Page 31 of Taste of Thorns (The Firestone Academy #3)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

B riony

I say goodbye to Fox, aware I’m being deceptive.

He thinks I’m going to the Princes; while I haven’t officially moved into their tower yet, I have been spending more of my evenings in their company.

Tonight, however, I walk around the corner, then, when I’m sure Fox is gone, I retrace my steps and head towards the Great Hall.

I’m not going to confront the Madame but I am going to find the evidence I need to prove to everyone that she is behind the deaths at the academy.

A few torches burn around the outside of the building, casting flickering light onto the statue of the firestone and its dragons.

The hall itself is dark though and I expect to find its doors locked.

However, they’re not. I slip inside, then up the carpeted staircase and along the landing, stopping outside the Madame’s door.

My heart is hammering at about a million miles an hour and my hands are shaking as I lean my ear against the wood and listen.

Vampires can move around silently but I hold my breath and strain my ears anyway. No noise, no light shining under the doorway, no smell of cigarette smoke.

I think I’m safe.

I try the door handle, but this time, the door is locked.

Crouching down so I’m eye-level with the lock, I pull a grip from my hair and get to work.

It’s much harder than the lock on the door to Amelia’s old room and when it finally pops, I find the door still won’t open.

It’s held shut by what I can only assume is some kind of spell.

I curse under my breath, but I’ve come this far and I won’t be deterred.

Fox says we need proof and I’m sure I can find it. I’m convinced more than ever that she is the one responsible for my sister’s death, for all the deaths.

I close my eyes, searching for that magic like I’ve been practicing out in the forest. It sits there humming away, but it’s prickly, alert, as if it knows we’re doing something dangerous.

I try my best to conjure it out, but it doesn’t come as easily as it has these last few days. Is it my nerves, my agitated state? Am I trying too hard?

I suspect there is one sure-fire way I can force my magic out, one I’m not keen to undertake. I rattle the door-handle. Obstinately, it refuses to move.

With a dissatisfied huff, I close my eyes and remember what it was like in the trial: picturing the scene; Thorne on the ground; the monsters attacking him; fearing he would die; that I was going to lose him.

Those feelings flood through my body and I sob, and then the light comes, much stronger than it had done with Fox, pouring from my hands towards the door.

I don’t know what to do with it or how to manipulate it, but it doesn’t matter.

It seems to have a mind of its own, swimming towards the door and slipping around the edges.

There’s a loud hiss, like flames being doused with water, and then to my utter astonishment the door pops open and swings back.

Beyond the doorway stands the Madame’s office, dark and empty.

Flicking my gaze along the landing, one way and then the next, I step inside and shut the door behind me.

Madame Bardin is a vampire. Her sense of smell, as well as her other senses, are much better than mine.

There’s a good possibility she’s going to know I’ve been in here.

Luckily, I’ve been paying attention to my lessons with Fox and am just about able to mimic one of his cloaking spells, casting one I hope will mean I don’t leave any mark in this room.

I find the switch on the desk lamp and flick it on, then I peer around the room.

It hasn’t changed since I was last here.

I consider where to start first. As I do, I realize this was damn stupid.

The Madame is hardly going to have left a journal sitting on top of her desk, every page littered with confessions of her crimes.

She’s smart and conniving, she’s covered her tracks – that’s why she has never been caught. It’s why no one has ever suspected her.

Still, I’m here now and so I may as well search.

I start with her desk. On its surface lies the little case she carries around with her cigarettes inside. There’s a smart fountain pen, – its nib so sharp, it could double up as a knife, – a silver letter opener, and a crystal paper weight.

Inside the first drawer are pieces of paper stapled together with the names of the academy students printed across them as well as the Quarter from which they came and their current number of points.

I study it, noticing the little marks placed by some of the names – mine, Linny Smyte, and a handful of others.

Esme Jones’ name has a black line crossed right through it.

There’s nothing else in the drawer and I place it back and try the others. There is nothing of interest in those either; some accounting documents, a list of supplies, a calendar marked out with dates.

I shut the drawers and gaze around the room; except for the old couch and the bookcase there is nothing else in the room of interest. I wander over to the books, running my eyes across their spines, hunting for other clues.

There are textbooks about alchemy, a few novels and nothing more.

But then something catches my attention, a glint of metal caught in the lamplight.

I lean in closer and notice a chain tucked between two books.

I slide the books apart and pull the chain out.

A crimson pendant hangs from it, shaped as half a heart.

I recognize this necklace. I screw up my brow. Where have I seen it before?

And then I remember.

I gasp in the silence. It’s almost identical to the necklace Esme Jones’ girlfriend, Naomi, was wearing when we went to visit her. I remember her clutching the pendant in her hand as she sobbed.

Is this the same necklace? I strain to picture it in my head, staring down at the pendant in my hand.

They are not the same. This is the matching necklace, one that would fit together perfectly with Naomi’s. Which means it could only have belonged to one other person. Esme.

I jam the necklace down into my pocket and then I’m scouring the bookcase. I find a pair of wire spectacles. A gold ring, a silver one, and a lead one. Four other necklaces. A delicate chain bracelet.

I can’t see the Madame wearing any of these. They aren’t her style. They do not belong to her.

So why does she have them? Trinkets? Mementos of her kills?

A chill descends my spine and for a moment my world swoops in and out of focus.

Then, I’m searching the bookcase again, this time more frantically, pulling books from the case and shaking them open, searching for any signs of Amelia, any signs at all.

I find none and in the end I have to admit defeat. I have my proof. One more piece of evidence.

I open the door, meaning to step through onto the landing. Instead, I freeze dead on the spot.