Page 5 of The Tenth Circle (Vicious Saint: Prelude)

Shaking the cruel words, I inhale a deep breath to cleanse my mind, remembering I’m better than every asshole in this room.

The teacher I still don’t know the name of goes on with his lesson, and I pretend to jot shit down while drawing horns over three inch thick bifocals.

The moment passed between Letterman and me, and he’s gone back to getting groped under the desk by the friendly redhead. Talk about trends, the girls here sure seem to be following the same one.

It pisses me off that I no longer have his attention, and I can pretend I don’t know why, but what’s the point?

I’m not kidding anyone but myself.

Given Letterman’s social etiquette, it’s safe to say there’s a good chance he’s just another fuck boy in this school.

I mean, after a while, they all look and sound the same.

Although, it’s complete horseshit that I caught slack for drawing but the guy next to me gets nothing for receiving a dry hand job.

Stupid sexist egotistical jerks.

Stupid womanizers.

Stupid freaking Algebra II.

In the midst of my inner tantrum I drop one of my books on the floor, but before I can lean down to pick it up someone does it for me.

“Here you go.” A sweet, nearly seven decade younger version of the dorky old man hands the book over.

“Thanks.” I smile and take it.

He looks down, adjusting the glasses taking over his reddened face. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

Kid’s wrong. It’s actually refreshing to spot a typical teenage boy amongst the abnormal sizes of these royal assholes. Which I guess should be expected given we’re sitting in the second largest castle in Manhattan.

But still. Dickwad-shit-fuckers.

“Hey. What’s your name?” I lean closer but the guy still won’t face me.

“Preston Philips.”

“Well, Preston Philips.” He finally looks my way when I squeeze his knee. “It’s somethin’, trust me.”

In an attempt to keep the poor guy from throwing up, I turn in my seat and go back to pretending to pay attention.

I do this the rest of the class with silence coming from the walking chiseled marble to my left. I’ve backpedaled almost completely with my suspicions, coughing it up to paranoia getting the best of me.

Who knows? Maybe my Crazyman from the closet doesn’t even go here…maybe he was the rebellious son of a faculty member who escaped obedience school. Or prison.

It’s a shot in the dark, but then again…so was he.

I think I turned out alright.

Playing it fast and loose with that one, Montgomery.

Yeah, well, at least I can save myself the embarrassment knowing he’s still Crazyman and not Letterman .

I try to ignore the bout of disappointment, but it’s hard when my thoughts and my body are gravitating toward the second man in question.

Although, he seems pretty good at tuning me out.

For the most part, that is, because I did catch him raising an eyebrow at me when I cursed myself for breaking the tip off one of my favorite drawing pencils.

It was a raised brow, nothing more, nothing less.

Definitely not the kind that screams “I licked a girl and I liked it.”

Nevertheless, I’ve used up the rest of the class feeling out the room: potential friends, potential threats—a.k.a. redheads—and potential liabilities.

Even Preston in all his lingering prepubescence.

I took notes on everyone.

Except the one I need.

Who’s standing and stretching, with the half-tucked Oxford under his Letterman allowing me a glimpse of narrow hips and V dipping beneath the waistband of black khakis.

Like I said. Chiseled. Fucking. Marble.

I shouldn’t be at all surprised when he clears his throat—given those beautiful blues don’t just work but can easily carry someone’s life and death inside them too.

Identical to what I found in his .

I have no time to deliberate because not only does Adonis look , Adonis speaks .

“See somethin’ you like?” He grins, and even though the voices are kind of different, recalling the same opener from my Crazyman causes the room to spin once more.

And just like with him, I ignore intuition until it kicks me right in the vagina. “Ew, no. Who—” I catch my previous opener slipping past the tip of my tongue and clamp my mouth shut just in time to avoid implication.

Hello bus. Meet Hendrix the asshole.

Letterman studies me carefully, but my reaction calls for it.

I give the cocky dipshit my best fake scowl.

“Get over yourself. Nobody wants to look at you.”

There’s that damn eyebrow again.

“Well, now I know you’re lying.”

With some extra flare, I gasp, “Oh, really? How?”

Letterman leans in…too far away to touch but close enough to sense crisp mandarin in his cologne. Then, basking in the impending K.O., he whispers, “’Cause everyone wants to look at me.”

With that he straightens, winks, and takes off like the wind, leaving me in the dust to swallow defeat.

And make no mistake…he did defeat me.

My only win is that the scent of the god doesn’t match the scent of the psycho.

I catch Preston as he gathers the last of his five hundred school supplies. “Hey, Preston.”

He stays focused on the task. “Yeah?”

“Who the hell was that guy?”

For some reason he seems baffled by my question.

“What guy?”

“The one sitting next to me…tall, pretty, smells like oranges?”

Preston’s looking at me now, but his face is contorted. “You talkin’ about Lavell?”

“If I knew, would I be asking?”

He laughs at me, and dammit I hate how much the guys here do that. Adjusting his glasses once again, Preston says, “Totally forgot you’re new here.”

“ And that it’s my first day!” I say harsher and louder than I should’ve, but I’m ticked. It was less than twenty minutes ago I was reassuring the little shit he’s a decent person.

“Shhhh!” Preston looks nervously toward the front of the room, as if the cranky old man behind the desk isn’t already nodding off.

Wait. Did he just…?

I can feel the hatred I’ve developed for shushes burning a hole through my skin. “Do. Not. Shush me, Preston.”

Preston loses the bravado instantly, shrinking back to the dorky prepubescent boy I actually like.

“Saint’s the Royals’ QB. The best one Riverside’s ever had.” His entire tune has changed into fangirl status as he adds, “Even last year as a sophomore he managed to secure us nine wins in the season.”

I stare blankly at him, focusing on one thing only because it’s echoing through my mind like the ding of a hundred bells.

Saint.

As in the cliffhanger used by Crazyman…

This time, vertigo doesn’t even bother easing me in, I’m pulled like a damn twister.

Round and round I go.

Preston must assume my disconnect involves lacking knowledge of football terms because he explains, “QB stands for quarterback.”

The clear tone of judgment drags me back down to earth, where I take in his condescension like sulfur in the eyes.

Is this kid serious? Does he not want to see post pubescence?

“I know what a quarterback is!”

That earns me another condescending shush when the old man shifts in his sleep.

Fury is rumbling, ears are heating, knuckles are twitching with the need to punch. I point a black polished fingernail at Preston. “I said no fucking shushing.”

Preston’s apology is sincere this time…so I refrain from knocking the Y out of his chromosomes.

“That guy’s name is Saint? As in the ones we see at church with halos on their heads?”

He blows out a breath and nods.

Oh, the judgment is strong with this one.

But it’s not aimed at me anymore so I’ll allow it.

Preston looks around, then whispers, “But if you ask me, Hendrix, he’s way more like a sinner than a saint.”

I’ve been standing in the godforsaken miniature wedding hall for over ten minutes waiting for Bex to show up. She had a nasty encounter in English class earlier, similar to the one I had in Algebra, involving a member of “Annalie’s” bitch squad.

I may or may not have squeezed more info out of Preston about the redhead, whose name is fitting for such a basic bitch.

Both encounters had rumors spreading like wildfire throughout the halls, but it was Bex who received the brunt of the blowback because she’s a fish out of the California ocean. All lies, but I guess truth doesn’t matter to privileged cunts.

Speaking of wildfire and privilege, other than a glimpse in the hallway, I haven’t had to share any other class with Saint…which is good because my nerves couldn’t handle another minute of facing him.

It’s abundantly clear this year will not be pleasant for me or Bex, and I’m more than okay with that because my knuckles could use a little exercise. But I doubt Bex, in all her sweet innocence, has ever gotten her hands dirty on anything. Let alone blood and bone.

I look for Archer and notice he isn’t in the room. My guess is he’s escorting Bex to the dining hall.

Checking the time on my phone, five minutes have passed, so I shoot Bex another text to see where she’s at.

I get nothing.

With a low grumble I shove the phone back in my pocket, ready to make my way to the buffet because I’m hungry as shit. That’s when the door opens and in comes my friend, looking like a lost lamb in the woods.

“There you are!” I stomp over to Bex, squeezing my hands around the straps of my backpack. “What the hell took you so long?”

“I forgot a book in class,” she lies, terribly.

Bumping her shoulder, I say, “I was about to send out a search party, yo.”

“Did somebody say party? Because it’s here, baby!” Archer’s voice bellows out behind us, then arms wrap around our shoulders.

He offers her a squeeze. “You good, Bex? Heard there was an incident in the bathroom.”

Oh, fuck to the no.

I narrow my eyes on them both. “What incident?”

“It was nothing, the door jammed.” She tries to brush it off, and for her ego’s sake I let it go.

We make our way through the tremendous venue of a cafeteria, and all I can think of is how much it must’ve cost to renovate it into Hogwarts’ Great Hall.

Archer is mouthing off about the variety of meals, as if we don’t have eyes to see there’s cuisine available from every fucking country around the world.

We approach the Asian station, where Archer grabs a tray and points to the sesame chicken. “You have to try the Chinese food. It’s the shit.”

Sold.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” I pick up a tray, signaling to the server that I want the same.

Bex is next to us in Italy, ordering herself a plate of spaghetti. Once our trays are filled, Archer grabs a few water bottles as we make our way toward the tables.

Which are crowded with a variety of people.

A mix of cultures, social standing, and lifestyle preferences.

Nerds, jocks, even gothic witch types.

All perfect personalities to make up a school for wizards and black magic.

My sights catch the table in the back next to The Craft crew, and my stomach immediately dips as if driving too fast down a steep hill.

There he is.

Letterman and three of his misfit friends.

My insides turn to floating feathers with the vision of his pearly whites shining through a laugh. So perfect, along with everything else on this guy.

There’s two other kids next to him, possibly younger, both engaging in the laughter I can only hope is about a venereal disease Saint’s been recently diagnosed with.

Boy needs at least one damn imperfection.

Brooding on the other side is his creepy friend Crayton, who looks as though he’s one chemical imbalance shy of homicidal.

Like I said, it’ll be some year for us in Riverside.

As if sensing my distaste, the creepy one peers over at us, which prompts Saint to do the same.

A glance is shared between us, quick enough to the naked eye, but not enough to avoid my urge to examine him further.

Saint has no such compulsion—other than turning back to his friends and picking up where he left off.

Curiosity develops into irritation as we continue moving through the tables, passing kids with similar expressions. I can spot Annalie’s table and make a mental note of where it is for future purposes.

Archer ushers us ahead, where a table filled with drama club kids seem to be acting out an exaggerated skit. Archer may be the head of the drama club, but if he thinks being friends means I’ll be playing some damsel in a Shakespearean style tragedy, boy’s in for a Hendrix style awakening.

I’m shaking away the vision of me in an ugly kirtle when commotion drags my attention to my friends.

Specifically Bex, who’s pummeling to the floor over Annalie’s outstretched foot.

I drop my tray onto the table and sneer, “You stupid bitch. You tripped her.”

“The skeezy bitch should’ve watched where she was going.” Annalie cackles. “Plus, I heard she likes being on her knees.”

The audacity of that statement coming from a girl who got felt up in the middle of class, returned the favor, and is wearing a skirt that looks straight out of the bag of a cheap sexy nerd costume.

The judgment alone is the perfect recipe for a crack to the face, but it’s the bully tactic toward my friend that’s cooking my crazy.

“I will fucking cut you!” I scream, swiping some chicken off the plate and throwing it at her.

“You bitch!” Annalie shrieks, shooting out of the seat, chunks rolling off her and onto the floor. The move has her Oxford looking smeared with the same shit making up ninety percent of her personality.

Sure is a glorious sight. But not enough to scratch the itch.

An explosion takes place inside me.

My entire mind, body, and soul lunges for Annalie’s throat, faintly scratching her when Archer’s arms wrap around my waist and he drags me out of the dining hall.