by Everly Frost
I can’t see Lucinda, but I can hear her. It sounds like her head is still in her hands and she’s whispering, “No, no, no.”
I swallow. Think hard. Through my blurry tears, Striker Draven’s expression—even from a distance—tells me he’s going to kill me slowly, maybe rip my arms out first, break my legs second.
I grind my teeth. Suck in a breath. Taking the fall for the mess suddenly seems like the wise thing to do. “It was my fault.”
In the distance, Striker’s expression shifts, more of a dangerous frown than a murderous one.
Headmistress Osprey doesn’t ask for details, which is good because I’m not sure how I’ll explain how I tipped over a table twice my size from halfway across the room while I was sitting on my butt in mashed potatoes.
“That’s what I thought.” She spins to Collin. “Get her up. She’s going to the pit.”
Audible gasps echo out around the room. Even the girls who vacated the front table look shocked, their faces pale and drawn as they watch me go.
With tears streaming down my cheeks and a fist against my lower back, I shuffle toward the door. Collin finally eases up on my hair as we wait for five other officers to proceed ahead of us. Five more take up position behind me, the others remaining in the room. A final green pea drops from my tangled shirt and rolls across the floor. The bald officer behind me squishes it beneath his boot, giving me a dangerous grin that reveals a missing tooth.
The pause at the door is long enough for me to see Lucinda fly to the back of the room and hit Striker in the arm. She’s even littler than she looked sitting down, barely reaching his shoulders. He bats at her, grabs her hand when she tries to hit him again, and effortlessly spins her away, giving her a dismissive push in the direction of her chair. I guess she’s mad about him hitting Joseph, but his violence worked. Joseph’s flicker fit stopped.
Outside the dining room, Headmistress Osprey draws level with me. “It normally takes students a month to be wicked enough to visit the pit. Whatever you did to cause that disturbance, this is a very bad beginning for you.”
I can’t help myself. “If my compliance officers were doing their jobs, I wouldn’t have been making such a mess.”
She glances at Collin and Colby. “We were unexpectedly detained.”
I give her a disinterested frown, blithely asking, “What could be more important than torturing me?”
Her mouth splits into a cruel grin. “There was a problem in the pit that required all hands on deck. You’ll soon see for yourself.”
The dining room suddenly seems like a safe haven.
They push me along the corridor back to the entrance room. Headmistress Osprey taps a panel at the side that is located behind the front desk. Well, what do you know? It’s only a few steps from the entrance of this place to the entrance to the pit. A mere stroll, in fact.
We descend into a dark stairwell, flaming torches popping alive as Headmistress Osprey taps her wand against the wall. The stairwell descends but veers to the right.
“The pit is located beneath the combat zone outside, not under the building,” she says. “It’s a magical cavity dug out of the rock beneath our feet and lined in iron to prevent any unexpected magical outbursts from doing any damage. Which is why we have no concerns leaving you in here.”
Magical outbursts are the least of my concerns. The air grows colder the deeper we go. I rub my arms, shivering. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as the air—and the smells inside the stairwell—grow thick with…
I shudder.
Fear.
I’ve always believed that rooms and walls absorb the unhappiness of those who live within them, that those emotions live on in a place. The fear and desperation of the pit’s former occupants is like a physical force screaming at me to run.
We stop at the bottom of the stairwell in front of a locked iron gate. Headmistress Osprey produces the key and removes the padlock, swinging the gate open wide. “In you go. We’ll be back in the morning to collect you.”
“Or your bones,” Collin adds. The other officers snicker as he pushes me inside.
The gate clangs before Headmistress Osprey locks it again.
She turns away without another word.
Their boots recede.
The light winks out.
I’m left in darkness with the scent of fear and my own pounding heart.
4. Striker Draven
The flash of power from beneath the dining room door is the last thing I want to see tonight. Water drips down my back from my towel-dried hair. I didn’t bother getting a new shirt and now I’m glad I didn’t delay. I was already preparing myself to lay eyes on the new girl, but now my focus shifts entirely. Whoever’s having a flicker fit, I have to get in there and stop it before the compliance officers return from the pit.
Bursting through the door, I locate the source of the power coming from the back table. Damn, it’s Joseph. It’s his second fit this month. The first time, he was in the hallway and I could get to him fast, shove him into a spare room, and knock him unconscious before anyone noticed. He’s damn lucky the guards aren’t in the room right now or he’d already be dead.
He’s gripping the table harder with every flicker, his body awash with light that pops so rapidly now, it’s like an old-fashioned camera on speed.
Half out of their chairs, arms flung over their eyes, Ryan and Lachlan—the two guys at his table—shout at Joseph to stop.
No damn chance of that.
The table starts to tip, telling me he’s lost all control. He’s seconds away from a major outburst that will strip the paint from the walls, not to mention the skin from our bones.
I power forward, registering the female silhouette in my way. I nearly pull up sharp. Unlike everyone else, she’s facing directly forward, her head slightly tilted, her hair a messy dark cascade down her back. Her back is to me, but the way she’s standing—no hand over her eyes—indicates she doesn’t have her eyes closed.
Every burst of light illuminates her body.
The flickers lose their white glow and turn scarlet as they pulse around her head, shoulders, narrow waist, curvy hips, all the way down her long legs.
Damn. She’s perfect.
If she had wings, I’d believe she were some sort of fire angel.
To my shock, she steps toward the light, not away from it.
She’ll be the first to die.
My instincts kick in. I’m beside her in a mere second, using all my speed to step into her path before her foot lowers. She thuds into me and jolts in surprise, her dark lashes turning up to me, revealing surprisingly guarded brown eyes. Some people flee from danger. She’s definitely a fighter. My heart thuds—a single powerful beat—as the energy I sense from her rages through my hip and chest where we connected, a sharp, dangerous contrast to the soft, harmless perfection she portrayed in the light.
Anger spirals through me. I don’t have time for girls pretending to be angels. My focus now is on survival. I have to get to Joseph. “Get out of the way.”
I shove her out of my path harder than I intended, registering the plate my hands smack into, the whoosh of air out of her lungs as she crashes into the table. Thud-thud-smack. Her shout reaches me from a distance, but I don’t have time to stop.
I charge toward Joseph.
Ryan and Lachlan hear me coming and scramble to get out of my way. I thunder into Joseph, slamming into him so hard that he drags the table with us for several paces before it tips and cracks against the floor.
His body is like a dead weight. His mind is gone. Damn.
I can’t be too late. I can’t be…
Panic and fear rise inside me for the first time in years.
Fuck panic.
I throw him against the wall and slam into him at the same time, my shoulder against his chest, not caring about the cracks I make in the plaster.
His head bounces—right into my oncoming fist. I hold back enough that I don’t shatter his cheekbone, th
e shock of the hit stopping the next flicker fit in its tracks. I’m not done yet. I can’t take the chance it will start up again.
I throw another fist at his temple, desperate this time. If I don’t knock him out, the next flash could be the last. The impact jars through my arm and down my spine.
Joseph’s eyes roll back and he finally slumps across my shoulder.
The flicker fit stops.
Deathly silence follows. I take a moment to catch my breath before I lift him, pull up the nearest chair with my foot, and slide him into it.
We’re safe, but I’m not done.
I turn back to the new girl. Peyton. She’s sitting on her butt in the middle of the aisle between the tables, mashed potatoes and peas spilled across her shirt, her legs stretched out in front of her.
I take in her full features for the first time: sexy, messy hair like she just got out of bed, rumpled clothing, and sharp, brown eyes that tell me I’d better not mess with her. Damn they chose her well. Pretty doesn’t come close. She’s gorgeous.
There’s no way in hell I’m letting her get under my skin.
The doors on both sides of the room burst open and guards swarm in with Headmistress Osprey at their head. I relax, unclench my fists, and place one hand on the chair Joseph’s slumped in. He’ll come to at any moment and I want to make sure he doesn’t give himself away when he does. If I have to physically gag him, I will. The advantage of my reputation is that I don’t have to explain any sudden aggressive outbursts to anyone.
Headmistress Osprey shrieks when she sees the mess. “What is the meaning of this?”
Peyton twitches as if she’s about to jump to her feet. She needs to if she’s going to avoid a beating. She doesn’t see Collin sneaking up behind her until his boot traps her leg and he fists her hair, pulling her head back in a savage jolt that makes every girl in the room wince.
She cries out—that same angry cry—but quickly shuts her mouth and squeezes her eyes closed. Silent tears spill down her cheeks, but I’ve got to hand it to her—she doesn’t whimper.
Headmistress Osprey towers over her. “Explain yourself, Peyton.”
Tears release when Peyton opens her eyes. She gasps, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t—”
She stops, but I know she’s going to spill the truth. As soon as she tells them it was Joseph, he’s dead. I don’t have friends here anymore, but I won’t let him die because some newcomer points the finger at him. I consider how fast I can get to her to keep her quiet. I recount the steps between me and her. Too many but I’m sure I could make it in time. Pain makes people shut up and I’m very good at causing it.
She sucks in a shaky breath as her eyes meet mine. The fight is back in her expression, displaying a fierce determination she has no business showing me.
Her voice rings out clear. “It was my fault.”
What the hell?
She has no motive for taking the fall. None that I can see. For the first time, I question my assumptions about why she’s here. Is it possible she’s for real?
I shake my head. Another Unknown like me? Impossible.
Osprey snaps. “Get her up. She’s going to the pit.”
Lucinda gasps. Even the guys stare, shell-shocked. Joseph hasn’t woken up yet, but he won’t be happy when he finds out someone went down because of him. Osprey usually reserves the pit for the worst offenders. I know because I’ve spent many nights in there. Not recently, though. My visits to the pit stopped a year ago.
I shake off the memories I refuse to revisit: the night that changed everything for me… I’ve obliterated the memory of it the same way I’ve obliterated weak emotions like love and happiness.
Peyton hobbles to the door with Collin’s fist against her lower back, dropping chunks of food from her clothing as she goes. She’s surrounded by more compliance officers than I was expecting. I could almost believe they were scared of her, but I can’t see why.
She glances back and the look in her eyes claws at my chest again. It tells me she expects to get hurt, but she’ll fight them anyway, even if it makes things worse.
I shake off my thoughts. I won’t accept that I’m wrong about her. She’s a device, a ploy. As soon as they leave the room, they’ll ease up on her. She’ll straighten her clothes. They’ll probably even splash her with some blood to make her night in the pit look real.
Lucinda breaks my thoughts when she suddenly flies at me, too little and too light to do any damage as she hits me on the chest and arms.
“It’s your fault she’s going to the pit!” Her eyes flash with accusation as her fists connect. “Damn you, Striker. You didn’t have to knock her over.”
I don’t answer, easily evading Lucinda’s next hit, taking her hands and spinning her so she’s facing away from me. I nudge her in the direction of her chair.
She needs to sit or the guards will target her next. She stumbles away from me, casting a glare that I shrug off.
I have thick skin, and nothing is going to change that. Nobody is going to claw their way into my life again.
5. Peyton Price
I press against the bars until my eyes adjust to the dark. I count my heartbeats, trying to stay calm. It’s just a dark, cold cavern. It’s meant to scare me, but I can’t let it.
A creature scuffles to my right, something small. A rat probably. Just a rat.
I press against the bars, deciding to stay right where I am. I can make it through this. I just have to count the seconds until I return to the light. I tell myself it’s not worse than being locked in my room at home.
What home?
Home is for other people. I lived in a house, a place with four walls and a roof. I was allowed to go to school, but I was required to come straight home afterward. The one time I disobeyed, my father beat me within an inch of my life with his belt. How could I be so selfish that I would jeopardize my family? Didn’t I know he would have to pay compensation to the Magical Magnate if I killed someone? Was I so selfish that I would risk bankrupting him?
I didn’t date, but who would date me? Guys would show off how tough they were by shoving me, daring me to have a flicker fit. Girls would whisper behind my back and post all sorts of shit about me on their social media accounts.
Over time, I learned to recognize the fear in their eyes.
A low moan resonates throughout the darkness. Not my own.
A flutter of wings makes me shiver.
Silence resumes, but I know I’m not alone. I can sense another presence in the shifting air.
As I edge along the wall, the cavity opens up ahead of me, large rock pillars rising upward, dark caverns in the distance that could hide anything. If I stay here and something attacks me, I’ll be trapped in this narrow corridor. I resolve to move and find a better place to hide.
Just as I step forward, a shape shrieks toward me through the dark. It’s large, humanoid, but not human. I catch a glimpse of ragged feathers, wings, a feathered body before bright silver talons rip through the air toward me.
I don’t have time to scream, barely ducking. One of the talons slices across my shoulder as I dive to the ground. The creature hits the gate, its talons closing around the bars.
I jump to my feet and run.
“Oh, come back,” a female voice croons, a sibilant whisper behind me. “I want to play with you.”
It talks! What the hell?
I don’t stop, stumbling through the dark, running toward the nearest pillar and sliding behind it. I can’t see well enough to know what I’m running into, so I don’t dare go much farther.
The flutter of wings tells me she has moved closer. “Will your flesh taste as good as the last one?” she asks. “Those men. They like to hurt me. So I hurt them back. They are very tasty.”
Assuming she’s talking about the compliance officers, we have our hatred of them in common. Except the bit about successfully hurting them back. I’m determined to do that one day. Once I figure out how.
I crouch low to the ground
, trying to catch a glimpse of her through the gloom. Her talons glint as she moves and her wings are ragged but large. She doesn’t have feet. No arms, either. But she has a female body covered in feathers from her ankles to her stomach and across her breasts. Her long hair is wild and matted, but her tiny nose and mouth remind me of a doll, strangely perfect.
“What are you?” I ask.
She jolts to a stop, her mouth dropping open. I wrench myself back into the darkness, pressing against the pillar, regretting my question.
“You don’t know?” she whispers.
I kick myself. The location of my voice will give me away. I should avoid speaking again.
She pauses and the silence stretches. “I’m a harpy.”
Her wings beat, but the sound heads in the other direction, indicating she’s moving away from me. She’s either toying with me or she doesn’t know where I am yet.
“I don’t belong here,” she says, her voice soft. “I nearly escaped when they came to feed me tonight, but they called in reinforcements.”
I guess that explains why the building was so deserted when I came down to dinner.
“I’m a prisoner like you,” she says.
She sounds so reasonable. I could almost like her, but I consider what I know about the mythology of harpies. They are said to torture their prey while they transport them to hell. Which is pretty much where I am. They’re smart, they regenerate if hurt, and they’re stronger than most supernaturals. We studied them briefly in biology class at high school. Harpies are a Class B monster to be avoided at all costs. My inner thoughts take a sarcastic turn. At least she’s not a Class A monster like a Valkyrie or a Keres. They are indistinguishable from humans and supernaturals alike. They wouldn’t stop to talk. They’d kill me swiftly.
I cast around for something to defend myself, trying not to make a sound as I pat the ground. Even a rock would help. My fingertips touch a hard object—long, sturdy—a piece of wood maybe. Gripping it with one hand, I run my other over it, checking its size. It has a knob at one end that will make a nice dent in her skull if I need to defend myself.