Page 64 of An Academy for Liars

“Ian must’ve pushed it too hard.”

“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve intervened. But to be honest, we lose a few with every crop of first years. I always try to avoid the inevitable and then I feel like shit when I don’t. You were right to be worried at the beginning of this semester. They do suffer.” Dante delivered this last bit with his eyes on the candles, as if he was too ashamed to look at her when he said it.

“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth to begin with?”

“Because I thought you’d quit if you knew, and I believed—still believe, even more than I did before—that you have too much potential to waste.”

This was perhaps the highest praise that Lennon had ever received from Dante. She’d expected to feel proud, but all that welled up in response was the stern conviction that he was somehow mistaken. That she needed to do better, be more, push harder.

“The gate to Benedict’s house is down,” she said, diverting the conversation. “No one’s been able to get back there since the day we found him dead.”

“Eileen shut it down,” said Dante. “It would be dangerous otherwise. Anyone could get into the house when it’s unguarded and come here to Drayton. When we install a new faculty member at the house, it’ll open again.”

“I thought Claude would inherit the position.”

“Is he currently fit to do that?”

“Not now, but…he’s grieving. He’ll get better.”

Now Dante looked down at her. “Will he?”

“Well…yes. I mean, I hope so.”

Dante let it go, but in silence his point was made. The conclusion was obvious: Claude was unfit for the role he was supposed to inherit as Benedict’s apprentice. He would be let go.

“Claude said something strange to me. I need to know if it’s true.”

“Ask your question.”

“Did you threaten Benedict’s life when you went to speak with him, that day after—”

“After he abused you? It’s okay to put a word to what it was. You won’t combust if you say it.”

Lennon wasn’t sure why she was so reluctant to admit what she knew was the truth. Was it because it made her feel weak? Or was she simply sanctifying Benedict out of pity now that he was dead? “He was trying to provoke me. He warned me that there would be pain.”

Dante appeared, for a moment, elsewhere. It was like the opposite of what happened when his aberration surfaced all those weeks ago, during her first night on campus. If that was a personality stepping forward, this was a stepping back. In the absence of himself, his face took on a softer quality. It made him look younger and somehow more familiar. “Claude was correct. I told Benedict I would kill him if he hurt you again. He was violent with you and—acting in my capacity as your advisor—I responded in turn.”

“Claude thinks you killed him.”

“I can understand that, given what he might’ve heard.”

The candles, stubby to begin with, were burning dangerously low now, the wicks threatening to extinguish themselves in the melted puddles of wax.

“I didn’t kill Benedict,” he said, “if that’s where this is going.”

And with that he walked back to the pews and sat down. When he was deep in thought, he had a way of pressing his palms together, lining up his fingers. He did this now, staring at the ground.

Lennon sat beside him. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer that question, but she could feel his gaze on her mouth as she spoke.

Dante had taught her how to infiltrate the minds of rats and men alike, and Lennon had learned dutifully under his careful instruction. But despite her skill, the inner workings of his mind had remained a mystery to her. She’d never been privy to his thoughts or succeeded in her efforts to decode them. Not until this moment, as she watched him want her, for the first time. His desires, previously hidden from her, now took shape in what little space there was between them.

Lennon became aware of a heat between her thighs, and between them also, a charged quality on the air like cracking static. All of the heat trapped within her body went straight to her head, and there it became a thought. That thought was that she wanted to kiss him, or taste him, more precisely. So she shifted a little closer, narrowing that slit of charged air between them, angling her head, her lips parted.

She closed her eyes and was surprised when their brows met, instead of their lips. Dante was angling his head down, so that his mouth was a little lower than hers. When he spoke, she could feel the brush of his lips at her chin. “I’m sorry. We can’t.”

He drew away and left the chapel.

---