“I think we should do the Salem witch trials,” I said, surprised by the venom in my voice.
“Feeling a little persecuted, are we?” Ayaz sneered.
“Let’s say I have an affinity for those who are tortured for being different.” My fingers reached up to touch my hair again.
“And how did the deaths of some witches change anything?” Ayaz said. “It’s not exactly relevant.”
“You mean how the Salem trials have been used ever since as political rhetoric and in popular culture to warn against the danger of mass hysteria and false accusations? What about the transition from medieval to post-medieval culture? What about identity and religion in our colonial past? What about the witch as a symbol both of patriarchal oppression and of early feminist thought—”
Ayaz’s eyes burned into mine. “You really give a shit about this stuff.”
“I give a shit about those 200 points,” I said.
Ayaz’s mouth twisted. “So do I,” he said. He seemed like he wanted to say more, so I waited, but he didn’t.
“Good.” I nodded. “I know you hate me or whatever, but can we just agree that we want to win, so we’ll both do the work and neither of us will sabotage this assignment?”
Ayaz stared at me for a long moment, and I could feel myself shrinking in my chair. His incense and opium scent wafted around me, sending a flame down my spine. After what seemed like a century, he nodded. “You might be right about this witch trial thing. You know there’s a connection to the school?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I did not know that. The website wasn’t exactly forthcoming about that particular part of the school’s history.”
A muscle tugged at the corner of Ayaz’s mouth. Was that the beginning of a smile? My heart thudded, but I couldn’t dear hope. “The school was founded by Thomas Parris, the son of the Reverend Samuel Parris who was responsible for a lot of finger-pointing during the trials. Rumor has it that following the trials, the good Reverend was haunted for the rest of his days by the innocent souls he condemned. They invaded his body and mind, made him hurt himself, and made him frightful to others. Thomas Parris did everything he could to free his father of these malevolent spirits. When he exhausted the resources of the church, he turned to Jewish mysticism and then to the very dark magic against which his father had fought.”
I leaned forward, enraptured by Ayaz’s voice and this insane story. “Parris’ occult studies and the strange people he attracted started to gain attention in Salem. There were stirrings that he had been corrupted by the lure of witchcraft. All his studies were in vain, for Samuel Parris died that winter in agony, passing a small sugar plantation in Barbados to his son. Thomas Parris fled Salem, sold the plantation, and came here. In his diaries, he said that this site called to him. He spoke of a sign from the spirits that he should have this land and that he should build a great house that honored his pagan gods.
“Parris built this house based on the principles of sacred geometry, designing it to align with heavenly bodies and for certain rooms to draw energy from the earth in order to channel spirits and other things. He dug underground caverns and tunnels into the bedrock, and worked sigils into the architecture – sigils are symbols that represent certain demons or gods, and it’s believed that by drawing them the magician has a degree of control over the being.”
“You mean this whole building was like a demonic house of worship?” I asked. “What’s the sacred geometry about?”
“It’s like this.” Ayaz tore off a sheet of paper. His hand flew across the page as he drew a quick outline of the school – the wings and the central buildings surrounding the courtyard, the fields and the long, winding drive. He added a U-shape to indicate the peninsula. Over this, he added a series of swooping lines and symbols. He finished it by linking the corners of the buildings into a crooked five-point star.
“Some of this I’ve seen in Parris’ diaries, some I figured out from stuff I learned in alchemy class. But basically, Parris thought of his home as this conduit of energy. He wanted to communicate with beings from other dimensions or whatever. But the building also had to be able to contain these demonic energies. He couldn’t very well call up all these dark things and just let them loose upon the world, so his home also had to serve as a prison. Hence why your room only has that one, tiny window covered with bars.”
“You’re telling me that my dorm room used to be a prison cell for demons?” I scoffed. “If you’re trying to scare me, this is not the way to do it.”
“Demons, and other things.” The gravitas in Ayaz’s voice drew me in. He seriously believed this stuff. “In Parris’ diaries, he speaks about communing with the ‘other’ gods – the gods who guard the feeble gods of Earth. Ancient Gods of gods who have fallen into a deathlike sleep but whom he hoped to awaken. He invited magicians and occultists from all over the world to his home to attempt to summon these Great Old Ones. Like all good occultists, they threw violent parties and held orgies under the stars. The newspapers reported strange happenings in Arkham village – herds of cattle mysteriously dying, earthquakes that seemed to originate from the house on the hill, reports of participants in Parris’ rituals carried away to asylums, turned insane by what they had seen.
“Eventually, the locals in Arkham got sick of all the strange happenings and of the influx of weirdos heading up the hill to dance naked in the moonlight. They stormed the house one night, set fire to it, threw Parris off the cliff, and ran his coven out of town. The place lay abandoned for a hundred years or so, until some ancestor of Trey’s bought it and turned it into this school.”
I spun the page around to face me, picking out details of the drawing. Ayaz had rendered the school beautifully, even adding architectural details like the carved gothic arches and gnarled trees along the edge of the cliffs. “You’re quite a good artist.”
“How would you know?” he snapped. “You’ve probably never even been to an art gallery.”
“My best friend is a tattoo artist. Instead of shutting away his art in elitist buildings, he drew it on people’s skin.” I shrugged as if it was no big deal. “Actually, I should say that he was a tattoo artist. He’s dead now. He died trying to hide from bullies like you. The only thing I had of his was his journal – you know, that notebook you destroyed in the fountain for the amusement of your loyal subjects.”
“I didn’t ask for your life story,” Ayaz snarled. I nodded mutely. I guess that conversation is over. We got to work building out a plan of our project based on the knowledge we already had about the trials and what we needed to research. Ayaz jotted notes, his hand moving across the page in swift circles as he doodled a plan for our presentation. Then we each opened our books and worked in silence.
A few moments later, a pen tapped against the page under my nose. I looked up, startled.
“That wasn’t me,” Ayaz said, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t destroy your friend’s book.”
I searched his face for any sign that he was messing with me, but he was, as usual, impossible to read. All I saw in his eyes was barely subdued rage. Was that anger for me, or was it about something else entirely?
I shrugged, because what was I supposed to say?
“I don’t go in for property damage,” Ayaz added. “That’s more Trey and Courtney’s style.”
“You’re more of a maggots-in-my-breakfast and tar-my-hair guy,” I shot back, my hand flying to my head again. “Sorry, if you’re looking for some kind of moral high-ground, you’re not getting it from me.”
“I didn’t touch your hair. That was all Courtney.” Ayaz looked away. It was odd, almost as if he didn’t want to think about the maggots. Well, tough. I didn’t want to think about them either, but the vision of their wriggling bodies entered my mind every morning as I took my seat in the dining hall.
“Even if you weren’t the one who tarred my hair or destroyed the journal, you stood there while they did it. You didn’t stop them. Seems like I’m the only one around her
e standing up to the bullies at this school, and look what I have to show for it?” I pointed at my head.
“Trey’s not a bad guy,” Ayaz said.
I snorted. “You’ve met him, right?”
“There are things you don’t know.”
“Fine, whatever. What I do know doesn’t exactly fill me with warm fuzzies.”
“Courts is a piece of work. Tillie and Amber will follow her lead. But Trey… he and his family kind of adopted me when I came to this country, when I was alone. He’s like a brother to me. He has his own issues. There’s more to him than what you see.”
I snorted. “Oh yes. I’d love to have a heart-to-heart with Trey Bloomberg, find out what deep secrets in his heart make him want to torment me. Are you going to be an artist?”
Ayaz bristled. “That’s a swift change of subject.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to waste the one mildly pleasant conversation we’d had talking about Trey fucking Bloomberg. I’m dying to know what people are going to do when they’re done with this stupid school. Are you all going to be fucking monarchs in the real world, too? Answer the question. Artist, or maybe architect?” I pointed to the perfect floorplan in front of me.
“No.” Something flashed in Ayaz’s eyes that I couldn’t place. Something like a real human emotion. “I’ll be a doctor.”
I tilted my head to the side. “I can’t imagine you as a doctor. You’re going to have to work on your bedside manner.”
“Yeah, well.” Ayaz’s body locked down, whatever emotion I’d seen locked tightly away again, replaced by the simmering resentment that I was beginning to suspect was a cover for something much deeper and darker. “You don’t know everything.”
“Not much time to draw pictures as a doctor.”
“Correct.” Ayaz’s tone said that he wasn’t up for discussing it further.
“I’m going to business school. One day I’m going to look at all the monarchs from across a boardroom table, and I’ll be able to buy and sell the lot of you, and maybe then you’ll know what it means to be treated like shit just because of where you came from.”
Ayaz’s eyes burned into mine. “There’s a lot you don’t know about this school.”
“What’s there to know? It’s a bunch of snobby kids who are going to be snobby adults in unhappy marriages, breeding the next generation of snobby, unhappy kids.”
“You think you know what’s going on,” Ayaz hissed. “But you can’t even begin to imagine. The future of the modern world is decided in this school. There are kids here with the power to topple nations, to bankrupt the world’s financial institutions, to commit unspeakable acts of evil. If you knew the truth of who you’d face across the boardroom, or the source of their power, you wouldn’t want to be any part of it. You’d either go mad from the revelation or flee into the peace and safety of the ghetto from where you came.”
I snorted. “You sound like Thomas Parris, talking about his Great Old Gods. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I can handle. I’m not afraid of you or Trey or anyone else at this school.”
Ayaz’s face darkened. When he spoke, his voice had this dead, resigned tone that sent a chill through my body. “You should be.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ayaz’s warning echoed in my head for the rest of the week. Every time I thought if it, and the way he’d said it in that dead, hopeless voice with his eyes flashing, a chill ran over the back of my neck.
Or maybe that was just me getting used to my new haircut. Greg hadn’t stopped praising it ever since I unveiled it at rehearsal. I hadn’t told him about the tar. The look of abject pity on Loretta’s face as she watched me cutting my hair off had been burned into my brain. I couldn’t bear it if Greg looked at me in the same way. I told him that Headmistress West forced me to cut them off, and left it at that.
As the weekend drew close, people lost interest in me in lieu of gossip about Saturday’s party – who was going, what were they wearing, what alcohol and drugs had been smuggled in courtesy of staff members amenable to bribery. Quinn hadn’t spoken to me since the previous week, so I assumed Courtney had made her point and he was back licking her boots.
After Saturday dinner, I went to the library with Greg and Andre to study for a couple of hours. We got next to nothing done because all he wanted to do was berate me for not going to the party. I was starting to appreciate Andre’s company more – he would wiggle his eyebrows at me and make funny faces while Greg yammered on. His stone-faced demeanor was a mask, just like the masks we all wore. Underneath, Andre had a wicked sense of humor, and I almost forgot that he was mute. It was nice to hang around someone who didn’t expect you to fill in the silences or bombard you with a hundred questions.
Finally, I gave up and suggested we turn in for the night. We walked back through the dorms toward our staircase. I couldn’t help but notice how empty it was, all the doors shut, no music thumping or voices laughing. We stopped outside Quinn’s door – it was locked when I tried the handle, and there was no loud music or fucking sounds coming from within. “See?” I beamed at Greg. “He’s already left for the party. I’m off the hook.”
Greg looked gutted. “Damn, honey, I was rooting for you.”
“Yeah, well…” We descended our staircase into the gloom. “At least this way I don’t have to wear some uncomfortable, ill-fitting party dress. I can just chill out with a book and—holy shit!”
I swore as a shadowed figure moved in the darkness, reaching for me. Quinn’s laugh rolled from the gloom, deep and throaty and intoxicating.
“Fuck!” I flicked on the hallway light. Quinn leaned against the bare stone wall, rolling a joint between his fingers. With his emerald dress shirt untucked at the waist, matching his dancing eyes, and a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulder, he looked every bit the bad boy cliche.
He also made my chest tighten and a warm fire flicker to life in my core. Quinn’s coconut and sugar scent combined with the sweetness of the weed and swirled inside my head, turning me about, making me dizzy and disoriented. Smoke tendrils curled around his face, giving him a sinister quality that was utterly irresistible.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“I couldn’t think why.” I pulled my key from my pocket, then stopped, waving it in his face. “Wait, I don’t need this. You’ve got a key to my room. Why didn’t you just go in, make yourself at home, destroy a few more of my possessions.”
Quinn shrugged. “Not me.” He grinned. “None of that shit was me.”
“I don’t believe you. Go away, Quinn.”
“No can do. You said you’d be my date.”
“That was before you put tar in my hair.” Behind me, Greg gasped. Andre made a choking sound. Shit, I hadn’t meant for them to find out.
“Like I said, wasn’t me. You owe me a favor, Hazy, and I’m cashing in. Put something sexy on, you’re coming to a party.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes,” Greg shoved me toward the door. “She’s going. Put on that black dress I saw hanging in your closet. It’s gorgeous.” Andre was nodding vigorously.
“Listen to bum boy and the mime here,” Quinn jerked his thumb at Greg and Andre.
I unlocked my door and slid into the room, peering out at Quinn through the gap. “Fine. I’m only going if Greg, Loretta, and Andre can come too.”
“Sorry, Hazy, that’s not a good idea.”
“Bye, then.” I tried to shut the door in his face. But Quinn shoved an expensive boot into the door, jamming it open.
“If it were up to me, we’d bring along your merry men. I literally do not give a shit. I’m sick of partying with the same old boring people, anyway. But Courts has got a price on your head, and she’s going to bring them all down with you. At least while you’re there, you’re under my protection. If your friends come, they’re sticking their own heads above the parapets, because I can’t protect everyone. You got me?”
Greg held his hands
up. “My head looks much better on my shoulders. I’ll stay behind.”
Andre hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer to Greg. I glared at them both. Fucking traitors.
Quinn lifted an eyebrow. “C’mon, Hazy. What if I promise nothing bad will happen to you?”
“A promise from Quinn Delacorte doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Fine, then can I appeal to your curiosity? Just for one night, wouldn’t you like to know how the other half live?”
He got me. I didn’t care about their expensive clothes or fancy alcohol or illegal party drugs, but I was desperate to understand what made Courtney and Trey and Ayaz and even Quinn tick. What had Ayaz been talking about in the library, about the real secrets of this school? What made all these people so much better than me and my friends?
I sighed. “Fine. I have to change. Wait out here.” I kicked the door against his foot.
Quinn didn’t move his boot, although he winced as the door slammed against it. He stuck out his lower lip. “Let me in, Hazy. I’ll help you change.”
“No.”
Please?” Quinn blew out smoke. “It’s cold, and I can hear rats crawling through the walls. I’m too pretty to be mauled to death by rats.”
“I beg to differ.” I yanked the door back and slammed it hard against his boot, which for all its expensive leather tooling didn’t look as though it was very tough. I guessed right. Quinn yelped and jerked away, and I managed to shut and lock the door.
“What’s going on?” Loretta glanced up from the desk, her eyes wide. “Was that Quinn Delacorte?”
“The one and only. He’s invited us to a party tonight.” I riffled through the clothes in my closet. What did I own that I could wear to a Derleth party? I held up the black jersey knit bodycon dress that I’d found in a thrift store back in Philly. For a second, I imagined Quinn’s face when I walked out in this, his lips curling back into that infectious smile as his eyes lingered on my body, devouring me. My skin tingled with the anticipation of it.
Shunned: a reverse harem bully romance (Kings of Miskatonic Prep Book 1) Page 10