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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CAT

N othing good could last. I’d spent the night with my death gods, slowly accepting that my place was among them, that I hadn’t forced my way into their family. They wanted me there, and they loved me. They loved me. My eyes burned and a tiny smile found my mouth as I scaled the steps of Lawrence Hall.

They’d been reluctant to let me go, but I’d made the excuse of needing to get back to classes. I couldn’t tell them I needed to get back to Ford so I could find Virgil; blood had covered my tongue when I tried. I had to save Virgil on my own, and I couldn’t do it from Death’s domain.

I slumped up the last flight of stairs to my room and startled when a blur of Barbie-pink activewear collided with me.

“Oh, fuck, I’m so, so sorry—Cat!” Phil blurted, her hands on my shoulders, stopping me from falling down the stairs I’d just scaled. She waited until I was steady on my feet and then pulled me into a hug that smelled like bubble gum and matcha latte. Her brown high ponytail swung when she drew back, peering at my face. “I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t respond to the bajillion messages in the group chat.”

I winced. “Sorry.”

Her smile was both kind and understanding. She squeezed my shoulder and gave me an inch of personal space. That was one thing I’d learned about Phyllis Yang—your personal space was her personal space, too. “No need to apologise. Just let us know when you want to meet up for coffee. I promise it solves everything. And anyway, Wil’s been taking notes for you in the lectures you share. He wants you to commend him on his helpfulness and fawn over such a kind, generous gesture that was in no way a ploy to get even more attention.”

Her way of storytelling and bright, exuberant personality drew a smile from me. “Wil, wanting attention? That doesn’t sound like him.”

She snorted loudly and unprettily, another thing I liked about Phil. “What about tomorrow? Twelve o’clock?”

“Alright,” I relented, both frustrated and grateful to have friends who were so determined to support me even when I was a hermit, when I ignored the chat for days on end, and contributed to conversations with two-word answers. “Twelve o’clock tomorrow.”

“Bring Honey,” she told me with a frown that didn’t suit her. “That girl spends way too much time with Ralph Lauren, or whatever his name is.”

A laugh burst from me. I didn’t think I’d ever laughed about Alastor Carmichael before.

“Tomorrow,” Phil said, bouncing onto the step below me. “Don’t forget—or we’ll come and kidnap you.”

Knowing her and Wil, she meant that. “I won’t forget.”

When she bounded down the steps, she left me feeling lighter. After a night spent with my gods and the prospect of meeting friends tomorrow, a new hope settled in me. I would find Virgil, get him far away from this island, and burn down everything Nightmare loved.

That optimism died the second I got to my door and saw the piece of paper pinned to it. Not a threat or a veiled remark: an invitation to a memorial service for Byron, organised by Ford’s event committee. I swallowed the sudden knot in my throat and ripped the invitation off the door, noticing that others were pinned to the doors beside mine. The whole university would be there, to celebrate the life and mourn the death of my best friend, who they’d barely spoken two fucking words to.

Why? Why mourn Byron when they hadn’t bothered mourning the others who were killed? Even our fucking dean only got flowers and cards placed outside his office, not a whole memorial service.

I stalked into my room, threw the paper down on my desk, and sank onto my bed.

“Nightmare,” I spat, and then repeated her name inside the silence of my own mind, where I should have been safe but was always watched, her presence lurking like oil on water.

Yes, my terror? Her low voice came, sounding pleased.

I want to see my brother, face to face.

Not yet.

My hands curled into fists. I stalked across my room, glaring out the window at the park in front of Lawrence Hall. The park where a woman had been slaughtered.

I want to see him, I bit out, and no tricks this time.

I can offer you a video call—live, not previously recorded. That’s the best offer you’ll get from me.

I could see Virgil, speak to him. My heart leapt. What do you want in return?

I was willing to do anything. But my stomach dropped when she detailed my task.