealing with an amateur here?” He snorts. “They’re all watermelon.”

“Okay, then.” I hold out my hand for one. Because Luis is right. I do have two new best friends, which is a rare thing to find here. While neither of them will ever replace Carolina, they don’t have to. Because they really are the best, just the way they are.

Even before Luis—in typical guy fashion—says, “I still think we can take Jude.”

Eva considers it. “Maybe if we pepper spray him first?”

“You know what they say, baby.” Luis makes a little clicking noise with the corner of his mouth. “First the face, then the mace.”

“Literally nobody says that,” I tell him when I finally stop laughing.

“Not where you’re from,” he says slyly.

I roll my eyes at him, lean back on the couch, rest my head on his shoulder, and kick my feet up just as the next episode of Wednesday comes on the TV.

Tomorrow’s going to suck, but that’s Tomorrow Clementine’s problem. Because tonight, it’s all about us, and that’s more than enough.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

RAIN, RAIN GHOST AWAY

“So what happens if you call in sick to chrickler duty?” Luis asks the next day at lunch as we make our way down to what is very definitely a dungeon. He insisted on accompanying me today because “yesterday was rough.”

He isn’t wrong.

“I have to say, after your mom’s bad behavior, I think she should have to do it instead.”

“No shit,” I agree. I stopped by her office this morning to talk to her before my first class. I figured I’d be calmer before I had to take on the chricklers and Jude in the same afternoon—but she blew me off. Told me she’d try to make time for us to “chat” after school.

Also, that damn storm that was brewing yesterday is moving in fast—which means the chricklers should be in extra nasty moods today. I’m a little terrified that I’m going to be longing for yesterday’s level of roughness before the next hour is over.

“I think you should let me go in with you,” Luis suggests for the fourteenth time today as we continue down the hallway. “It’s clear you need help.”

“Yeah, but if my mother catches you helping me—” I start, but Luis cuts me off.

“It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone,” he says, making a face at me. “And it’s not like your mother is going to be setting so much as a toe down here any time soon. No one has to know.”

“Yeah, until one of the chricklers takes a chunk out of you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Claudia seems good at keeping secrets.”

“You really want to test that theory?” I shoot back as I pull out my phone to turn on the flashlight. Before I swipe it on, I fire off another text to Serena, asking how the spell and the interview went. I really hope she gets the job.

“I can’t believe your uncle didn’t replace the lightb—” Luis breaks off as I stop dead. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” My stomach clenches a little, but I ignore it. Just like I ignore the fact that the closer we get to the end of this hallway, the more I notice a strange glow coming from the vestibule at the end.

“Your face doesn’t look like it’s nothing.” He glances at me, concerned.

“It’s probably just the storm. No big deal.”

But then a low, rasping moan creeps its way around the corner and stops me in my tracks.

“What?” Luis demands, skidding to a halt beside me. “What did you see?”

“It’s not what I saw. It’s what I heard.” The sound comes again, lower and more desperate this time, as unease slithers along my skin.

Luis, on the other hand, jumps straight past panic into full-blown terror. “I didn’t hear anything. Did something actually get out?” He squints his eyes, surveying the hallway with his diminished but still excellent wolf vision.

“It’s not the menagerie.” I try to force my feet to start moving again, but they don’t budge.

His eyes widen as he finally figures out why he isn’t hearing—or seeing—what I am. “Oh, fuck.”

I look down at the floor, focus on the cracks running through the cement, and force myself to get my shit together.

“Let’s go,” I tell him.

“Go?” Luis looks wild eyed. “Don’t we need a plan? The last thing I want is for them to hurt you again.”

“They won’t.” I blow out a breath. “And I have a plan.”

“Oh yeah?” His brows go up.

“Get in front of me and run like hell. We’ll take the long way to the chricklers and hope they don’t follow us.”

“That’s it? That’s the whole plan?” he demands.

I nod. “That’s the whole plan.”

“I should have made it clear I meant a good plan.” Still, he starts backing up. “Okay, tell me when to run.”

Another eerie wail makes every one of my pores prickle. The sounds are getting closer.

One more deep breath before I force myself to shout, “Now!”

We book it all the way back down the hallway, but I skid to a stop a few feet before we have to turn because the eerie light is leaking around that corner, too.

“Why are we stopping?” Luis demands. “Shouldn’t we—”

“We need to get to the stairwell.” I grab his arm and start tugging him backward.

“The stairwell? What about the chricklers?”

“They’ll have to wait.” But the second I turn around, I know it’s too late.

“What do we do?” Luis yells.

“I don’t know,” I answer. Because everywhere I turn is suddenly filled with ghosts.

Hundreds and hundreds of ghosts.

 

CHAPTER NINE

TIME TO GET THE HALL OUT OF HERE

The ghosts hover just a few inches off the floor, and they all have three things in common. They’re all translucent, they all have a strange, misty glow that radiates from inside them, and they all emit a musty smell that reminds me of old, dusty books.

Right now, the hallway smells like a dim, ancient library even though it’s lit up like a fireworks show.

“Shit, there are a lot today,” I mutter. I try to draw a mental map around them to the stairwell, but it’s so crowded right now that I don’t know how I’m supposed to get past them all unscathed.

Because of Calder Academy’s long and not-so-illustrious past, a lengthy, spectral legacy has remained. One that is distinctly uncomfortable for me, since I’ve been able to see them my entire life.

I don’t know why I can see them when no one else in my family can. And I definitely don’t know why the same spell and equipment that inhibit my manticore magic, that keep me from being able to shift or create venom, don’t also tamp down this weird ability. Maybe it’s not a power at all. Maybe it’s something extra the fates decided to curse me with, as if being born on this damn island wasn’t curse enough.

Whatever it is, it’s led me here, to staring at a sea of the dead.

I take a few tentative steps, then really wish I hadn’t because hundreds of milky gray eyes turn toward me. Seconds later, they all start slowly floating in my direction—which, I decide, is an invitation to get the hell out of dodge.

I take off at a sprint, with Luis right behind me. I sidestep a couple of giant hoop skirts and a rolling head right off the bat and even manage to juke my way around a conductor waving his cane in the air as he leads a symphony none of us can hear.

Confidence fills me—maybe I’ll actually make it to the end without getting stopped—but then, out of nowhere, something flickers directly in front of me. I have one moment to recognize it as a teenage girl—one with waist-length hair and a septum piercing—and then I’m running straight through her.

Pain slams into me, taking hold of my insides and shaking them until I feel like I’m about to explode. Like the very molecules that make up every part of me are spinning faster and faster, bouncing off each other before hurtling themselves at the inside of my skin. I clamp my teeth together to stop an instinctive whimper from escaping, but I stumble regardless. Luis makes a dive for me, but his hand glances off my shoulder, and I fall flat on my face. What the hell was that? It didn’t feel like a ghost—or at least, not like any ghost I’ve ever touched before.

Luis reaches down and pulls me up, but I barely take more than a step or two before I come face-to-face with Finnegan, one of the ghosts I’ve known the longest.

“Clementine.” His low rasp fills the hallway, along with the clank of his manacles as he lumbers toward me, dragging his left leg behind him through the mist. One of his eyes is hanging halfway down his cheek, attached through the eye socket by a thin, barely visible silver thread.

As he makes his way to me, I catch a streak of red out of the corner of my eye.

I turn my head, try to figure out what other student would be foolish enough to risk it down here if they didn’t have to. But before I can figure it out, Finnegan reaches for me and snaps me back to my oh-so-painful reality.

“Clementine, please,” he mumbles, his dislocated jaw popping and clicking as one translucent hand tries to touch my shoulder. I dodge it just in time and start running.

“I can’t help you, Finnegan,” I tell him, but as usual, he can’t hear me.

I don’t slow down, just keep racing toward the stairwell. Something else flickers to my right, and I jerk backward, whirling away so as not to get caught by whatever that is again.

It works, and I even manage to avoid a small group of ghosts dressed in shorts and bathing suits…only to plow through yet another flicker-like being that materializes directly in front of me.

The thing is huge—dressed in what looks, alarmingly, like a spacesuit—and trailing the same kind of shimmery material the teenage girl was. It appears totally different from the usual mist. But before I can even wonder why that is, I run headfirst into what feels like a million fragments of glass.

They slice through me, burrowing beneath my skin, cutting into my flesh, my bones, my heart. They shred every part of me and send the pieces crashing against each other until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t stand.

I scream as I start to fall, and I throw my arms out in a futile effort to catch myself. It doesn’t work, and I stumble several more steps before falling to my knees.

Behind me, Luis shouts, “Get up, Clementine!” as he grabs my arm and starts to pull.

The spirits are closing in on me from all directions now—the weird flickers and full-blown ghosts—and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

Luis positions himself in front of me, trying to protect me as best he can from the unprotectable. He even raises his fists like he’s ready for a fight, though I have no idea what defense he thinks that will be against a bunch of ghosts he can’t even see.

I scramble for purchase as I try to get upright. But then a spectral chest crashes into my shoulder from behind, and a thousand needles prick my skin. Another ghost grabs my arm, sending ice-cold razor blades slicing through me.

My stomach rolls and pitches at the agony.

I stagger away in a desperate attempt to escape the pain…only to run into another flicker.

And not just any flicker. This one is a small toddler wearing dragon pajamas and carrying an oversize looking glass.

“Hold me!” he wails, his little fingers clutching at my hip. The pain is so intense that it burns straight through my skin to the flesh—and bones—below.

Instinctively, I start to jerk away, but tears are pouring down his little face. He’s no more than three or four, and flicker or not, pain or not, I can’t just leave him like this.

And so I crouch down until our faces are level, ignoring Luis’s startled, “Clementine! What are you doing?”

I know he can’t hear me, can’t feel me, but I reach out a finger to wipe a few of the boy’s tears away anyway. The weird, fiery feeling spreads to my fingertips and my palms.

His only response is to throw his ghostly arms around me and sob harder as he presses his little face into my neck. I can’t feel his weight in my arms, but agony swamps me at the contact anyway, pain flowing over me from all sides. But I don’t let go—how can I when he’s got no one else to hold him?

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I say instinctively, even though I know an answer won’t come.

But he shakes his head, sending new, deeper waves of pain through me, even as he whimpers, “I don’t like snakes.”

“Me either,” I answer with a shudder. But then it dawns on me that he’s not just talking to me—he’s answering me.

Which means he can hear me, even though none of the other spirits have ever been able to.

I only have a second to wonder how that’s possible before he asks, “Why not?” His teary eyes are wide, and his little hands burn my cheeks where he cups them.

“I was bit by one when I was your age, and I haven’t gone near a snake since.”

He nods like that makes sense before whispering, “Then you should run.”