Page 104 of An Academy for Liars

The tip of the letter opener embedded itself between two blue veins. His skin gave way with a pop. There was blood. Then the letter opener disappeared into the wound.

“It’s okay,” she said, as Benedict’s blood slicked the desk. “It’s going to be okay.”

Everything that followedBenedict’s death was blurry. Lennon remembered calling an elevator back to the present and boarding when it appeared. She slumped against the far wall of the cabin in a daze. When the doors parted, it was to her bedroom in Dante’s home. It was as she’d left it—the door closed, the papers from Carly’s folder splayed all over the floor. But Dante was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring down at his steepled hands. He looked up at her when she stepped off the elevator, and took in—no doubt—Benedict’s blood, flecking her forehead and cheeks. He was always so good at reading her, so he must’ve known it was bad, from the way she looked at him, from the way her legs buckled the moment she stepped off the cabin so that she had to catch herself on the dresser just to keep from falling.

“Did you know that I killed him?” she asked at last and was surprised by the sound of her own voice, clear and unwavering. She had fallen apart, lost her mind very nearly, after killing Ian. But this felt different…expected almost. As if a part of her—a part that she haddenied and reviled—had finally surfaced fully. “Did you know that it was me who killed Benedict?”

Dante didn’t answer that question. He just patted the foot of the bed, gestured for her to sit beside him. She did sit, but was careful to keep some distance between them.

“Why did you do it?” he asked.

“Benedict attacked. It all happened so fast. I was just trying to defend myself, I think?” She paused, then shook her head. “But I didn’t have to kill him. I could’ve called the elevator back, but I was so scared, and I knew he’d come after me, so I didn’t see another way through it.”

“You did what you needed to.”

“Did you know?” she asked again. For some reason, she couldn’t let go of the question. She needed to know if he’d seen this coming, if he’d known all along that there was something deeply wrong with her. If he was as afraid of her as she was of herself.

“I had suspicions,” he said, not elaborating.

“And did you know he planned to kill me?”

“Of course not,” said Dante. “If I had, I would’ve never brought you to his house that day, after Amsterdam. Prior to his death, Benedict and I exchanged some harsh words, sure, Claude wasn’t lying about that. But it was normal for us. We’ve always feuded.”

“Claude said you threatened him.”

Dante stared down at the floor. “I thought he pushed you too hard, to the point of breaking. I told him that if he hurt you like that again I would make sure that he regretted it. Benedict responded in turn; he claimed that he had been testing you, to see if you would break under pressure. To see if you were dangerous. He did warn me, then, that he thought you were…unstable. Unteachable, even. But it was just that: a warning. I didn’t think there was anything behindit. Benedict didn’t seem afraid of you the way he did…” Whatever he was going to say he didn’t finish. “I must’ve misread him.”

“Maybe you didn’t,” she said. “When I first encountered Benedict in the past, he immediately entered my mind, and I could tell that whatever he saw disturbed him. He believed that I’d become something…dangerous, like August. I think that’s why he tried to kill me while he felt he had the chance.”

Dante was quiet.

Lennon wiped away tears. “What if he’s right?”

“We’re not good people, Lennon. None of us. Not you. Not Benedict. Not me. Good people don’t wield power like this. We’re all dangerous. You should know that by now.”

“He told me about August,” said Lennon softly. “How he changed. What you and Benedict both did because of it.”

Dante very pointedly did not look at her. It was the only time she could recall seeing him look ashamed. No, worse than ashamed: devastated. Disgusted, even. “You know he’s stayed with me. August, I mean. I have these attacks sporadically, when I’m in crowded places, when I’m stressed out, sometimes when I’m just…tired.”

“You mean like panic attacks?”

He nodded. “In a sense, I guess. But mine are different. When they happen my mind turns against me and I spawn things, ghosts rendered in the flesh. The war in my own mind manifesting itself, tangibly, violently.”

Lennon thought back to Amsterdam. The abomination that had appeared in the club that terrible night. August. A memory. A ghost. A figment made flesh. Lennon had known that Dante was powerful, sure; she’d never taken that for granted. But this was something else entirely. A power that even after all of her studies at Drayton—all that she’d been privy to—she would’ve thought impossible.

It was the power of compulsive creation. The power of gods.

Such a shame, she thought, that the only way he could access it was through pain and anguish.

“My attacks have gotten worse, more violent, these past few months. I feel like I’m losing my grip. Becoming him. I guess it was only a matter of time before my demons caught up to me, just like his did.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” he said. “I’m succumbing to it, Lennon. I’ve known for a while now. What you saw back in Amsterdam, when I drained those people. That was the beginning. But if I go on like this I think I’m going to lose myself entirely. Just like August did. I’ve seen it before. I know how these things go—”

She caught him then, cradling his face in both of her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes. He seemed so fragile in that moment. She could feel his torment. His grief.

“We won’t let each other destroy ourselves. I’m going to take care of you, and you’re going to take care of me. All right? We’ll be okay. We have to hold on to that. We need something to—”

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