Page 11

ELEVEN

SABLE

I t’s been a few days since fight night, and I’ve done everything in my power to avoid the four boys from Delta Sigma. I slip into class just as the lecture begins, blending into the sea of faces. The moment the professor wraps up, I vanish before anyone can make eye contact. I’ve learned that survival at Ashen Grove means becoming invisible.

Heather, in her usual half-concerned, half-amused way, told me the campus has christened the boys “The Four Horsemen.” It fits—the way they move through campus like they own it, bending people to their will with nothing more than a look or a whispered threat. They don’t need to ask for power; they take it, forcing everyone else into submission with money, force, or sheer intimidation.

I saw that firsthand at fight night.

The idea of them staking any claim on me is almost laughable—almost. Silas was supposed to keep an eye on me, but the way he looked at me that night felt more like a predator sizing up its prey. Since then, Asher’s been avoiding me, his once-warm gaze cold, like I no longer exist. Even Heather has turned on me, calling me “repellent” before icing me out entirely.

That almost makes the fucking lurkers worth it.

I’ve lingered too long in the studio tonight, pushing myself to finish just one more sketch, one more stroke of charcoal. Now the sun has set hours ago, and the path back to my dorm is a long stretch of darkness, just the dim glow of the streetlamps. Shadows stretch across the walkway like skeletal fingers, and the trees seem to loom closer, bending in to suffocate what little light remains.

“Weird,” I mutter to myself, but the word is barely out when I hear it—the unmistakable crunch of leaves underfoot, unnervingly close. Too close. My heart skips a beat, and I whip my head to the left.

My blood runs cold.

There, just beyond the reach of the nearest streetlamp, are two glowing red eyes, burning in the darkness like the embers of Hell itself.

Panic grips me, freezing me in place. What the fuck...?

Before I can react, skeletal hands shoot out from the shadows—cold and clammy, like the hands of the dead. They wrap around my arms, yanking me down.

I scream, the sound torn from my throat as I hit the asphalt hard, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through my bones.

A hooded figure looms above me, straddling my chest, their weight crushing my ribs, forcing the air from my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Their face is obscured in the darkness, but the growl that escapes them—a deep, guttural sound, not quite human—sends a jolt of pure terror through me.

“Get off me!” I shriek, thrashing wildly beneath them, but their grip is like iron. My legs kick uselessly, scraping against the rough ground, skin tearing and bleeding. Panic floods my system, turning my limbs to lead as I fight, desperate to get away.

“Help me!” I scream, the words tearing at my throat, but the night swallows my cries, mocking me with the empty echo of my own voice. No one is coming. No one can hear me.

I manage to flip onto my stomach, clawing at the ground, trying to drag myself away. My nails dig into the earth, skin splitting as I claw with everything I have. I can taste the blood in my mouth—metallic, bitter. Survive, survive, survive.

Suddenly, I’m yanked backward, slammed against the figure’s chest. Cold steel glints in the corner of my eye—a knife. The blade presses against my neck, just enough to nick the skin.

The figure leans in closer, their breath hot and rancid against my cheek, like decaying flesh. The scent of rot fills my nose, making my stomach churn. “You belong to us now, Sable,” the figure hisses, their voice a rasping growl, barely human.

The knife presses harder, biting deeper into my skin. Warm blood trickles down my throat, soaking into the collar of my shirt. It’s thick and sticky, the slow drip of it pounding in my ears like a death sentence.

Terror floods my veins, but underneath it, rage ignites—a desperate, primal urge to survive. I twist violently, trying to dislodge the figure, but they only tighten their grip, the knife digging deeper.

“Let go of me!” I scream, my voice raw.

The figure’s laugh is dark and cruel. “Wake up.”

The words ripple through me, strange and out of place, and suddenly, the world shifts. The knife vanishes, the figure’s grip loosens, and the shadows around me swirl like smoke. I blink, and the night folds in on itself, pulling away.

I’m no longer on the ground.

I’m in my bed, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering in my chest as if it’s trying to escape. My throat burns, my hands are shaking. For a moment, I lie there, my breath ragged, trying to grasp reality.

“Wake up!” A voice pulls me from the abyss of my night terror. My eyes fly open, and I see Heather sitting up in her bed, her messy hair sticking up in wild tufts, half-hidden beneath her comforter.

“Someone’s pounding on our door,” she groans, her voice heavy with sleep, before pulling the blanket over her head. My eyes flick to the large arched window between us. It’s pitch black outside. Why the hell would anyone be knocking on our door in the middle of the night?

Knock, knock, knock. “Campus Police!”

Heather doesn’t stir, but my heart jumps. “Campus police?” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper as I throw off the covers and pad toward the door, my bare feet sinking into the cold floor. My hand hovers over the lock for a moment, unease crawling up my spine. I finally unlock it and crack the door open, revealing two officers. Their badges glint under the dim hallway light, adorned with the AGU logo.

The woman, her stern face set like stone, looks at me with a scrutinizing gaze. Her graying hair is tied back tightly.

“Can I help you?” I ask, barely stifling a yawn.

The male officer speaks first, his dark hair slicked back and his expression grim. “Have you heard anything tonight?”

Besides a strange creature trying to kill me in my sleep?

“No, I haven’t. Why? What’s going on?” I peer out of my room to find caution tape blocking off the room across the hall. Even more officers are gathering in the corridor, their radios crackling with static. Some students poke their heads out, their faces etched with a concern like mine.

Heather jumps out of bed, her eyes widening as she notices the caution tape on the door. “That’s Asher’s room!”

“So, you knew Asher Blackwood?” The officer’s question is blunt. I can see a dark stain in the entryway inside his dorm room, and a black tarp on the floor further along.

“H-he’s dead!?” Heather shrieks, gripping my shoulder for support as she leans forward, trying to get a better look.

My blood runs cold. “Another murder?” My mind is struggling to process the information. This can’t be happening again.

“We need to ask you some questions.”

Before I can respond, a familiar yet irritating sandy-haired man appears behind the two officers. His face twisted.

“What the hell is going on here?” Silas strides down the hallway, his presence immediately commanding. His Delta Sigma Nu polo clings to his muscular frame, and for the middle of the night, he looks far to put together. His eyes sweep over the scene, darkening when they land on the caution tape and the officers.

The female officer gives him a quick rundown of the situation, and Silas’ jaw tightens, the muscle in his cheek ticking as he processes the news. His blue eyes are narrow, sharp and cold. “These two were sleeping,” he says curtly. “If you have questions, it can wait until the morning.”

The officers exchange glances, the male one speaking up again. “Sir, we understand this is a difficult time, but we need to gather as much information as possible.”

Silas pushes past them, entering my room with the air of someone who has every right to be there. His arm wraps protectively around my shoulders, and the sudden warmth of his body against mine makes me stiffen. I try to pull away, but he holds me in place.

“My girlfriend’s been through a lot,” he says smoothly, addressing the officers. “Asher was a friend. You can ask her questions at the DSN house in the morning.”

The female officer shakes her head. “I’m afraid not, sir. Time is critical in cases like this.”

“I said no,” Silas snaps. He steps closer to the door, towering over the officers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he growls before slamming the door in their faces. I flinch at the sound. Silas turns to me, his expression hard and unreadable. “Pack a bag,” he orders, his voice leaving no room for debate.

I blink at him, stunned. “What do you mean? I’m staying here.”

“You’re coming with me to The Manor,” Silas repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I cross my arms over my chest, glaring at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Silas. I’m not your girlfriend, and I don’t want to be around you or your frat buddies right now.”

Silas’ eyes narrow, his jaw tightening further. “This isn’t up for debate, Sable. Either pack a bag or I’m bunking with you in your bed tonight.”

Anger flares up inside me, hot and sharp. “You can’t just barge in here and make demands! You don’t own me.”

“Pack. A. Bag. Don’t make me tell you a third time.”

I open my mouth to argue further, but the fear and confusion from earlier resurface.

Asher is dead.

Another murder on campus.

Heather, who has been silent throughout the exchange, places a hand on my arm, her voice soft. “I’m going, too. I’ll stay with some friends in my sorority tonight. They’ve probably already heard about what’s happened.”

I take a deep breath, looking between Heather and Silas. My resolve weakens, and I finally nod, albeit reluctantly. “Fine. But just for tonight.”

Without another word, I grab a duffel bag from under my bed and start hastily throwing clothes and essentials into it. Silas, now satisfied, leans against the doorframe, his eyes following my every movement.

As I pack, he idly picks up a few of the knick-knacks on my desk, examining them with a strange curiosity. He holds up a small ceramic owl, grinning. “This guy’s cute. Does he have a name?”

I roll my eyes. “That’s Hootie. He was a gift from my grandmother.”

Silas nods, placing the owl back carefully. He picks up a snow globe next, shaking it lightly. “And this? A souvenir?”

“Family vacation,” I reply, zipping up my bag. “You can stop playing with my stuff now.”

He smirks, putting the snow globe back. Then he continues to watch me silently, his arms crossed. When I sling the bag over my shoulder, he leads the way out of the dorm room. The campus is eerily quiet as we make our way to the DSN house, the only sounds being our footsteps and the occasional distant murmur of students still awake and whispering about the police activity.

We approach the manor, and I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. The entire house is black except for a small light in the window at the front of the house. Lightening up the white curtains.

Why do I feel like I am willingly walking into the lion’s den?