Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: boarding-school‎ (50)

This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m possessed of terrifying powers. Why am I relying on a ridiculous little gun that I picked because I thought it

This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m possessed of terrifying powers. Why am I relying on a ridiculous little gun that I picked because I thought it was cute? I don’t need this thing. She threw it contemptuously over her shoulder.

There’s something foul wandering the underground tunnels beneath my office, something that’s invisible to my vaunted powers.

Crap.

Where’s my gun?

Dear You,
The body you are wearing used to be mine.

When she opened her eyes and took a breath, she realized that there was no one holding her. Instead, the four people were lying on the ground, twitching uncontrollably.

I’ve only ever heard of three people who tried to leave the Checquy, and I know the history inside and out.
The first was a powered individual called Brennan the Intransigent who made a break for it in 1679. He was crucified on the cliffs of Dover.
The second was a soldier in 1802. He was carefully brought back to the Checquy stronghold and then buried alive in his village’s graveyard.
The third was a woman who could grow tentacles out of her back and exuded some sort of alarming toxin through her fingertips. Her stuffed body is currently displayed above the mantelpiece in one of the London offices.

I gained the power to touch people and possess instant control of their bodies. I could make them move however I pleased. I could read their physical condition, detect pregnancy, cancer, a full bladder.

“Yes?” said Myfanwy. What, do these guys keep tabs on my comings and goings? “Well, I...had an appointment.” They regarded her with expectant eyes, and she was suddenly filled with a desire to shake up those proprietary stares. “A gynecologist appointment.” She smiled triumphantly at the twins. “To have my vagina checked.”

“I’m sorry, Rook Thomas, but your car is here,” she said.
“My car?” Myfanwy said.
“It’s time for your dinner with Lady Farrier.”
“Oh, crap,” she sighed, then noticed Clovis’s shocked expression. “I mean, oh, good, this should be delightful.”

“… past century she is notable for having kneed Joseph Stalin in the groin during a drinks reception, and she played a large part in the South African diamond industry,” Ingrid went on. “She also cured one member of our royal family of cancer in the 1950s, and infected another with syphilis in the 1960s.”

I can’t wear this!” Myfanwy exclaimed in horror.
“You can’t wear that!” the housekeeper exclaimed.
“It’s like all the material that’s supposed to be on top migrated to the bottom,” said Val.
Any wedding in which this dress appeared on the bride would have to be pretty damn open-minded, thought Myfanwy. And might well incorporate the honeymoon on the altar.

Occasionally, someone will point out these flaws and attempt to institute a change, but that person is slapped down. The reasons for this down-slappage are:

If you’re in the Court, you have an impressive title, and you don’t want to change it for something generic.

Tradition.

It’s supposed to remind us of the importance of strategy and of rank.

It’s cool.

Three boys and one girl. Two of the boys were identical. That’s not the weirdest thing, however. The weirdest thing was that when all four pairs of eyes opened, only one mind was looking out from behind them. This was Gestalt.

Gestalt is kind of disconcerting, because it/he/she/they is/are spread over four bodies.

Please let her have slept her way to the top, thought Myfanwy. No one deserves to be this beautiful and clever too.

My God, you were the most exciting find in decades! All of us knew about your potential. The tutors at the Estate were babbling about you to everyone!”

Finally, after a high-pitched kiYAA!, they settled back, breathing heavily, and explained that Eliza had just broken the neck of the leader of the antler cult, and that the complex was secured.
“Wow. Great,” said Myfanwy. “Nicely done.”
“Hmm,” said Tidy Twin absently. “Eliza has blood on her boots.”
“That’s lovely, Gestalt,” Myfanwy said, trying to keep her cool. “More coffee? Or more orange juice? No? Perhaps I could have Ingrid fetch you a couple of moist towelettes.”

“Gentlemen!” she finally shouted, and her voice cut through the noise like a scythe through a poodle. There was dead silence, and everyone stared at her, stunned. “You all need to shut up and stay focused on the task at hand. Dr. Crisp, if you will turn your eyes back toward the interrogation, I wonder if you could revive the subject and question him.”

It was an old room in an old building and was decorated in a very specific style that showed the decorators were lacking both imagination and a second X chromosome.

“I cheated on her every day. In my mind, I thought of you in ways I shouldn’t have, again and again. She was nothing compared to you. I’ve never fe

“I cheated on her every day. In my mind, I thought of you in ways I shouldn’t have, again and again. She was nothing compared to you. I’ve never felt this way about anybody before—”

The only French word I know is oui, which means “yes,” and only recently did I learn it’s spelled o-u-i and not w-e-e.

I’m going to be sick. I’m going to vomit that weird eggplant tapenade I had for dinner, and everyone wil hear, and no one will invite me to watch the mimes escape from their invisible boxes, or whatever it is people do here in their spare time.

“Where have you been all my life?” I ask the beautiful panini. “How is it possible I’ve never had a sandwich like this before?”

Mer is next in line, and I transcribe her speech phonetically.

Oon ploss see voo play.

My dream is to study film theory in California. I want to be our nation’s greatest female film critic.

I wonder if Matt is a better kisser now that he has someone more experienced to practice on. He was probably a bad kisser because of me.

Oh, no.

I’m a bad kisser. I am, I must be.

Someday I’ll be awarded a statue shaped like a pair of lips, and it’ll be engraved with the words WORLD’S WORST KISSER.And Matt will give a speech about how he only dated me because he was desperate, but I didn’t put out, so I was a waste of time because Cherrie Milliken liked him all along and she totally puts out.

Oh God. Does Toph think I’m a bad kisser?

"You’re beautiful.”

I trip and fall down on the sidewalk.

I look away as he takes my hand and helps me up. “I’m fine. Fine!” I say, brushing the grit from my palms. Oh my God, I AM a freak.

“You’ve seen the way men look at you, right?” he continues.

“If they’re looking, it’s because I keep making a fool of myself.”

Slutty nurse. I don’t believe it. Tiny white button-up dress, red crosses across the nipples. Cleavage city.

"I said you were beautiful. I slept in your bed!”
“You never made a move! You had a girlfriend!”
“No matter what a terrible boyfriend I was, I wouldn’t actually cheat on her. But I thought you’d know. With me being there, I thought you’d know.”

It’s nice holding hands. Comfortable.

I wish friends held hands more often, like the children I see on the streets sometimes. I’m not sure why we have to grow up and get embarrassed about it.

I mean I didn’t SLEEP sleep with him. Obviously. But I slept with him.

I slept with a boy! I burrow back down into my sheets and grin.

He slowly turned around. “What is love? In English.”
I raised my brows. “Love, in English, is love?”
“What is it in Spanish?”
I was so enthralled by h

He slowly turned around. “What is love? In English.”
I raised my brows. “Love, in English, is love?”
“What is it in Spanish?”
I was so enthralled by his hypnotic eyes, I could barely remember. “Amore?”
He shook his head ever so slightly. “No. Love in Spanish is you.”

The thing was, I didn’t do love. That wasn’t my thing. That was the reason why I didn’t date, I only got laid when I needed to blow some steam or have some fun. Love was scarier than deep space.

“You are special, Estrella,” Mateo said, his eyes softening as he gazed at me.

“Ugly?” Mateo said in fervent disbelief. “No. You are terribly beautiful, Vera. So beautiful that it hurts. You would outshine her like the star you are.”

“You already are the other woman!” he yelled right back. His words smashed into me, blowing me to smithereens. He cupped my face in his hands. “You already are, whether you want to be or not. You’ve bewitched me, Vera. You’ve blinded me. You’ve made me forget my vows. And all you had to do was shine.”

“Well…you’re married,” I said unevenly, wishing my heart would slow the fuck down, feeling completely exposed even in the dark of night.
“And so are many of them.”
“It would be inappropriate...”
“How do you know? Is this inappropriate?”

I shook my head adamantly. “It’s wrong. I don’t want to be the other woman. I’ve seen my dad go for the other woman, I can’t put his daughter through that,” I said. “Or his wife,” I quickly added.

"But Isabel convinced him to give it all up. To get away from the lifestyle she considered too wild.”
“Wild?”
She smirked. “Oh yes. Our players are known for being a little wild and crazy. Lots of sex and fights and drinking. Mateo was no different than the rest. And Isabel, with her Duchess grandmother and her socialite status, she didn’t want that."

“A boy.”

The woman laughs and closes her eyes, but it isn’t a happy laugh. It’s an of-course-a-boy-knows laugh. A why-did-I-even-bother-asking laugh

“A boy.”

The woman laughs and closes her eyes, but it isn’t a happy laugh. It’s an of-course-a-boy-knows laugh. A why-did-I-even-bother-asking laugh.

He waves a hand, blindly indicating the area around her head. “Your hair is blond, and Jay says it’s brown. And your eyes? Oh God. What is going on?”

“Different? Aren’t they, like, brown or something?”
Colin mumbles, “Maybe gray.”

Her eyes are murky green-brown.

Her eyes are this rich, grinding violet, flecked with metallic red

Her eyes changed colors as he watched, from deep gray to an aching, honest blue.

Her eyes morph from dark to pale yellow in the light of the bright, full moon.

He watches her eyes shift from green to silver in the light.

Her eyes open, and hunger and joy swirl green and auburn inside

Her eyes are a provocative, sympathetic indigo.

Her eyes have gone metallic brown, swirling.

Her eyes darken, mocha swirling into burgundy.

Wild, dark curls fall into his eyes, and he flips them away with an unconscious shake of his head. In that moment, her silent heart twists beneath the empty walls of her chest. And she realizes, in the absence of hunger or thirst, discomfort or cold, this is the first physical sensation she’s had since waking under a sky full of falling leaves.

“I think I’m here for you.”

She looks like a shadow of a girl. A shadow wearing a cap of sunshine.

She’s spent hours since she woke trying to understand what she is. If she’s back where she was killed, then is she a ghost?

Colin hasn’t seen her in a week, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about what she said just before she ran out the door.

He wants Lucy to be his girlfriend in every way that matters, including the ways that mean he can touch her. The urge to kiss her is becoming suffocating.

If the simple touch of his lip on her fingertip felt so intense, what would it feel like to actually kiss him? She’s afraid she’d be unable to process so much sensation.

“I started researching hypothermia, and it takes a long time for the brain to shut down entirely. I mean, in between being cold and being dead, there’s a lot of room.”

“You are crazy.”

His hands find waist, ribs, breasts. They grow wild and impatient, itching to feel every inch.

Stories of a place where students seemed to die at a higher rate than any other boarding school in the country. Colin never understood why it was a surprise that kids died or disappeared more frequently here than other places from things like exposure, pneumonia, and suicide.

Prosecutors allege the 42-year-old former headmaster of Saint Osanna’s boarding school outside of Coeur D’Alene stalked [his victim] for several weeks prior to the murder.

Lucy’s been lurking around campus for more than two months—minus the ten days of unexpected vanish—and no teacher really bothers to question her presence, let alone her decidedly non-dress-code boots.

Lucy is exactly where Jay said she was, sitting on a bench in front of Ethan Hall.

“Amanda said they saw her walking down by the lake,”

There’s an old dock not far from where the trail ends. Colin isn’t surprised when he sees Lucy sitting at the end of it.

She sits by the statue of Saint Osanna the next morning with her arms wrapped around her legs pulled tight to her chest.

She’s here, a ghost in girls’ clothing, haunting this private school. But she doesn’t want to haunt anyone. She wants to be tangible and solid. To sleep in a dorm and eat in the dining hall and flirt. With him. All she wants is to be near him.

She tells him that she didn’t feel the need to find her parents even though they might still be alive and how that lack of compulsion worries her somehow.

He wants more. He practically aches for her touch. It’s more than hormones. It’s like he’s physically drawn into her space, has to force himself to keep any sort of acceptable distance.

Her dimple makes him think of giggled pleas, mischievous promises, and the taste of sugar on his tongue. Gunmetal eyes meet his, and the color is alive, churning like an angry ocean, pulling him in.

He lets himself drown.

Colin mumbles, “Maybe gray,” but his heart is thundering.

He’s pretty sure if he says, “They’re like melted metal,” Jay will actually have a T-shirt made for him with the words I AM A DELICATE POET printed across the chest.

"Welcome to Lumiére Academy. Your school."

"Welcome to Lumiére Academy. Your school."

"Ondines are peaceful, powerful, and protective. Along with our dessondine ancestors, we are responsible for the protection and maintenance of water. We give birth to two races, ondines and demillirs. We are beings of magic, leaders and symbols of the water elemental world."

"I still don't understand how training ondines to fight is a problem."
"It goes against our very nature." Her lips tightened. "It would be like trying to turn a swan into a shark."

Broussard's eyes swept the classroom. "Who can name the eight Virtues?"
"Clairvoyance, Kinesis, Projection, Healing, Cloaking, Empath, Teleportation, and Transmutation."

...most non-Redavi demillirs serve as chevaliers because they possess extra-human speed and strength.

"Redavi demillirs take afternoon classes in business and politics. But they usually just hang around bragging about their inheritances."
"Fucking Redavi," Cam muttered under his breath.

"Aquidae are grotesque demons with no soul. No matter how much they may look like us, they are not. They do not live, but feed off violence and death." She shook her head sadly. "The great tragedy is that these abominations used to be beings of light."

Aquidae were humans or elementals who were turned, either by force or by choice.

"How can an Aquidae be killed?"
"By destroying the Origin scar, either through staking or decapitation," Ryder said. "Staking is the easier of the two."

"Depends on what teacher you get. We're all juniors," Ryder motioned to everyone at the table, "which means we have most of our regular classes together. In the afternoon, we go to chevalier training classes while ondines take elemental magic or Virtue classes."

Thick, straight hair tumbled down to my waist, and I gave it a few more swipes with a brush to make it shine. I swept all of it in front of my left shoulder so that my right shoulder lay bare, showing off my tattoo. The familiar feel of my dagger in its usual place at the small of my back comforted me.
Sexy and just a bit dangerous. Exactly the look I was going for.

I remembered that tournament two years ago. I'd won decisively in kumite, the free sparring division against a six-five guy who was over twice my weight. Receiving that trophy was one of the proudest moments of my life.

I knew we were Redavi, which is kind of like nobility in ondine society.

Not only was my mom Redavi, but she was the daughter of the official political leader of Haverleau.

"You're an Empath?" Chloe squeaked. "That's really rare."
"I've never met an Empath before," Ryder said, staring at me like I'd grown horns out of my head.

"There was a prophecy," Aubrey said. "No one knows the exact details because prophecies are highly protected. But it predicted the coming of an ondine who would have the mark of the elemental diamond on her left ankle, and the mark of water on her right shoulder. As the sondaleur, she'd bring about the end of our war with the Aquidae."

Every movement was full of power, revealing the litheness of his body and his superior skill and control. Gold streaked through the air as his kouperet staked first one and then the other.
All three Aquidae were on the ground, dead in a pool of thick, dark blood.
I couldn't believe it. I'd never seen anyone move as fast or as effectively as this man just did.

"And of course, you've met Prince Tristan Belicoux."
Prince?
"He's Chief Gardinel and Crown Prince of the Selkie Kingdom."

"He's got quite a rep with the ladies," Chloe said. "And you're totally his type."

Julian LeVeq leaned casually against the wall, a small smile playing on his lips.

Julian LeVeq leaned casually against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, charisma rolling off him in waves.

Julian LeVeq lounged on a bench directly beneath the lamp, reading a battered paperback of The Complete Poetry of Arthur Rimbaud.

Aubrey shot me a surprised look. "You haven't heard? She went Rogue. Ran off last night with the gardinel assigned to her mother. They'd been together secretly for awhile."
Everyone shifted uncomfortably and I suddenly noticed my chest hurt.
"Don't they know what's going to happen?" Chloe shuddered.
No one said anything. We all knew the consequences.

Ryder and I spent quite a chunk of time together every day. I didn't consider him my boyfriend, but I did enjoy being around him. He made me laugh and his unfailing admiration made me feel good. Selfish as that feeling may be, I needed it a lot right now.

Julian probably wanted to add me to his long list of conquered women and he thought his chances would improve if we spent more time together.

“We look alike. Even that desk attendant thought so,” I say, as much to myself as to her.
Sloane blinks at me from the other side of the table, staring at me as though I’ve gone insane.
And maybe I have.
But the idea won’t let go: Here it is. My chance to be somebody else for a bit.
My chance to switch.

Figure skating is way easier than hockey. No one is trying to break your legs or bash your brains out when you’re figure skating. There are no shots to take or miss, which means no tingles. And there are no scouts or coaches expecting me to be a hero, thus there’s no way to fail.

I’m on a public bus in Montreal, on my way to play hockey for four weeks. I can sit however I want, and no one is going to tell me otherwise.
This is going to be the greatest summer ever.
No triple axels. No triple axels.

“Listen.” He jerks his head over his shoulder, checking that we are more or less alone. “I know he’s got this moody, broody artist act down, and some girls go for that. Oh, look at the sad puppy. But it gets to be a drag, you know?”
“Not really,” I say stiffly.

Me, I’ve found how to focus thoughts and memories through touch, like steadying a radio antenna with your fingertips, the static sloughing off until a clear melody remains.

Brilliant pinks, blues, reds spin across the dance floor before us, and thoughts and smells spiral away in the dancers’ wake: sweat, eagerness, acrid perfume, regret. One thought is faint, but unmistakable to me— the hum of a brain that’s encountered a scrubber.

I catch a flash of lightning in the crowd— feel it more than see it, ripping through my mind.

“You were an idiot to try to give this up,” Misha says, and Masha nods. “Look around you— isn’t this a better life?

I am not sick, or crazy, or broken.

I am Meda Melange, demon-saint monster girl. I make full-grown men scream in terror. I

I am not sick, or crazy, or broken.

I am Meda Melange, demon-saint monster girl. I make full-grown men scream in terror. I break bones and drain blood. I turn nightmares into reality.

I am the most powerful creature on earth.

I stand, near-giggling over the destroyed corpse, surrounded by the sweet scent of blood and revenge.

I am what I am and I am not ashamed.

Why am I lying? Never say it’s to impress this boy-man-monster? That’s both embarrassing and probably pointless, as I’ll most likely kill him before morning.

Stupid Crusaders with their stupid rules. For a homicidal group, they’re appallingly restrictive.

No, Meda, you can’t leave campus.

No, Meda, you know we have a curfew.

No, Meda, you can’t eat that guy.

She walks toward our guest, but stops with five feet still separating them. “On Tuesday morning, what did I tell you I would be having for lunch?” she asks him.

“Tuna on wheat. With relish,” Art answers, promptly.

The Sarge smiles and strides forward to shake his hand. Apparently it was a test to make sure he wasn’t a demon in disguise.

“War is coming.”

She shakes her head. “You need to try harder. Try to look…” she fumbles for the word, “cheerful.”
“Like this.”
It appears to be a T-shirt, but…“Jo,” I say in dawning horror. “That’s pink.”

“I’ve always thought you’d look good in yellow. A bright, sunshiny yellow.”

At the thought, I turn faintly green. “Yellow, Jo?” My voice is a tiny thing.

“Everyone looks happy and harmless in bright yellow.”

You don’t have a choice. I hear footsteps close in behind me. You don’t have a choice. We will slip in your mind, take over your body. We will steal your freewill; we could plunder your thoughts, your memories, your every private moment if we wanted.

Jo wants me to be someone else. Someone who kisses ass and follows rules – a tamed tiger who sits and purrs until she shouts “attack” at her enemies. But I am not a pet.

And I won’t be locked in a cage.

I’m at a crossroads. One path is a slow, painful, righteous trudge uphill to a place where my nemeses see the light. The other is easy and fun, downhill and dark. Armand takes my hand.

I won’t walk this path alone.

The grin that dances across his face finds a partner on mine.

A real monster is too clever for that. A real monster shakes the hands of elderly couples as he invests their life’s savings in his Ponzi scheme; she kisses babies and runs for political office; he waits until she’s in love. A real monster knows that an attack hurts; but a betrayal scars.

One day I will have the opportunity to do some great good, a good so great as to change the course of human history. But the potential to do good and choosing to actually do it, are two very different things. Apparently a lot Beacons turn out to be duds.

“You treat living here like a joke.” She hasn’t turned back to me. “You float along, barely civil, and act like they owe you. You act like they should be grateful the Great Meda Melange didn’t kill them today. You want them to treat you like a Crusader?” Now she does look at me. “Then stop acting like a demon.”

I allow myself a sway in his direction, an inhale of spicy boy scent, a minute in demon dark eyes.

Then I shut the door in his face.

“I give a girl something she thinks she wants more than anything else in the world.” There’s another pause. “Then I take it away.”

We’ll face each other in battle, and when that day comes, we will do our utmost to reduce the other to bloody pieces. And we will do it unapologetically.

We know what we are.

“What’s a man like down there?”
“Oh.” Sidheag wrinkled her nose. “Unimpressive. They have,” she gestured toward her own nether regions with one

“What’s a man like down there?”
“Oh.” Sidheag wrinkled her nose. “Unimpressive. They have,” she gestured toward her own nether regions with one hand, “a sort of dangly sausage—lacks tailoring.”

[Sophronia] had not yet received lessons in seduction, or she might have understood the appeal of sharp confidence, a topping figure, and green eyes. All Sophronia’s intellect was directed at something other than attracting male companionship. These things combined to make her particularly appealing to gentlemen.

Dimity was so pretty and chattery, she quite overpowered the average male. Many gentlemen were unable to cope with abundant chatter, which is why they so often married it.

The discussion evolved to the interesting question of whether a gentleman could tattoo a secret message upon his chin, then grow out his beard, thus transporting said message into enemy territory with no one the wiser. Would a man want a message permanently upon his chin? That was the quandary. And could one legitimately ascribe nefarious intent to any many with a full beard as a result?
“I’ve always thought beards suspicious,” said Dimity with conviction.

“Because you’re different from the rest of us,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I was different from eve

“Because you’re different from the rest of us,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I was different from everyone back home, too, but.”
“There are different ways to be different, Anne.”
“I don’t suppose you know all that much about being different, Ben," I say, careful to sound as indifferent.
“I’d say I know a lot about a lot, including being different,” he replies.

“I have seen your PT. You have in your aura a tendency toward—” Teddy hesitates, standing in the midst of a great, long, exaggerated pause “—seduction.”

Like four slightly oversexed dolls, they stand at arm’s length from me, thrusting out their cleavage, tossing their straightened silky hair over their shoulders, and pursing their pouty, glossy lips.

“Feast your eyes,” our model Trey exclaims, drawing his hand down his body. He’s a member of the faculty, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s nowhere near as hard on the eyes as most of the teachers here. “I am man. Hear me roar.”

“This is the final ceremony in the Festival of Fire and Life,” Mr. Watso bellows, “a tradition unique to the Abenaki of this island they call Wormwood, this island that is Ndakinna to our great ancestors. It is a tradition that is just decades old but more meaningful than any ritual we have ever performed.”

I pull out my California street-dancing swagger, which is insanely tough in this dress and heels, but I can’t help myself. This song is begging for some boom-pop, and I am all over that.

“You ready to take this on?” she asks. Not asks. Demands.
“Take what on?”
“This!” She runs her hands up and down her body. “Right here. Right now.”
“Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
She wants to battle. She wants a dance-off.

I start it off, beginning by sliding into and out of an exaggerated S-shape formed by sitting deep in my right hip, rolling up to my left, arching my back, and smoothly busting out my chest. To warm things up. I pause for good measure, making deep eye contact with guys in the crowd, who clap when I do.
Finally, I wave my hand like you stink—steeped in swagger.

“Suppose,” Teddy offers, “your PT is to…be selfish to succeed in life.”
“I would grade your actions over the course of the next two years against that PT. I would expect you to skip to the front of every line, fail to share, sabotage the efforts of your peers, especially those who are most desperate, and—”
“Steal money from a beggar’s bowl,” I suggest.
“Precisely!” Villicus and Teddy exclaim.

Dropping my arms to my side and letting my hand hover at the hem of my pajama shirt. Holding my breath, I lift it slowly. Take it off. And blush at my reflection. Because my body is so unrecognizable to me, it’s almost pornographic.
“Not bad,” I whisper, looking at myself as I never really have before. Something inside me stirs—not because I’m attracted to myself. It’s something else. It’s realizing, for the first time ever, that I may possess a teensy tiny bit of sexual power.

Her followers—a Thai girl, an Indian girl, and a stark blonde—glare at me.

Behind me, a Mandarin guy...

"But I’m sure you know all about getting around.”

Their matching red bras busting out of their cleavage. Their sex-kitten hair. Every day, they replace their standard-issue boots with whatever ultra-expensive, ultra-hooker shoes they have; today, it’s Manolo Blahnik spiky boots.

“I could rate you very favorably,” he says, his soft voice sending shivers up my spine, “if you could be so obliging.” Then he lowers his hands to his pants and undoes the top button.
My mouth drops open, but not in the way he wants it to. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m your meal ticket.”

The one thought I have hasn’t quite reached me yet. It moves through the darkness of my room slowly, deliberately, like the Grim Reaper wading through a sludgy pond to reach me, like he’s been wading toward me for days, has jerked his way up the stairs, and is finally here, his slender, long arms extending toward me. I want to back away from him, from my one unavoidable thought, but he keeps approaching, nearer and nearer until I’m in his cold, wet grasp.

They can shoot me through the bars of this sweatbox or hang me from the flagpole or throw me to the sharks, but they cannot make

They can shoot me through the bars of this sweatbox or hang me from the flagpole or throw me to the sharks, but they cannot make me cry or beg. I will not show them weakness. I will stay strong. If they kill me, they will remember my strength; I will force them to live with the memory of my strength forever.
And if I live, I will escape from Phoenix Island, and I will tell the world. I will bring these people down.

The baton crackled, and two needles of energy plunged into Carl’s forearm. Electricity coursed through him and locked his muscles rigid, filling him with sparking, yellow pain. Parker grinned through his anger. “Not bad for the first one.”
The first one...And then the horror of it dawned on him; Parker had no intention of stopping no matter what Carl did. He was going to keep shocking Carl until Carl couldn’t take it anymore.

You are all orphans. Why had they taken only orphans? He thought of the kick he had received, the rough handling of Davis. Here they were, on Phoenix Island, somewhere outside of the United States and its laws.
We’re as dead to the world as our parents, Carl thought. These people can do anything to us.

That made no sense.
Unless . . .
Odd misgivings warbled through him.
Something weird was going on. Really weird. Bad weird.
The date suggested that whoever wrote this was either psychic or had been planning his placements months in advance...

“If Dr. Vispera had been born in London or Detroit, he would no doubt have risen through the ranks of respected physicians and scientists and established himself in more conventional ways. Unfortunately for him—and even less fortunately for his symphony of victims—he was born in place that valued power over science. Sometimes, the only difference between a Nobel Prize winner and a war criminal is geography. Do you understand?”

“That jungle will eat you alive. Bad things live out there. Bad, bad things. This fence right here? It’s not to keep you in. It’s to keep them out. You go AWOL here, it’s a death sentence.”

Girls like Rice, though, didn’t even think about the outside. They had turned inward, had become truly institutionalized. They didn’t get scared; they got interested. They didn’t look for a way out; they looked for ways to manipulate the system, ways to push buttons. There was no reforming them—and certainly not by shouting.

Decker just kept staring, a terrible amusement playing across his face. It was a cold humor Carl had seen in other bullies. The toughest ones. The ones with real confidence. Counselors and teachers told you bullies were insecure and cowardly, and, sure, some were. But guys like Decker, guys who got that look in their eyes, were neither insecure nor cowardly, and they weren’t just acting out for attention. Guys like Decker were confident and tough and mean to the core, and they hurt people because they liked causing pain.

And all these years, that’s what Carl thought he’d been doing: keeping his promise to his father. Standing up for the weak.
But he’d been fooling himself.
Carl’s historical pattern of self-destruction did point toward a deep personal weakness—all those fights, all those placements, all the trouble he’d gotten himself into here..always a bully, always a victim, always Carl stepping into the middle.
But Carl’s weakness wasn’t his need to help the victims. His weakness was his need to destroy the bullies.
He’d been fighting not out of love but hatred.

I consider the many tools at my disposal, eyeing his large blood-splattered frame, and settle on my weapon of choice – one so infrequently used I need to dust it off first.
My eyes fill with tears. “Wha–” I swallow hard “– what were those things?”
“Demons.” Thanks, Einstein. I got that part. I let a tear trickle over.
He hurries to reassure me. “Don’t cry – I’ll protect you.”
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

Cue innocence! My sweet lashes flutter against my helpless cheeks, my useless hands wring the edge of my guiltless, blood-soaked nightgown. My lovely lips quiver over my pearly white teeth.
Jo isn’t buying...Damn, that gimp bitch is a hard sell.

I’m ashamed of my wickedness – when I’m not reveling in it.

“I just get so mad sometimes. I’m never going to be a Crusader, never get married, never do anything. But who do I get to be angry at? The demons? They’re constantly trying to destroy mankind and, if at all possible, Heaven too. There’s enough reasons to be angry at them – my leg’s superfluous. The other students, the Crusaders for how they treat me? They’re not trying to be cruel, I am damaged. They’re so very kind, so full of pity. I’d rather they hate me than feel sorry for me.”

“You don’t deserve to be a Crusader – and it isn’t because you don’t have the legs, but because you don’t have the heart.”

The new attendee, a man, crouches in the doorway. Well, not really a man, a human teenager. One of God’s most misbegotten creatures – big like grown-ups and yet dumb like children. Selfish, moody, reckless, with a tendency to sleep too much and complain too often.

Usually when I got one from physical contact with another person, I saw the last thing that affected them emotionally.

The younger one continued to stare in my direction. The look he gave me made my pulse race; it was like he was seeing through my soul. His muscles strained against his black T-shirt as he stepped toward me. His inky black hair made his amber eyes seem brighter.

My mind was stuck on one thing. It had been an amazing kiss. The best I could ever imagine a kiss being. Even now, in pain, I’d do it again. No doubt. Something in the core of me needed him, and from the looks of him right now, the feeling was mutual.

“The Werewolf’s Bible. It’s basically a guide to everything about being a Were. It explains most of what you’ll be going through.”

It made one half-white, half-Mexican, part-werewolf, part-bruja woman want to scream. I didn’t fit into any nice little box in Los Angeles, and I sure didn’t fit into any of Mr. Hoel’s boxes now that I added a hefty dose of werewolf into the mix.

Only one in a hundred guys can survive the transformation. And almost no girls live through it, more like one in ten thousand.

Axel got in my face. “You can’t actually want to date that guy. He attacked you—”
My cheeks burned. “Attacked is a bit of a harsh word for what happened.” I couldn’t stand by and let them think that about Dastien. “It was an accident.”
“And the next time he hits you?” Mom asked.
My mouth dropped open. Holy crapola. They thought I was in an abusive relationship?

I could’ve died? Did Dastien even think about that?

“I wouldn’t let you out of my sight if I could manage it.”
I tugged on his hand. “Not cool. That’s more than a little stalker-ish, dude.”
He gazed down at me. “I thought girls liked that kind of thing.”
“Yeah. It’s kind of nice.” I grinned.

She understands, now, the dangerous, intoxicating quality of a leading role. It is as though she is the worst sort of dictator—ca

She understands, now, the dangerous, intoxicating quality of a leading role. It is as though she is the worst sort of dictator—callous and terrible and omnipotent. She wears the orchestra like a silk train, perfectly attached. Her voice fills the theater.

Her parents could have named her Aria, or Harmonia, or Tessitura, or a hundred other clever names that would have alluded to her ancestry. But they weren’t for her, these names that roll or sparkle or play or simply proclaim, I am normal!

No, it was Sing. A name and a command.

The crow turned.
It didn’t see the long, dark body, precariously, impossibly perched. It didn’t see the lashing tail or the yellowing claws. It saw only the eyes, deep and black violet, hungry and pitiless.
The crow had never seen the Felix before, but it knew to be afraid.

“Have you been singing a long time?” Marta asks.

The question takes Sing by surprise. Two years, she thinks. Ever since my father decided I would become the new Barbara da Navelli.

“Farfallina,” he says, “I leave tonight. But please promise me to stay always on the campus. They say this forest is dangerous.”
Sing tilts her head. “That sounds almost superstitious of you, Papà.”
She shrugs. “I’m not afraid of ghosts.”
Her father continues to smile, but his eyes are grave. “That is good to hear.”

The man stood, still shaking with cold or fear. The Felix took another step closer and looked into his eyes.
She saw his pain and disease, his hope, his uncertainty. A sleeping part of her mind stirred from where it lay curled around her memories of home. For a moment, she was mesmerized.
Then it passed.
She tore out his throat.

He squinted hard, then recoiled.
It was a human arm.
There was something wrong about it. It didn’t look strange, exactly, except for the tattoo.
Then one of the pale fingers began to move.

Sing’s hands start to shake. She doesn’t say, I can’t sing Angelique for real. Not yet. Admitting that would be sure to squash any chance she has of getting the lead. There’s no need for anyone here to know her secret—that despite her blood and her training, there is still something...wrong...with her voice.

She backs off, worried that if she pushes too hard, the sound will become wobbly or, worse, break altogether. She can’t move her jaw. She tries to decrescendo on the last note, but the bottom just drops out and she’s left with a weak little whine.

"Considering how badly you butchered your audition, I should have cast you as the mute. But the plain fact is we need an understudy, and you were the only decent soprano available.”

She turns, but as she expected, none of the girls are looking at her. They appear deeply entrenched in their own conversation. “I like to sing,” one of them says. The other two laugh and snort.

Plays-poor. The disgraced vampire. He seems to have the temperament for it. Booed off the stage during his only performance.

It doesn’t matter. The crystal is here, and he will have it back soon.
Then no one will take Nathan away ever again.

The great, black forest betrays no sign of life, no indication of a magical, wish-granting beast. Sing wonders what she would wish for given the opportunity.

Quand il se trouvera dans la forêt sombre...She finds herself humming an all-too-familiar aria. When he finds himself in the dark forest...

The rustling of trees, the odd snap or scrape from the forest.
The moon illuminated the walkway that ran the length of the building and ended abruptly at the grassy quadrangle.
Must have been just another creak from the old door.
There it was again.
A low, rasping groan coming from the roof. Perhaps not human after all.

Professor Needleman looks at her. “We all think too much. Here, go grab that broom from the corner.”
For the rest of her lesson, Sing sings while balancing a broom, bristles up, on her palm. Following the subtle, capricious swaying of the broom, not letting it fall, takes all her focus and energy.

She is completely surprised when Jenny stretches out a hand and says, “It sucks that you didn’t get the part you wanted. I think maybe it sucks more than Marta and I know. But look, we’re on your side, okay?” She looks into Sing’s eyes, and Sing feels real in a way she hasn’t for a long time.

Jenny says, “What’s up with you, Sing?”
Marta shushes her, but Sing looks up coolly. “What do you mean?”
Jenny looks right at her. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Leave her alone, Jenny,” Marta says, cutting steamed carrots.
“No! She’s been acting rotten all lunch. I’m sick of it.”
Sing is silent, in no mood for Jenny’s frankness. Her hackles rise. Go ahead, she thinks. Tell me I don’t belong here. Tell me my father is buying my career. Tell me I’ll never sing Angelique for real.

What am I doing? Sing thinks. Do I think my life will be better if I get bad grades? If I get kicked out of the conservatory?

The Maestro raises his voice just a little and looks at the president. “You know, my mother was a nurse. Would you come to me if you broke your arm? I mean, what are we trying to do here? I’m sorry the public misses Barbara da Navelli, but it’s not our job to bring her back!”
No one says, That’s her mother you’re talking about. No one says that.

But she realizes his touch is no different from that of Professor Needleman, or Maestra Collins, or any of them. This closeness they are sharing will be over in a moment. It isn’t real—it only has the shape of truth. He is interested in her cartilage, not her skin; her trachea, not her neck; her consonants, not her mouth.

“You’re so much more extraordinary than you give yourself credit for. And I’m not just talking about your mind. Your body too.”

Micah gives her a smile and Dyl returns the favor. Like a prize racehorse, she’s even showing teeth in perfect, pearly order. She’s passing with flying colors.

Beauty. Dyl’s worth is no longer in her looks, it’s in this strand of hair. And I’ll use my own, plain, unspectacular self to help her.

I’m a total embarrassment. My refusal to wear makeup, nice shoes, or tight clothes. My penchant for getting excited over CellTech News, my favorite holo channel. My endless nagging about her flashy dresses and too-shiny lipstick.

I point to myself and silently mouth the words What did I do? to Wilbert.
“My guess is, you’re female and you exist. Probably an alpha female thing, like wolves or rats—”

I’m not shocked by the fact she’s wearing the latest fashion from Hookers-R-Us. It’s her face.

Vera is on my floor, staring at her crotch.
Well, she’s doing yoga, but in essence, that’s what’s going on.

The tattoos. No wonder they keep changing. His body must metabolize the ink so fast that he gets a clean slate every day.

Cy’s not done. He spits on the floor again. “She’s damaged goods.”

It’s a painting of a dismembered hand, fingers stretching to extremes, but cut off at the wrist, leaning against the wall. The one next to it shows a long bone, still smeared with blood, floating in the same pale blue void the hand is in.

It warms his slate eyes just a touch, like cold butter that softens after landing on warm toast.

“Oh, you know. After you passed out, Cy knocked us out of the way to give you mouth-to-mouth. He freaking French-kissed you all the way home, in the name of saving your life. What a goddamned romantic. I had no idea he had it in him.”

Boyfriend is too limited a term for what Cy has become to me. Water? Oxygen? That might do.

I rev the engine afresh, and the char thrusts ahead with a roar. The speed is therapeutic, but does nothing to erase the memory of two very different kisses.

“I thought the same thing,” I said softly, my voice quavering, “when I saw the girls jumping...that they were like butterflies trapped between panes of glass.”

My whole body shuddered like a bell that had been struck. My hand, which looked small in his, was trembling. For a moment the din of the factory—the whirr of the sewing machines, the shouts of the foreman to hurry up, the street noise from the open windows—all receded. I felt as though the two of us were standing alone in a green glade starred with wildflowers, the only sound the wind soughing through the encircling forest...

...he possessed the finely carved features of a Greek statue, his skin pale as marble, his eyes the weathered gray of worn granite. And a heart as hard as stone...

Those wings weren’t entirely black—they held the iridescent colors of the sunset in them.

Her aim was so true that each bolt was hit and turned into a boiled beet that exploded all over the cousins. Red pulp splatted in

Her aim was so true that each bolt was hit and turned into a boiled beet that exploded all over the cousins. Red pulp splatted into their faces, hung from their hair, and stained their dresses. The other girls couldn’t help but laugh.
The cousins stood in the middle of the ballroom, dripping vegetable matter and wondering why anyone would want to be a witch in the first place.

A man cantered down the middle of the street on a giant black horse, holding his own head under his arm. The eyes were staring balefully. His cloak billowed from his shoulders and the stump of a neck shadowed the collar of an old-fashioned frock coat. A whip hung from his belt, knotted and white, and made from a length of human spine. More bones were knotted into the horse’s mane.

The sky opened overhead like a broken water jug. Rain pattered over the roof, soaked their dresses and tangled their hair like seaweed. In moments, the gardens were a maze of ruined silk, mud, and slippery stone. A balding duke slid on his perfectly polished shoes right past them and into a hedge. A dowager who usually limped on a diamond-studded cane gathered up her hem and darted over the lawn, her wrinkled knees bare.

“Ooof,” Emma wheezed. “Someone’s elbow is taking liberties.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Gretchen shifted. “But if Penelope’s left foot gets any closer to my cleavage we’ll have to read the banns.”
Penelope squirmed and spat out what felt like a wad of lace. “I sincerely hope that was someone’s petticoat and not a rat,”

“I’m the headmistress here. Welcome to the Rowanstone Academy for Young Ladies.”
Emma set her teacup down with a jostle. Tea sloshed over the rim. “I was kidnapped by a finishing school?”

Four: her father was no help at all.
Five: she’d grown antlers.
Six: the gates between the living and the dead had been opened.
Seven: which was her fault.
Eight: they needed to be located and locked.

“I wonder where the library is,” Gretchen said.
“I wonder if there are any handsome young men willing to dance a waltz?” Penelope added hopefully.
“I wonder if we can hide under the tablecloth,” Emma put in.

“I wonder where the library is,” Gretchen said.
“I wonder if there are any handsome young men willing to dance a waltz?” Penelope added hopefully.
“I wonder if we can hide under the tablecloth,” Emma put in.

“Shouldn’t you at least be clutching me out of fear?”
She turned to look at him. “Why? I’m not afraid of the dark, Cormac.”
He sighed theatrically. “But girls clutch at me out of fear all the time. Apparently I am a great defender against bees, spiders, moths, and suspicious-looking scones.”

Daddy said that you can’t change the way things are by saving one person. He said the best we can do in life is surround ourselves with people who

Daddy said that you can’t change the way things are by saving one person. He said the best we can do in life is surround ourselves with people who make us happy, because the rest of the world is too big to find meaning in.

But if everyone just forgets about terrible things they can’t understand—like what happened to Isabella and Matt Weaver—who will be left to remember?

I’ve been expelled from my beloved Manhattan school, questioned as a person of interest in a murder investigation, and nearly shot to death in the woods, but I’m convinced Monday morning is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

The dead leave lots of things behind. Like messes you can’t see. Or sometimes, actual things.
Like the photograph I found in an old library book Isabella checked out before her death—the one of Matthew Weaver, a student who disappeared over thirty years ago, standing with the Wheatley Crew team.
The one with THEY KILLED HIM written on the back.

He also asked me if I found myself bored in the weeks after Dr. Harrow’s arrest. I’m not an idiot: He thinks I want there to be more to the mystery. Sort of like I’m having mystery withdrawals or whatever.
But part of me thinks he has a point.
Either way, I have too many questions and no ways to get answers. When I told Dr. R I felt this way, he agreed.
“Sometimes it’s best for our sanity to let sleeping dogs lie,” he said.

Matt Weaver drew himself as Adam.
Adam/Matt is frowning, a tear pooling at the corner of his eye. In his hand is a half-eaten apple. A serpent with hollow black eyes is coiled around his arm.
Matt Weaver saw himself as Adam. So what did he do to get kicked out of Paradise?

...the picture makes me want to throw up.
Eight guys stand shoulder to shoulder, their wrists bound in front of them with rope. I don’t recognize anyone in it. Probably because they all have potato sacks over their heads.

“Where can I find a VCR?” I say from the doorway.
Remy blinks at me. “Um, the nineties?”
“No, really.”

“Hi. Um. It’s me. Anne. Look, I know we haven’t talked in a while. But I really need to talk. To you. It’s important.”
Then I hang up.

I think of all the Wheatley School students who have wound up dead (or presumably, at least): Isabella Fernandez. Matthew Weaver. Cynthia Durham. I’ve never believed in curses or any of that garbage. But I will admit it: I’m starting to worry that if I stay at the Wheatley School, I might be next.

“Oh, no,” April says over the sound of Murali, Phil, and Cole’s laughter. “There are tons of bananas in the fridge. You’re not doing the Sprite-banana challenge, are you?”

Everyone is in self-imposed isolation today: We all got drunker than we meant to last night, and there’s lots of shit due in class tomorrow.

Brent sits up, his back against his pillow, and I sit on his lap facing him. He kisses my neck, and when I kiss his earlobe his whole body contracts into mine.
“GODDAMNED SPIKED SHELL!” Murali screams from the living room.

Occam’s razor: It’s a theory of logic stating that the simplest explanation to a problem is usually the best one. It’s my father’s worst nightmare in the courtroom.
What I know: Someone is trying to stop me from digging into the crew team’s past.
What I wish I didn’t know: [Redacted] and the other guys were in the tunnels earlier tonight.
The simplest explanation is that they were the ones who left me the photo.

Absent, thankfully, is Jill Wexler, who is tall and thin and blond and in love with Brent. Which isn’t grounds to hate her. I’m not like that.
But the last time Jill and I were at the same party, she almost got me expelled-and-or-jailed afterward. So I’m happy no one invited her tonight.

“Don’t ever say you hate yourself for that. You know what I hate? The idea that we’re supposed to hate ourselves for having sex.”

I’m not going to let myself cry. I worked too damn hard on my eye makeup.

“You found all that out on your own?”
I nod.
“I can’t...I mean, this is just crazy.” A low whistle escapes him. “Don’t you have other things to do? I don’t know, maybe homework or something?”
“Obviously it’s been a while since you’ve done homework if you think that’s more interesting than a cold case.”

“I’ll see you in a few, I guess.”
I’m completely stunned that he I-guessed me. I mean, I guess isn’t that bad in itself, but it’s a sign that next time I’m going to get a Do what you want. Or even worse: Whatever.

“No, there’s more. I don’t want to pretend I don’t give a shit what you think of me. Because I do. I don’t want to be the waste product you think I am. It’s all I think about lately.” His eyes are pleading, begging me to understand what he’s really saying. “You’re all I think about, and I can’t stop.”

"At St. Bernadette’s, it didn’t matter where your money came from, since everyone’s parents were attorneys or plastic surgeons or famous rock stars; you had to prove yourself to earn your status. The fact that Remy and Company won’t even wait for me to prove myself makes me distrust them."

"I should be worried about myself and my future, but I can’t stop thinking about Isabella, and how if she were the daughter of a politician or the attorney general, the police would probably have found her killer by now.
It’s not fair. And it’s not fair for me to sit around and do nothing about it. Not when I got off with a slap on the wrist for almost burning my school down just because of my father. I’ll be such a hypocrite if I don’t at least try to get justice for Isabella."

"I wait until I’m out of the administration building to give in to a few tears. Obviously I can’t go to class now, and I don’t want to go back to my room. I could go to the police, but what would I say? Hey, I have absolutely no evidence, and they didn’t take anything, but someone was in my room.
I wipe my eyes with my gloves and take a deep breath. Keep it together, Anne. You can’t go home. You need to get through this."