Page 48 of Endless Anger (Monsters Within #1)

I’m not paying attention to where I’m going when I leave the Obeliskos later, too wrapped up in my confusing thoughts about Asher and the feelings he evokes within me.

On the one hand, it was nice to sit with him like old times. I’ve not had such a productive study session in years as I did with him there, listening intently as I went over the final material .

But I can’t get the facts and secrets out of my head.

He stayed behind to talk to Foxe, but I have no doubt he’ll be after me as soon as he’s done. Maybe then I’ll have the courage to ask what he’s really doing here, and why he’s getting involved with Curator business.

The sinister possibilities swirl like a hurricane in my mind, heightening my anxiety and quickening my pace. I take a corner, running directly into Professor Dupont as he’s coming from the opposite direction.

My chest collides with his, and all the papers he’d been stuffing into his briefcase go flying, scattering across the damp ground. Cringing, apologies spill from my lips, even as I drop to my knees and try to rescue the pages for him.

Professor Dupont laughs, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Lucy, don’t worry about it. The fewer papers I salvage, the less of my evening I have to spend grading. Truly, you’re doing me a favor.”

Relief rushes out of me, taking some of the tension from my body with it. Even if I don’t fully trust him, I don’t need him as an enemy when his brother is already one.

They’re not close, according to Pythia, which makes sense considering the professor practically donates his services as a teacher, and seemingly does little else. When he’s not teaching, he’s working on screenplays or Visio Aternae’s philanthropic ventures as the faculty advisor.

Beckett, meanwhile, thinks he’s above altruism and distances himself from those who participate.

Still, of the founding families, the Duponts have the most influence in town while also being the most mysterious. No one knows if their patriarch is even alive, as he hasn’t been seen anywhere in months.

The professor acts as a proxy for any founder or council business, which means he’d be directly involved if the family knew about nefarious plots on campus. They have members on the school board, which makes them complicit to whatever is going on in my book.

I just don’t know what’s going on. A cursed belief bleeding into reality, or something worse?

“Be that as it may,” I tell Professor Dupont, my nails scraping against the pavement, “I can’t in good conscience leave litter lying around.”

My hands pause over the edge of one paper, my gaze getting caught on the insignia stamped at the top.

Not the Visio Aternae emblem—two torches and a key—but the three-headed beast of death.

Dread snakes its way into my veins, making me freeze in place.

Surely that’s something he confiscated or a school letter attempting to address the notorious student organization.

“Ah, yes. Conscience . That pesky internal monologue of morality is bound to get you into trouble someday.” He crouches, draping his arms over his knees, and takes the paper from my fingers.

I glance up, unable to ignore the way his brown dress pants strain against powerful thighs or the corded muscles threading beneath the sleeves of his sweater vest.

Traveling farther still, I trace the contours of his handsome, angular face, meeting those dark green eyes. They seemed lighter and less guarded that day in his office, but now maintaining eye contact feels like staring at some phenomenon that might steal my vision forever if I do it for too long.

Pulling myself together, I blink and quickly shuffle some more papers, holding them out for him.

He takes them, his thumb grazing my knuckles. It’s ice-cold, and I shrink away from the touch.

“Sorry,” he tells me with a small smile. “Raynaud’s. I tend to forget about the dysregulation until someone recoils from me.”

I nod, folding my hands in my lap, remaining on my knees. He finishes resituating his papers and then locks his briefcase, exhaling heavily.

“What are you doing out right now?” he asks, pushing some of his dark brown hair back from where it droops into an eyebrow. “Is there someplace I can walk you? Hopefully not to one of Beckett’s parties though. They’ve been getting out of hand lately.”

“Yet Avernia allows them to continue.”

He lifts a shoulder. “The administration overlooks a lot of shit when you’ve got the right money and connections. You’d be surprised what you could get away with, Lucy, if you just leaned into your family’s name a bit more.”

Lifting my chin, I narrow my eyes. “Are you encouraging nepotism and a system that rewards homogeneity over individual identities? Doesn’t that seem sort of counterintuitive to what you teach?”

“In the post-Socratic world, the ancient Greeks believed in four principal schools of thought,” he says, pushing upright.

I get to my feet, unwilling to let him tower over me.

“The belief that reality just is , the drive for pleasure seeking, and the suspension of judgment.”

“That’s only three.”

“Cynicism is one I often leave out, because it feels a bit too rudimentary for me. It’s easy to assume that rejecting worldly pleasure might lead to enlightenment or whatever else, because nearly every religious doctrine adopts this idea in some form.

” He brushes his hands on his pants. “Each post-Socratic philosophy is rooted very heavily in individualism, which is something I value as an educator. I do think there is merit in singular identities and the freedom in which to explore those.”

I cross my arms over my chest. Why does this feel like a lecture I would have skipped?

“But if you go back further and dive into Platonism, you get slightly different, more community-driven philosophies. That is the period that Avernia tends to draw from. It’s why they try to drill connection so hard into their students, because of the belief that virtue, ethics, and justice all stem from the collective.

It’s difficult to maintain order in modern society if the backbone is purely individualistic. ”

My mind drifts back to the emblem on the one sheet of paper he’s carrying around. The symbol of the anonymous organization that moves in silence and leaves its mark everywhere. On trees, bathroom stalls, and murder victims.

“And which do you subscribe to, Professor?”

He looks over my shoulder, something seeming to capture his attention; his pupils dilate, and for several seconds, there’s this unreadable expression on his face. Something…forlorn, maybe, as if whatever he sees is eternally just slightly out of reach.

But then he gives a tiny shake of his head, and the look is gone, replaced by a mask of professionalism.

I swallow, taken aback by how easily it slides into place.

“Growing up in a family that discouraged any sort of free thinking, I’m of the belief that too much community can turn negative.

Especially when it’s a community fueled by power, greed, and pedigree.

” He shrugs, suddenly seeming much older than his late twenties.

“When there is no incentive and no benefit for the general public… The people will break off and begin making their own adjustments.”

K

Tag doesn’t seem to mind at all that I missed our date. He shows up at my desk in Politics of Conservation, propping his elbows on the edge and grinning while I explain what happened.

Well. I leave out the part about Asher fingering me in the library. Frankly, I’ve been trying to forget about it myself, and I don’t want to make Tag feel like I ditched him solely to fuck around with someone else.

Even though I made it clear the date was platonic, it still feels shitty.

Not to mention the whole blood fiasco. The school didn’t officially confirm or deny anything, but I know what blood looks and smells like. And the only way to get that much is for something—or someone—to have been systematically drained of it.

Not to mention the Death’s Teeth emblem painted on the wall above it.

“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” Tag says, tapping the desk with a rolled stack of papers. “So I’ll be honest. I feel like that’s a good punishment for you standing me up.”

I rub my eyes, too tired to even care that it’s smudging my makeup. Aurora, whose room I’ve been crashing in to avoid an invite from Asher, snores like a fucking freight train.

But I wasn’t sleeping well before anyway, so it’s not like it matters exactly where I spend my nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m in actual danger or if I’m just some beacon for terrible luck.

Maybe Dean Bauer is right, and the incidents are my fault—not by active involvement, of course, but maybe my aura is attracting unfortunate events.

Or maybe someone wants me to leave campus so bad, they’re willing to literally slaughter other students to achieve that goal.

No part of me would be surprised if that asshole was Beckett. He clearly sees me as a threat to whatever community he’s trying to build here in our last semesters.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I admit, dropping my face into my hands.

“I’m flattered,” Tag replies. “But not worth all that. Besides, I wound up having a good time anyway. You’re now looking at a volunteer set designer for the play.”

My brows lift. “I didn’t know you had a set design interest.”

“Eh, I don’t. But that girl you’re friends with, Yuri what’s-her-name? She’s the coordinator or something, and I’m very interested in getting closer to her.”

“Moved on from me already?”

He holds up his hands. “Hey, a guy can’t wait around forever, though I will take payment for your sins in the form of you going to a Curator party with me.”

Groaning, I fold my arms on my desk and bury my face in my elbows. I will never understand this campus’s obsession with that stupid group or its parties, but since I already ditched him once, I tell him I’ll see him later tonight.