Page 138 of Fractured Fates

“No, please, no,” I whimper, tears pooling in my eyes.

The pressure in my head falls away and his fingers snap open, releasing my arm. He stumbles away from me.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” he stutters. “Rhi … I’m … sorry.”

I clasp my head in my hands, my brain still thumping hard against my skull.

“Fuck you,” I hiss, tears racing down my cheeks. “Fuck you!”

I hear Pip grunting angrily, snapping his jaw and when finally I can open my eyes, the professor is gone.

I wipe the tears away from my cheeks, conscious that most of my mascara must now be smudged down my face, suddenly aware the halo I was wearing has fallen from my head.

The pain sings in my head but it isn’t as intense.

I need water. My throat is parched.

“Stay here,” I mumble to Pip as I stumble from my post in the garden towards the common room.

The noise of the party has me clutching my temples as I draw closer, but I’m so thirsty, I keep walking, straight through the open doors and into the pit of hell.

Fire roars in every direction and the boom from the bass is so violent it reverberates right through my body.

The place is even fuller than it was the day of the theme announcement. Hot sweaty bodies are rammed together. Swaying and gyrating together, hands and mouths exploring warm flesh.

Most of House Venus is topless, including the girls, their bodies smeared in red paint that gleams like blood in the flickering firelight. Some wear magnificent horns that curl like antlers on their heads. But the most magnificent pair, of course, rests on Tristan’s. Black like jet, filed to deadly points. His eyes are piercing scarlet and his pants hang low on his hips, made from the hide of a black sheep, the fur fine and tightly curled.

He’s sitting on a raised throne, surveying all around him, a girl balanced on each knee, one sucking on his neck, the other pawing at his body.

For a moment, I just stand and stare at him.

He looks like something otherworldly. Like maybe he really is the prince of darkness. He looks like every woman’s fantasy and nightmare rolled into one.

As I stand frozen, his head slowly turns and he meets my eyes, his scarlet gaze like poison in my blood. The pain in my head thumps more forcefully.

“If it isn’t a fallen angel,” he cackles, his voice somehow amplified above the noise.

If anybody else hears, they don’t seem to notice. They’re too entranced by the music, by the sway of bodies around them.

It’s only me who seems to hear.

He stands, knocking the two girls off his lap and into the throng of dancers below him.

“What is it you want, fallen angel? Are you lost?”

I feel like I’m in a dream. My vision swims. The noises rise and fall in my ears.

“Water,” I gasp, “I need water.”

He looks at me, his expression unreadable.

“You want water, Pig Girl, then water you shall have.”

He waves his hand and, too late, I see a bucket rise from the floor and fly towards me. I try to jump back, attempt to duck away. But I’m too late. The bucket tips above my head and ice cold water crashes on top of me, flowing down my head, over my face and down my body.

I gasp from the cold.

The music halts. Now everybody turns to look as if released by their trance.