The Oxford Inheritance

by Ann A. McDonald

  Cassie caught her breath, heart still pounding. She’d been imagining things.

  The latch turned behind her.

  Cassie swung around, nerves on edge, and found herself face-to-face with Sebastian again. “You . . .” she exhaled, suddenly angry. “You shouldn’t follow someone like that, it’s not funny.”

  Sebastian stared at her a second as the gate slammed shut behind him. His eyes were out of focus, faintly bloodshot in the light above the gate. “What, did you think I was some big bad beast out to get you?” His hand shot out, gripping Cassie’s elbow. She flinched.

  “Go sleep it off,” she told him, trying to pull away.

  Sebastian didn’t let go.

  “I mean it,” Cassie told him. Sebastian glared at her, eyes narrowed in anger, and she was suddenly aware that although they were inside the Raleigh walls, they were all alone. The late gate was far from the lodge, or any of the dorms; they were in the shadow of the new auditorium building. The palatial spread of Raleigh’s grounds, which had always seemed to Cassie so peaceful, now lay silent and dark. Deserted.

  “Sebastian.” Cassie’s voice was sharp. She backed away, finding only the rough sting of the stone wall behind her. “Go sleep it off,” she said again, trying to hide her panic. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” Sebastian’s voice was slurred. Cassie’s panic flared. She tried to wrench free, but Sebastian caught her wrist, trapping and scraping it against the wall.

  “Sebastian, let me go. I’m warning you . . .” Cassie tried to struggle, but he was too large, too close. Her shoes offered no support, and she stumbled back, pressed by his weight with no room to maneuver or break free.

  “What?” Sebastian may have been drinking for hours, but the expression in his eyes had a frightening clarity, a hatred that burned fierce enough to send another surge of panicked adrenaline through her body. “What are you going to do?” he taunted.

  Cassie swallowed. He was stronger than her, larger: his body bulky and broad. “What do you want?” she asked quietly. “Think about this,” she added, trying not to let her fear show. “You don’t want to do anything stupid.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. At the word, Sebastian’s face twisted. “Stupid?” He shook her, hard. Cassie’s back slammed painfully against the wall. “You’re the one who made me look stupid. Did you feel good, watching him tear me down? Did it make you feel special?” He slammed her back again, this time sending her head against the stone with a crack.

  Cassie felt pain burst across her skull. “Stop it!” she cried, loud, a scream in the empty night. “Stop!”

  Sebastian’s hand went to her throat, cutting the words short. Cassie struggled for air, flailing against him, but his weight was too heavy against her small body. “You don’t ever do that to me,” Sebastian growled at her, lifting her up the wall until she was dangling, scratching on her tiptoes for footing, dizzy and trapped. “You don’t ever think for one minute you’re better than me.”

  Cassie closed her eyes against the rage in his expression. The alcove was too far for anyone to hear her scream, the hour too late for any fortunate passerby. She was alone, and entirely at his mercy.

  Sebastian reached for her thigh. “Do you like that?” he murmured cruelly. Cassie felt his fingers dig into her bare skin, pushing the flimsy fabric of her dress up as his breath hissed hot against her face. “You do, don’t you? Fucking whore.” His other hand moved to her breast, grabbing at her painfully.

  Cassie opened her eyes. Sebastian paused, waiting for some reaction, but she didn’t give it to him. If that was all she could do, then she wouldn’t flinch, not for a moment. With desperate concentration, she tried to separate from herself, fixing her gaze on the smudge of shadow on the auditorium wall ahead and willing herself out of her body, one more time.

  She’d been here before: folding herself into a small corner of her mind and waiting for it to be done. Waiting for it all to be over. She’d thought that she was different now, that she would never let something like this happen to her again, but sometimes there wasn’t a choice.

  There was never a fucking choice.

  “You like that?” Sebastian was still murmuring, a fervent rhythm to his words as he groped and clawed at her, fumbling with his belt.

  Cassie felt bile rise in her throat. She thought she’d blocked out these memories, but her body remembered, imprinted with other hands clawing at her, someone else’s breath on her cheek. She knew how this would go. There was the scratch of his zipper sounding, there was the quick catch in his breath as he reached between them, there was his hand, hard, shoving her thighs apart. And all along, his eyes were black with victory. “This is my world,” he hissed. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

  His words snapped her from her daze. The anger erupted, red and dark.

  Cassie let out a cry, wrenching away from him as she dropped into a crouch and hurled herself at him with all her force. Sebastian stumbled back, losing his balance, and fell, pulling Cassie to the ground with him. She managed to twist away before they hit the ground, landing heavily on her side. He grabbed her ankle and hauled her back, flipping her so his body pressed her into the gravel, smothering her. She tried to scream, to make any sound at all, but his hand was hard on her mouth, arm against her throat, still pressing at her, still reaching between them with furious determination.

  Cassie gasped for air, her blood pounding as she clawed wildly at his face with her nails. Her thumb found his eye socket; she thrust in hard.

  Sebastian let out an animal cry. His hold loosened, just for a moment, but that was all she needed to bring her knees up and push out, rolling from under him. Her shoes were lost, kicked aside in the chaos, and she struggled to find her footing on the sharp stones of the gravel. She lurched away. Sebastian was still moaning on the ground behind her, clutching his face.

  Cassie’s breath was coming fast, body bruised and aching. She stumbled forward another step. Their corner was still dark, totally silent, save for Sebastian’s whimpers and her own labored breathing. Nobody was coming, no one had heard.

  “Bitch!” Sebastian was writhing in pain on the ground. “You’re going to pay for this, you hear me? I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”

  Cassie stopped, rage still humming like a bass line in her every limb. She felt it blossom, deep and rich like the wine she’d been drinking earlier that night. Her terror was easing, the panic receding like a tide that left nothing but her anger on the shore: steelier and more certain than anything she’d ever known. It welled up, it washed through her, hot and fast and deep until it felt like her rage was something living, breathing.

  Demanding.

  He’d done this to her because he could. Because he thought her body was his to abuse as he liked. She was nothing to him, not a voice, or a mind, just a body. A thing.

  But she was more than that. She could make him hurt too.

  15

  CASSIE WOKE WITH A HEADACHE SCREAMING THROUGH HER skull, and every limb stiff and aching. She flinched back from the light flooding through her open drapes, her throat dry.

  She was back in her room, collapsed on her bed, still dressed in last night’s clothes.

  She struggled to sit up, shocked at the pain ricocheting through her body. She felt used up, a crumpled shell of herself, and it took all her energy to creep slowly from her bedroom, hand by hand along the wall to keep her balance. “Evie?” she called out, the words catching in her pained throat. But there was no reply; the attic rooms lay empty.

  As Cassie stumbled toward the bathroom, she caught sight of her reflection in the bureau mirror. She stopped. Bruises were laced across her throat, dark violent smudges on her pale skin, and there was another mark blooming on her right cheekbone. She stared in horror, tracing the tender flesh as she tried in vain to remember what had happened. Sebastian . . . the late gate. She remembered him grabbing her, and then—

  Then there was nothing but bla
ck.

  She locked herself in the bathroom and let the shower beat against her tired bones, as hot as she could bear, until her headache was thundering, red and raw. In the kitchen, wrapped in her bathrobe, she swallowed three aspirin with a gulp of cold coffee. Then she sank slowly to the kitchen floor, her back against the cabinet, and waited for the painkillers to work their soothing magic. She stared at the bruises on her wrists—ugly, shadowed blotches—and tried to remember, but the night only came in fragments: the tap of her heels on cobblestones, the glitter of the chandeliers at dinner, the hum of conversation in the Union lounge.

  The crack of bone against concrete.

  Slowly, Cassie’s unease blossomed into fear. This darkness, this gap in her memories, she’d known it before—right down to the familiar taste in her mouth: bitter and metallic. Panic gripped her. Those other times, she’d surfaced from the blackouts to find a terrible wreckage in her wake. Broken bodies, buildings burned to ash. But she’d been a child then. Not to blame. Now, here in Oxford, where her secrecy mattered more than anything . . .

  What had she done?

  Cassie wasn’t sure how long she sat there shivering, or even what time it was when she finally registered a knocking on the main door. She startled, tensing. “Wait a second,” she called, the words painful in her bruised throat. She pulled herself up to her feet, paranoia sending her to the bedroom to make sure her research files were hidden out of sight behind a loose panel in the wardrobe.

  She yanked the bathrobe tightly around her body and crossed to the door. She cracked it, cautiously, and peered out.

  “Miss Blackwell?” Rutledge was standing there, wearing his usual heavy cable-knit sweater. His eyes widened at the sight of her, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

  “What’s going on?”

  He cleared his throat, looking apologetic, and that’s when Cassie opened the door wider, revealing another man standing farther back at the top of the staircase, wearing a battered jacket and corduroy trousers.

  “We, uh, need you to come to the master’s lodgings and answer some questions.” Rutledge met her gaze, clearly uneasy. Cassie looked back at the other man. He was in his forties, perhaps: a weary, balding man with an impatient air about him, who seemed to be looking everywhere except at the bruises on her face.

  “This is Detective Inspector Bradshaw,” Rutledge added. “They, uh, need you now. I’m sorry.” His voice dropped, and she could see the sympathy in his eyes. “I said I could bring you, but they insisted on the escort . . .” He trailed off.

  Cassie nodded. “It’s okay,” she told him, her mind racing. “I’ll be right out.”

  “You can put some clothes on,” Bradshaw said curtly, from his position down the hall. “We’ll wait.”

  Dressed, but feeling no closer to human, Cassie followed the men across campus. It was late in the afternoon, gray skied, and the pathways were empty, a weekend lull as students busied themselves with sports or coffee dates or catching up on their sleep. Cassie was glad of the empty quad. The group was drawing looks from the few people they passed.

  The last time she had visited Sir Edmund’s lodgings the trees had stood full and green, but now the sandstone was fringed with bare branches, stripped and wet, the grass muddied and wilting underfoot. Inside, Rutledge led them directly to Sir Edmund’s study, but Cassie registered the ominous sense of hush that had fallen over the office as she trailed across the plush crimson carpets. It confirmed her very worst fears.

  They were afraid of her.

  Rutledge held the door open for her. Cassie braced herself and stepped inside. Sir Edmund was behind his desk, looking stern and tired, with Professor Tremain seated on one of the wing chairs. There was another man by the windows, and as he turned, Cassie inhaled sharply in recognition. It was Charlie, except now he was in full police uniform. She opened her mouth to speak, but Charlie quickly shook his head.

  “Miss Blackwell.” Sir Edmund gestured to the chair. Detective Bradshaw was behind her, blocking the exit. Cassie sat.

  “We need to talk to you about the incident last night.”

  Cassie swallowed, her heart pounding. Had someone witnessed the attack, reported it to college authorities? But if that had been the case, surely she would be sitting with some sympathetic female officer by now, not surrounded by an array of accusing, male faces.

  Again, the question taunted her. What had she done?

  “Sebastian Rhodes,” Detective Bradshaw announced gravely. He flipped a notebook open, pen raised to take notes. “You saw him last night?”

  Cassie paused, wary. “Yes,” she admitted at last. “I ran into him at the Oxford Union.”

  “And then you left together?”

  She looked up sharply. “No. I barely spoke to him. I walked back to college alone. He followed, and . . . attacked me.” She didn’t remember everything, but she knew that much was true. The image of his face was branded in her memory: sneering, furious, delighting in her pain.

  Detective Bradshaw exchanged a look with Sir Edmund, who leaned forward onto his elbows, fixing her with a stern glare. “You need to be truthful with us, Miss Blackwell.”

  Cassie tried to stay calm. “I am,” she said, biting back her anger. “Or do you think I choked myself, for the fun of it?” She yanked down the neck of her sweater, revealing the bruises on her throat. “He tried to rape me.”

  There was a pause, the word hanging dirty in the air between them. She could sense the discomfort, the way Sir Edmund and Tremain looked to the side and cleared their throats.

  “Mr. Rhodes was admitted to hospital last night,” Sir Edmund said at last. “He was severely beaten. He sustained several broken ribs, a fractured jaw, and internal bleeding.”

  The words slowly sank in. He was alive.

  Her relief must have shown, because Sir Edmund glared. “This is a serious matter, Miss Blackwell. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “What do I . . . ?” Cassie echoed, her momentary relief turning to disbelief. “Didn’t you hear what I said? He tried to rape me.” She looked to Bradshaw, stoic and worn, and Charlie, still standing by the windows. Charlie looked down.

  Then she knew. They weren’t there to take her account of events, or check if she was all right, to press charges on her behalf. They were there for him.

  Cassie let out a short breath. She should have known. The furnishings might be elegant, these men, educated and refined, but it was the same here as everywhere else. She didn’t matter to them, and she never would.

  “What do you want from me?” Cassie asked, icy. “Since you’re clearly not here to check on my well-being.”

  The men exchanged more looks. Detective Bradshaw flipped his notebook shut. “His family wants to press charges, for grievous bodily harm.”

  “Then I have some charges too,” Cassie spat back. “Assault, battery, attempted rape.”

  “Sebastian was very badly injured.” Sir Edmund sounded aghast.

  Cassie felt the fight leave her. “He attacked me.” she told them, worn-out. “He followed me back and grabbed me. He wouldn’t stop, even when . . .” She shook her head. “You’re worried about his injuries?”

  They were interrupted by a noise from the hallway outside. “Please, Mr. Rhodes, if you’d just wait—” the secretary was saying, her voice rising.

  “Get out of my way,” a loud male voice demanded. The door swung open and a man in his fifties, well fed and graying at the temples, burst into the room. He was wearing an immaculate charcoal suit and thick red tie, and his eyes blazed with anger. “I won’t stand for this,” he barked. “I want to know what’s being done.”

  “Mr. Rhodes—” Professor Tremain rose from his seat. “If you could just wait outside.”

  “No, I won’t wait, not after what she did . . .” Mr. Rhodes’s gaze landed on Cassie. “You!” he yelled, stabbing a finger in her direction. “What did you do to my boy?” His face was mottled pink with fury, a vein bulging against his forehead.r />
  “What he deserved,” Cassie snapped. “Since you clearly never taught him that no means no.”

  “How dare you?” Rhodes quivered with rage. “My son would never—” He stopped. “That you would—” Another breath. “You almost blinded him. He may never recover vision in his right eye!”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.” Cassie’s reply was matter-of-fact, but they would never know how true the words were. She could see Sebastian in his father now, see the mirror of entitled rage. The short fuse, the reckless fury. She barely had a moment to process it before he lunged toward her. Tremain and Bradshaw scattered out of range, while Cassie scrambled back.

  Only Charlie moved to restrain Rhodes, casually blocking with his hands as if he was just another drunken lout on a Friday night. “Easy now. Calm down.”

  “Did you hear her? What she said?” Rhodes struggled for a moment, then deflated, breathing heavily.

  “Jeffery, please,” Sir Edmund added, looking concerned for the first time. “We can handle this. Detective, perhaps you could escort Mr. Rhodes back to his car? If you don’t have any more questions.”

  Cassie caught a look between Charlie and Detective Bradshaw, but it was Bradshaw who spoke. “No more questions.” He tucked his notebook away. “Thank you for your time.”

  The police officers ushered Sebastian’s father out, and Sir Edmund followed them into the hallway. Cassie could hear his voice through the door, the soothing tones reassuring Rhodes that everything would be settled.

  When Sir Edmund rejoined them, he regarded Cassie with a look of weary resignation. “As you can see, the family is very distressed, and for good reason. Sebastian underwent emergency surgeries. He lost a lot of blood.”

  Cassie didn’t reply. The mood had shifted now, without the police present, and just Sir Edmund and Tremain left with her in the room. She looked between them, wondering what their next move would be.