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Fred makes a sound of annoyance, and I can hear her whisper something to Victoria, but I can’t worry about that. I wouldn’t mind being wrong about this. But if I’m right, they’ll know about it.

I move to the door Leo and I entered from. Someone closed it, and I was happy about that, because it meant the cold would be kept out.

But it also means—

Something is wrong. Something is—not right. Because when I push against the door, it does not move.

It’s been locked. From the outside.

And we are trapped inside.

“It’s locked,” someone repeats. Who, I’m not sure. For a moment, I am barely in reality. A torrent of emotions threatens to drown me, and I can’t breathe, and God, this is His hand, and I deserve it, I am damned and full of sin

“Hey, Cass. Cassius. Stop it. Calm down. What’s happening? What’s wrong?” Leo’s strong hands are on my shoulder. Usually they calm me, ground me. But I feel so fucking unhinged right now that being touched is overwhelming. I step out of his embrace, breathing hard with my back to the door.

“They’ve locked us in,” I say.

“So what?” Bellamy barks from the table.

“Never let your guard down,” I say, but it’s Thaddeus speaking through me, throttling me on the back of my head. And in my mind’s eye I see him, my brother’s ghost. Arms folded, tutting at me as he leans against the wall. His guts hang out, drooping down to his ankles.

“Fell asleep at the watchtower, brother?” he slurs. He is eviscerated and still disappointed in me. As he should be.

I let myself get distracted. I let Leo in my head and in my body and I relaxed.

First rule of Hunters. Never let your guard down.

“Get up,” I hiss at Fred and the others. “Get up now. Stop eating. Stop drinking. Grab what you can. Meat, maybe, if it’s hungry. And then—”

“What are you bloody talking about?” Bellamy guffaws through a mouthful. And for some reason that’s when I know I’ve had enough. I break a little. As he’s sitting there chewing, grease around his mouth, unfocused eyes laughing at me, I kick the table backwards. It hits him in the stomach and he half chokes, half spits whatever he’s eating onto the table with a wet plop. Victoria groans, the siblings mutter—they still don’t get it. Angry now, Bellamy starts paying attention. But just as he slams the table, scrapes back his chair to stand and spits, “What the fuck, Jones?” I climb up on the table and scream.

Just one long, unhinged scream. It’s everything I have in me. A roar, a hysterical, broken noise that says: I am so close to breaking! And God, if you don’t listen to me right now, I know I’ll lose my mind!

The chatter quiets down—it’s hard not to notice someone howling on a table—and I can see Leo in my periphery, staring at me, eyes focused.

“What the fuck,” Peter Drike mutters in the crowd; I hope the bloody lion eats him first.

“We’re locked in,” I shout over their mutterings, “because this is the next trial.”

Noise goes up, but there’s no consensus. They think I’m drunk. They think I’m insane—whatever they think, in the end, what does it matter?

We’re too late.

The doors to the great hall grind open.

Something growls from the shadows.

23

LESSON TWENTY-THREE

The first thing I do is praise God that our table isn’t the closest to the door.

The next thing I do is freeze.

I don’t know—all my muscles lock up and I am perched high, in the direct line of sight of the teras stalking out of the shadow. Conflicting commands race through my brain: run, stay still, drop off the table. Lower yourself down and grab a butter knife—just to feel something in your hand. Just to feel the weight of it.

But then Leo slips his hand on my waist, and slowly but firmly lifts me off the table. He pulls me against him and I can feel the fluttering of his heart at my back. We lower ourselves slowly to join the others.