by Everly Frost
Her voice is far too close. A whisper. “You must have surprised them with unexpectedly bad behavior. They wouldn’t have fed me if they planned to bring you here tonight.” She pauses, crooning. “I do like the badly behaved. They are much more fun to hurt—”
In a sudden whoosh, she flies around the pillar at me, her talons outstretched. I swing my wooden weapon, managing to hit her shins with a crack. She screeches, sweeps her wings back, and makes another grab at me. I grip the weapon, swinging it again, but this time I duck under her wings, ramming it into her stomach. As I slip past her wings, I catch sight of more talons where her fingers should be, but in the next moment, her feathers rake across my face.
I swallow a scream.
I thought they’d be soft.
My face stings. I don’t have time to check, but I’m sure I have scratches down my cheeks now. I have to stay away from her talons and her feathers or I’ll end up more cut up than I already am.
She drops to the ground and doubles over, heaving a racking cough that turns into a laugh as she swings in my direction. “Oh, you’re fun. Most students cower and tremble, waiting for me to pick at their bodies. They give in so I don’t kill them. They let me play with them. I give them little cuts, little nibbles. I like your fight. It will be so much more satisfying when I taste your blood.”
I wield the weapon, holding it aloft. She scratches her talon nails across the pillar as she takes slow, clacking steps toward me, sounds that grate in my ears.
How am I going to hold her off all night?
It’s not in my nature to submit. I won’t let her nibble me. I will fight her, and she will kill me.
I’m going to die here.
As I step back, taking paces to maintain distance between her and me, I stumble across another hard object on the floor. It scrapes along my leg, ripping through my jeans, and then snags.
I crouch down to release my jeans, finding myself surrounded by multiple slender, white, curved objects rising up at regular intervals around me. I’ve backed into a…
Shock rivets me to the spot.
I’m standing in a ribcage.
An enormous ribcage. It can’t be human. It’s too big.
A scream of horror tears out of me. “What died here?”
She cackles as she slips closer to me, taking her time. “The beast that used to torture students until it was killed. A beast stronger than you.”
Without taking my eyes off her silhouette in the gloom, I reach down to free my jeans, my hand closing around one of the ribs. It snagged my jeans because it’s sharp at one end, pointed enough that I could use it as a dagger.
I leave my current weapon on the ground—what I now realize is another bone—and wrench the new one upward. I slowly feel my way out of the skeleton and into clear ground again. If they’d left me with some sort of light, this would have been so much easier. As it is, I’m fumbling in the dark. But then, so is she.
If it weren’t for the darkness, I have no doubt she would be upon me already.
“Come on, then,” I say, sounding much braver than I feel.
She launches forward, talon-fingers and toes outstretched to grab me. If she gets her talons around me, she won’t let go, but the only way to her chest is through them. The only way to beat her is to do what she doesn’t expect.
She expects me to run.
I turn my shoulder and charge toward her. Her talons bite me, grip my upper arm, and pull me closer. She laughs and says that she has me now, her mouth opening, revealing sharp incisors as she bends to sink her teeth into my neck.
I shove the bone into her stomach as hard as I can, breaking skin, sensing it sink deep. It’s sickening, but my survival instincts are in full swing.
She screams, a shocked wail that echoes around the room. She doesn’t let go of my arm, her talons ripping through my skin. Sobbing out the pain, I push the bone with all my strength, propelling her backward. Her talons rake down my back, finally releasing me.
Up close, her eyes are open wide as she flops to the ground. She has no hands to pull the bone out of herself, her finger-talons sliding across it. She tries to grab it with her toes instead, clawing at it.
My stomach turns, but if she gets it out, she’ll regenerate.
“How did you do this?” she shrieks.
It takes me four steps to race back to the skeleton, wrench out two more rib bones and return to her. She’s too fixated on sliding out the first to see me coming.
I try not to think.
With a scream, I drive the next one right through her throat, finding out just how close to the pillar we are when it clunks into it. My hands judder under the impact.
She doesn’t make a sound, but her talons finally stop scrabbling at the bone jutting from her stomach.
Silence falls and all I can do is stand there, another scream shrieking out of me.
I just wanted her to stop—to leave me alone. I knew she could regenerate so I knew I had to strike hard. But what I’ve done…
I’ve never killed anything. Maybe spiders. Insects. Never something breathing and cognizant like her. I don’t even know if I killed her for good. I have no way of knowing. The final bone I’m holding shakes against the floor, making me realize I’m going into shock, trembling so hard, I can’t control it.
Soon, I won’t be able to think clearly.
I curl down over my knees, wrapping my arms around them, but my head stays raised. I can’t take my eyes off her, no matter what happens. If she moves, I have this third bone ready.
If she moves.
She. Not it.
Oh, dear ancients. They put me in this place because they think I’m going to be a killer one day.
Now I am one.
This time when the tears come, I’m not afraid to let them flow.
6. Peyton Price
“What have you done?” Headmistress Osprey’s shriek breaks through the haze in my mind. The light from her thorny wand illuminates the space around me, casting shadows across the dead harpy’s features.
I shrink back from the death in front of me, unable to look at it for another second.
I don’t know what hour it is, but it’s been a long time since I killed the harpy. Long enough for the blood to dry on my face and shirt—mine and hers.
“I killed her.” I stare up into Headmistress Osprey’s furious eyes. For a dangerous second, I consider ramming the third bone I still hold into her soft belly, but that will only get me a place in a real prison.
She straightens and takes a quick step back, her wand ready. I’m clutching the bone like a weapon and pointing it at her after all. I’m sure my violent intent was loud and clear. Compliance officers file in around us, but it’s difficult to see their expressions. I’m sure Collin and Colby are among them.
“But… how?” Headmistress Osprey’s wand shakes, wobbling in the air as she stares at the bone I’m holding. The light from her wand flickers to the dead creature whose rib I took. It looks like some kind of enormous dog, but there are boulders where its head would be—or is that a skull? I’m not sure.
I carefully place the bone on the ground, unfurling and rising to my feet.
I’m starving, tired, and unsteady on my feet. “I’d like to leave now.”
One of the compliance officers scoffs as he leans around the corner. His eyes widen when they land on the dead harpy. He curses and then quickly retreats when Headmistress Osprey gives him a glare filled with daggers.
Her wand twitches in the direction of the open gate—my only invitation to leave—and the officers part to let me through. We file up the staircase in silence broken only by their boots and Headmistress Osprey’s clacking heels. Today, she’s wearing a bright pink suit, but her lipstick is orange. Someone needs to get her a color wheel.
Bloodwing is staffed by witches and wizards. Other supernaturals like shifters would make better guards, but witches and wizards are more disciplined, less likely to make decisions based on their baser instincts. T
hey can use their magic without their wands, but they’re much more powerful using the wand as a conduit. I’ve heard of rare witches who control instinctive magic not connected to wands or words, but I suspect they are a myth.
I gulp fresh air inside the entrance room, only now realizing how accustomed I’d become to the scent of sausages, mashed potatoes, and blood. I need to shower. I need to wash off the horror and somehow partition my memories so I can move past what I did.
Unlike last night, the halls are busy with students.
I squint into the light streaming through the windows set high on the wall behind the front desk. “Is it morning?”
“You have an hour to get ready for class,” Headmistress Osprey snaps, straightening her suit.
The compliance officers part for me again, but Colby and Collin dog my steps as I make my way along the corridor. My legs wobble, but I refuse to show any weakness as I climb each laborious step to the attic.
I’m too tired to care about heights this time, ignoring the wide windows, but as soon as I see who’s standing in the hallway, I suck in a sharp breath and stop so suddenly that Colby bumps into me.
Striker stands in the hallway ahead, holding a pile of books and dressed in his uniform, his white sleeves rolled up to his biceps, black pants hugging his thighs.
His presence confirms that he’s the other Unknown.
My first goal is out the proverbial window: there will be no avoiding Striker Draven.
He is expressionless this morning. His gaze flickers across my cheek and down to my shoulder. I haven’t had a chance to check my wounds yet, but I’m covered in dried blood.
At least I’m not crying this time.
The walkway is only just wide enough for me to stride resolutely past him.
I pause as I pass his room. It looks like he’s an Unknown with special treatment—he has a wide desk, pictures on the walls, and a high-backed leather chair. His room even has a sound system. I can’t help the reckless laugh that rises into my throat. I’m not afraid to poke the beast. Hell, I just killed a harpy. I’m a little high on wild right now.
I spin and call after him, “You’d better have good taste in music, Draven.”
He takes a beat, drops his books with a clunk, and strides back to me, a dangerous smile curving his lips. My taunt was meant to be a throwaway line, not the start of a confrontation. I backpedal, but he grabs my injured shoulder in one big hand, sending shockwaves of pain through my torso.
“You’d better not get too comfortable in your bed, Price.”
I swallow, but I think I’m going to throw up. The harpy’s claws dug deep and now that he’s pressing the wounds, the pain is making me dizzy.
“Would you mind grabbing my other shoulder?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “My other shoulder is the one that gets off on being grabbed by assholes.”
No amount of silver-tongued bravado can hide the fact that my eyes are filling with tears.
“Are you crying?” It’s an accusation, not a sympathetic question.
“No.”
His eyes narrow.
I swipe my cheek with my free hand. The tears are loosening the blood and it smears all over the back of my hand. It’s probably smearing across my face too. Good old tear ducts. I lean into him, more because I can’t stay upright than because I’m trying to be provocative.
I tip my head back. My voice lowers, soft, a gentle threat. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll gore you like I gored that harpy.”
His eyes meet mine and for a very small, infinitesimal moment, I catch a flicker of surprise. Yes, asshole. I guess you didn’t hear. I killed the harpy.
I reach up on tiptoes as he becomes very still, my chest brushing his in a way that is not only extremely provocative, but will also leave flecks of dried blood on his clean shirt.
I whisper, “But with you, I’ll make it slow.”
He’s a blank slate again. His fingers uncurl from my shoulder one by one. I don’t move until he turns away and strides back down the corridor, picking up his stack of books, which somehow managed not to spill all the way across the hall. Even his aggression is precise.
Colby and Collin stare at me like I’m suicidal, but since Striker is on his way out, they remain where they are. Their orders are only to leave me alone when he’s around. I stumble into my room, grab my towel, fresh underwear, bag of toiletries, and my uniform, and make my way to the bathroom.
I lean over the sink, bracing myself for the task of peeling my clothing off myself. My first attempt makes me retch. The blood has dried the material onto my wounds, so I’ll have to soak it off.
Turning on the shower, I get in fully clothed, slowly and surely detaching my clothing from my body. Then I stand under the spray, letting it wash away my anger.
I don’t remember when I became so defensive. There was no turning point, no life-changing experience. It was slow, like a snake that’s basked in the sun for too long. It was born from a few too many snide comments, a few too many “accidental” bumps and shoves at school, just a few too many weeks spent alone while my family went on vacation without me.
I had to work at creating a shield around myself, learning how to deliver a quick verbal comeback and to cultivate thick skin. I forced myself to harden up. Ten years ago, I would have asked Striker Draven why he was being so mean. I would have asked him to stop. I would have even said “please.” These days, I know better, but the hurt is the same.
When the water finally runs clear again, I step out of the shower to dry myself, patting over the wounds. I curse the absence of a mirror. I need to see the cuts down the side of my face from the harpy’s feathers. I also need to check the puncture wounds across the back of my shoulder. The front isn’t so bad, but the back really hurts. The cut on my leg from where I bumped into the bones needs bandaging too.
I check the wounds the best I can without a mirror. The punctures across my shoulder are the most concerning. I’m lucky she missed severing any tendons because I still have full use of my arm, but blood trickles from each of the four punctures at the front. It’s slow blood loss, but if it continues for too long, it will become dangerous. I need padding and something to adhere it to my skin to keep the pressure on. Absorbent padding is easy—I’m a girl with plenty of sanitary items—but I don’t have tape. I test my hair tie but it springs off as soon as I move my arm. I try my black school tie next. It’s clumsy and only keeps the padding tight against three of the punctures, but it’s better than nothing.
Too bad about my leg. I don’t have a spare tie to deal with it. I swallow a crazy laugh about wearing a sanitary pad tied to my leg all day where everyone can see it.
With a sigh, I brush my hair and pull it into a tight ponytail, then pull on my white collared shirt and red plaid skirt. The tie around my shoulder is visible through the thin shirt and blood seeps through it immediately, but I can’t allow myself to care about how I look. My goal will be to look for tape—any kind of tape—today so I can dress the wounds properly tonight.
Returning to my room, I glance at the clock before I pick up my class timetable: Magical History first, followed by gym. I frown at the timetable. There’s a lot of gym. It makes me wonder if it isn’t a euphemism for put-the-students-in-life-threatening-situations-and-see-whose-power-reveals-itself class.
Also, a class called “School Maintenance” every afternoon. No guesses what that’s about—cleaning toilets probably.
I’m late for Magical History already, but I was prepared to be the last student to arrive. I consult the rudimentary map that came with the timetable, which shows the location of the class on the second floor in the east wing.
My stomach rumbles loudly as I pick up my stride down the stairs. I tell myself the cut on my leg is nothing.
I don’t need sleep.
I don’t need bandages.
I don’t need food.
I am totally fine.
The compliance twins peel themselves off the wall and foll
ow me all the way to the second level, where I find my class. A brief glance tells me all of the students from last night are here, including Striker, who lounges with his feet up on the desk at the back. I guess if there are only thirty students, then it stands to reason we take classes together. Once again, girls sit on the left and guys sit on the right.
Lucinda is located toward the back, but there are no spare seats anywhere near her.
The only spare seat is next to Striker.
The teacher turns from writing on the whiteboard as I try to creep in. He wears a moustache and his hair looks prematurely gray for someone who appears to be in his early thirties. His collared shirt is crumpled but his long pants have creases down the front, an odd combination.
“You,” he says.
I freeze. Sigh. Turn. “I know,” I say. “I’m last to class.” I blink hard, trying to alleviate my fatigue as I lift my head. “What’s my punishment?”
He considers me for a moment. “Well, I might consider sending you to the pit.” He chews his words. “But apparently, we’re down a harpy.” He hands me the cup of coffee off his desk. It has his name stenciled on the side: Mr. Mallard. “This will have to be torture enough.”
I stare at the creamy caramel liquid inside the mug. “Sir?”
“Bloodwing coffee. It’s punishment enough.”
My eyebrows draw down. My lips compress. Is he making a joke? Is he one of those bully teachers who offers me a drink, pretending to be nice, but next he’s going to accidentally knock the liquid all over me and say, “Oops, sorry”?
He takes a step back, his palms up. “It’s yours if you want it. Take it to your desk.”
Maybe it contains a substance that will make me sick.
I scowl into the cup, carry it to the only vacant desk next to Striker, and place it deliberately as far away from myself as I can.
As soon as I put it down, Striker moves. He’s so fast, I hardly follow it. His foot kicks across the distance, hooks around the coffee cup, and slips it right off the desk. Despite being the one to knock it off, he lurches forward and catches it in one hand, cradling it in his palm.