Ignited: a reverse harem bully romance (Kings of Miskatonic Prep Book 4)

by Steffanie Holmes

  Courtney stepped into the crowd, shoving wads of bills into the hands of the other maintenance staff. “This is yours more than it is mine. I want you to have it.”

  When all the money had been given out, Courtney raised a single hundred-dollar bill between her fingers. “Hazel, would you do the honors?”

  I stepped forward, raising my palm toward the note. Courtney nodded. I let my palm form a small flame, the light a beacon against the graveyard gloom. While the students sucked in their breath, I moved the flame slowly to the note until it touched the corner and caught.

  The bill burned through in a moment, letting out a faint psst as it became ash. Ashes and dust – that was what tonight was about. Burning away the past, once and for all. It just fucking sucked Paul had to die to make it happen.

  Courtney turned to me, her eyes blazing. “When we meet John Hyde-Jones in the real world, he will pay for what he did to Paul. And to you. I’ve done some shitty things to scholarship students over the years, but what we tried to do in your room that night… it was the worst. Sometimes, it’s safer to be on the winning side, even when no one but the monsters win in the end.”

  Something in her voice told me John was her monster to slay, as well.

  I cocked an eyebrow. “That how a rich bitch apologizes?”

  Courtney shrugged. “If that’s what you want to call it, gutter whore. Now, what are you still doing here? You have to go spend my college fund on criminal misdeeds.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The next day, Monday, the dorms and corridors were so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The story of Paul’s death and John’s escape passed in whispers between the students.

  “Urgent meeting in the senior common room after classes today,” I whispered to Tillie and Greg as we walked to homeroom. “Pass it around.”

  Mr. Dexter didn’t notice John’s absence as he rarely bothered to take roll now. But during the next period, the two empty seats in the second row couldn’t escape the attention of Dr. Morgan.

  “Where are John and Paul?” she asked.

  No one said a word.

  Dr. Morgan met my gaze. I tried to articulate through super-subtle shaking of my head to drop it. It was a good test of her trust – she lowered her eyes to her lesson plan and kept going as if she’d never asked.

  Trey, Ayaz, and Quinn flanked me in the hall between classes, but Ms. West didn’t show her face. I dared to hope that she wouldn’t notice their absence, especially if the teachers didn’t spill the beans.

  We stopped by my locker to collect my chemistry book, and I realized I needed the bathroom.

  “Go ahead without me,” I told the boys, and I headed toward the nearest bathroom. I needed to hurry – Dr. Atwood was a stickler for punctuality and unlikely to award me a hall pass.

  I shoved open the door of the toilets. Quinn made to follow me in, but I slammed my foot down on his.

  “You’re not coming in here.” I rolled my eyes. “Be serious.”

  “I’m always serious. We promised we wouldn’t leave your side,” Quinn pouted. “Besides, it’s not like I’m not familiar with the inside of that bathroom. Courtney, Amber and I once—”

  Ayaz shot him a warning look, and Quinn snapped his mouth shut. I kicked his foot out of the door. “I don’t care what you and Courtney did, but Hazel Waite pees in peace. I’ll just be a minute.”

  With Ayaz restraining Quinn, I managed to get the door shut. A quick glance around revealed a single occupied stall near the door. I walked right to the end of the row and kicked open the stall, enjoying the hyacinth scent that wafted from the pristine bowl. This is the one thing I will miss about this place when I’m soaring across the stars. The bathrooms at Miskatonic Prep were palatial, with marble floors and fancy skin products and little rolled-up fluffy hand-towels. Although this stall door didn’t lock properly so I had to hold it shut with my boot. Some things never change—

  My stall door banged open, wrenching my knee painfully. I jumped up in surprise, glad I hadn’t peed all over myself. “Quinn, get the fuck out—”

  Someone grabbed my arm and twisted it behind me until red spots appeared in my eyes. I yelled as my chest slammed against the wall. A hard body pressed against me, pinning me in place.

  John Hyde-Jones. My thoughts spun out of control. I tried to kick out my attacker’s legs, but I was in the wrong position to get a good hit. He grunted as I pummeled his shin with my Docs, but it wasn’t enough to loosen his hold.

  And it wasn’t John. Dr. Atwood grunted in my ear. “Make this quick. I can’t hold her forever.”

  I wondered what he meant. A black-clad figure glided into my stall. Oh, he’s talking to her.

  Ms. West’s cruel eyes swept across my face. “Hello, Ms. Waite. I’m concerned you’re overstepping the bounds of our agreement. The god refuses to speak to me, and now two students are missing from my school. I know you have something to do with it.”

  Atwood pressed me harder against the wall, bending back my head to press my windpipe into the cold tile. My whole body went into panic mode as I fought to gulp in air.

  “Perhaps a little oxygen restriction will do you good.” Ms. West wrapped her fingers around my throat, her talons digging into me as she drove the air out of me. “And if I get a little carried away and squeeze too hard, well… that’s just your rotten luck. I’m sure the god would eventually forgive me. After all, I am the source of his children. In time, he will come to see me as his real consort.”

  She said some other things, but with her hands clamped around on my windpipe, pressing and crushing and closing, I stopped being able to hear her.

  Adrenaline coursed through my body, imbuing me with a rush of superhuman strength. I clawed at her fingers, kicking and bucking and lurching. Atwood nearly lost his grip on me, but West’s fingers kept digging, pushing, squeezing. Fire tore from my palms as I tried to drag her hands away. The orange flames flickered against her skin – the pain of it must’ve been excruciating, but she didn’t loosen her grip.

  “You took the one thing I loved,” she hissed, the words cutting through my panic. “You took the god from me. Turnabout’s fair play, Ms. Waite—”

  My vision thinned. Stars danced in front of my vision, and weird, ethereal sleepiness slowed my movements, dragged at my arms. Help me. I called to the god. I need…

  From somewhere, I heard a faint pop. Through the fog of my mind, Ms. West’s face collapsed, and her hands slid off me. She collapsed to the floor.

  Air filled my lungs.

  Glorious air.

  Atwood yelled as someone tore him off me and flung him against the sinks. The mirror smashed, raining slivers of glass down on him as he slumped to the ground beside the unconscious Deadmistress.

  I gripped the top of the stall to hold myself upright and gasped and gagged for precious oxygen. My head spun. What happened?

  I saw shapes moving around me. The god’s shadows? But no, they resolved into flesh-and-bone people. Courtney stepped over Ms. West’s prone body. Behind her, Greg wiped blood off his knuckles. Tillie rushed to my side, catching me in her arms before I toppled over.

  Courtney grabbed Dr. Atwood’s collar, jerking his head up so his face was inches from hers. Blood trickled from a wound above his eye.

  “John and Paul won’t be returning to graduate,” she said, and her eyes dared Atwood to cross her. “If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with their parents. Just don’t expect them to show up at the dance if they believe something is wrong.”

  Tillie’s arms went under my shoulders, and she took my weight as I leaned against her, still gasping. My chest burned and tears leaked from my eyes.

  “We won’t be in class this afternoon,” Tillie said in a saccharine sweet voice as she stroked my hair. “A fellow student needs our care. Tell Ms. West we’re so very sorry to hear about her unfortunate accident.”

  Tillie helped me toward the door, held open by Ayaz and Quinn, who stared at my three resc
uers with wide eyes. As I stepped over Ms. West, I couldn’t resist giving her a kick in the side of the head.

  Damn right, bitch.

  We stepped outside into a circle of students. They must’ve heard something, because they hovered with part fear, part curiosity. “Is Hazel okay?” asked Loretta. It was the most concern she’d ever shown for me.

  I tried to answer that I was fine, but broke down into a coughing fit that would’ve landed me on my ass if it weren’t for Tillie.

  “That bathroom is out of order,” Courtney declared, shooting her panther stare around the circle of students. “Nothing to see here.”

  “We’ll take her from here.” Quinn’s arm went under my shoulders. I sucked in a deep breath of his coconut and sugarcane scent, my head spinning.

  “I’m fine,” I managed to choke out. “I’ve been standing on my own two feet since I was two.”

  Quinn bent down and before I could protest, he’d scooped me up into his arms. “No complaining. Let boyfriend Quinn take care of you.”

  And he did, carrying me back to his room and shoving aside all the porn magazines and empty alcohol bottles to lay me down on the bed. He brought me hot tea and massaged my shoulders and kissed my forehead in a way that made me long for my mother.

  “You’re good at this,” I smiled. “The only thing that could improve your bedside manner is a skimpy nurse’s outfit.”

  “I got sick a lot as a child.” Quinn held out another cup of tea. “I had colic as a baby and I dunno, an upside-down immune system or something. Mom took me to a million doctors and specialists, convinced I had the bubonic plague or some rare wasting disease when really I was just a wimp. Dad found it all annoying. Before I was born, Mom went out with him every night to exclusive clubs and events, but now all she wanted to do was stay in with me. He resented it – this weak, sickly child monopolizing his perfect arm-candy wife. Damon Delacorte can’t stand weakness.”

  The words tumbled out of him in a rush. Quinn clutched my empty mug in his hands, looking as surprised as I felt. He never liked to talk about his family or his feelings or the abuse – or anything serious at all. Every time I brought up his dad he’d make a joke and change the subject. Opening up like this was a big deal to him.

  I didn’t expect Quinn to volunteer any more information, but he seemed to be in a chatty mood. He took a shuddering breath, and continued, “Dad had been hitting my mother ever since I could remember – a bruise or black eye for every perceived slight or imperfection. The first time he hit me, I was six years old. He’d been away on business for a month. I heard his car pull up in the drive. I ran downstairs and threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his leg because I was too small to reach up and hug him. I was so excited to see him at last, I didn’t even think that I was wearing my rumpled pajamas and wiping my snotty nose on his slacks. He’d brought the opposing counsel back to the house to intimidate him with our perfect life, and my snotty nose was ruining his carefully-crafted image. I always remember how he had this smile plastered on his face as he dragged me into a bathroom in the guest wing, where his guest couldn’t hear. Behind that smile pulsed a rage that burned so deep so it could never be sated. Dad removed his belt and whipped my back so hard I saw stars.”

  As Quinn spoke, he hugged his arms across his chest, his fingers reaching to touch his back, tracing the ghosts of that first betrayal.

  “Why?” I asked. Tears sprung in my eyes. How could anyone want to hurt a child, especially Quinn? “You were just a little kid.”

  “Why does anyone do the things they do?” Quinn said bitterly. “It’s all part of the cycle of horror and violence, remember? Dad’s father belted him when he stepped out of line, and he’d become the most formidable criminal defense lawyer in America. If you ask him, he’d say it was to make me stronger. ‘I’m doing this for your own good,’ he loved to say. But I see the truth in his eyes, in that smile. He enjoys it. He likes having power over people. He couldn’t turn his anger inwards – that would mean admitting his own weakness. It was always directed at those beneath him – subordinates and assistants at his company, customer service staff, Mom. Me.”

  Quinn tightened his arms around himself, and I thought again how lucky I’d been that I’d always been safe with my mom. She’d had some abusive boyfriends, but they left quickly when they got wind of the strange things I did with fire. I’d never had to wonder if she was having a good day or a bad day.

  “The worst thing was, I was so twisted around that all I wanted was to please him. How I loved him. How I wanted to be just like him. Dad’s a charmer. When he’s happy he lights up a room, but he had this dark side his peers never saw. I saw how he commanded a courtroom or orchestrated an amazing party and I thought, ‘when I become like him, no one will be able to hurt me. I could protect Mom.’ But I could never measure up, and eventually I stopped trying, and all I cared about was protecting Mom. I’m completely fucked up, and then I met Trey and Ayaz and piled their shit on top of mine. We fed off each other’s fears and insecurities and used the lessons we’d learned from our parents to become the Kings. And then you came along and tore everything apart and showed us what true strength really means.” Quinn’s amber eyes rested on me with perfect love and trust, not knowing that soon I was going to shatter his heart. “You made me want to be better.”

  “We should get to the meeting,” I croaked, in part because I saw the time on the clock behind his head, but mostly because I saw the hope lurking in his eyes, and I wanted to save him from spiraling into a place he didn’t want to go. A place where I couldn’t follow.

  Quinn shoved my feet into my Docs and knotted the laces, which I usually left undone. I grabbed one of the backpacks we’d stuffed with cash and looped it over my shoulder. He held out his hand, and I took it. As he held open the door for me, I swept past him and planted a kiss on the tip of his nose. “You broke the cycle, Quinn. You’re nothing like your father – he could only dream of being half as strong as you are.”

  Quinn’s smile could have lit the world.

  Thank the cosmic god for having two notorious gossips on our side. Tillie and Greg made sure that by the end of the day, every student had the word about the meeting. When Quinn shoved open the common room door, it nearly wouldn’t open. Every spare inch of floor-space was taken up with students and maintenance staff. I inched my way through the crowd to Trey and Ayaz, who stood on the kitchen island to command the room. Trey pulled me up beside them, and I stared out over the sea of faces who all believed I could save them, and a strange mixture of pride and vomit gurgled in my stomach.

  Trey opened his mouth to make a speech, but that wasn’t my style. I dropped the bag off my shoulder and dumped the contents out onto the counter. Students gasped and conversations broke off mid-sentence as wads of bills toppled out into a messy pyramid. Amber reached for a stack, but Trey patted her hand away.

  “Some of you may have heard that Paul died on Saturday night. He was part of a small group who risked… more than we ever realized to get this cash. Paul didn’t die in vain. I’ve got several more bags where this one came from. This cash is for all of us,” I said. “It’s going to help you buy your freedom.”

  Amber wrinkled her nose. “That’s hardly enough. How will I be able to afford an apartment in the East Village if I’m sharing that with these plebs?”

  Courtney shot Amber a steel glare.

  “You’re not buying an apartment in the East Village.” I shoved the cash into the backpack. “At least, not yet. What you all need to remember is that you’ve been gone for twenty years. As far as the world is concerned, you died in that fire. If you show up again using your real names and your old identities, people are going to ask questions. Questions you can’t answer – at least, not in any way that makes sense. As soon as someone in power gets wind of the fact 245 formally-dead students walked out of Miskatonic Prep without aging a day, along with 76 missing scholarship students who’ve had their tongues cut out, they’re going to l
ock you all in padded cells and experiment on you for the rest of your lives.” My skin crawled as memories from my time at the Dunwich Institute threatened to dislodge my resolve. My time there was a picnic compared with what the government would put the Miskatonic students through.

  “We’re using this money to get IDs and passports for all of you.” Trey handed out a stack of clipboards. “Write down your preferred new names. Please don’t be stupid and call yourself Conan or President Bush or something, or I’ll rename you myself and you don’t want to know what I’ll choose. If there’s a particular country you want to flee to, let me know and we’ll try to secure a visa as well.”

  “Can we keep our first names?” asked Tillie.

  I sighed. “If you must.”

  “This is not what we signed on for,” Amber spat. “I had a promising modeling career. Courtney was supposed to inherit her mother’s clothing label. How can she do that if the world can’t even tell they’re related?”

  Trey loomed over her. “You haven’t grasped the enormity of this. Hazel is offering us a way out of this hell, and all you can think about is money?”

  “You’re all going to have to work for everything you earn, without the benefits of your family connections or stacks of cash.” I folded my arms. “Provided we all make it to the end of this final quarter intact and you pass your exams, your Derleth diploma will at least enable you to apply for college, if you want to go. You’ll have to get financial aid. Or a scholarship. Or work a second job to support yourself, just like normal kids in America. Now, what’s it going to be, Amber Smith or Bimbo McSluttyPants?”

  Amber scowled at me, but she grabbed the pen and scribbled something down. The room fell into silence.

  “Good.” I held out the clipboard. “Who’s next?”