Page 24 of A Heart of Bluestone

I know Dray.

I grew up with him.

I was his closest friend, the one he smiled for, the one who made him laugh, who stole his kisses—and then I became familiar with his darkness over the years.

I became the victim of his darkness.

I am not soothed by his silence, I am not eased by his apparent disinterest in me.

It will change.

The longer he appears to ignore me, the worse his attacks will. And I have that horrid, cold-dread coil in my gut, the one that tenses me on my seat and prickles my mind with the suspicion—that Dray is gearing up for my worst year yet.

5

The late hour means that most students have found their way out of the corridors and into the mess hall, the dorms, the lounges and the library. The silence of the empty corridors is disturbed by the wintery mountain winds that whistle through the black panelled windows.

I’m late for Star Theory.

I spent too much time in the bathrooms, prying forever-gum off my skirt, then hastening my ass to the dorms to grab a sweater.

I don’t know who snuck the gum onto my chair at dinner, but I do know the cashmere of my plaid skirt is ruined.

That, and the firecrackers that went off at the buffet, rocketing mashed potatoes up into the ceiling, gave me a startle, and I spilled black tea down my front.

So now, not only is my skirt ruined, the white of my high-collared blouse is stained.

I’ll need to send them to my mother. She will have the servants tend to them. And if they are unsalvageable, she will at least send me replacements.

The huff of the inconvenience jerks me as I round the corner—and make for the corridor that leads me to the tower.

But I make it just one step before I go rigid all over.

My heeled boots halt on the rug, right at the turn of the corner, and my eyes widen with the swell of ice in my chest.

Down the corridor, a whitish hue flickers over the wall.

The black wainscotting wears a milky sheen to it, and up along the papered wall, is a blotchy grey discolouration.

I’m silent as I lift my boot and step it back.

I slink away from the corridor, one foot after another, my movements slow.

One wrong move, one clack of the heel, and that poltergeist down there will hear me. It will chase me. And if I let my fear get the better of me, and I scream—it can hurt me.Touchme.

That’s a hard pass.

I only loosen a breath when I’ve backed down the corridor, out of sight of the whitish gleam. I turn on my heels and run in the other direction.

It’s a longer route to the tower for Star Theory, this way. But I’m no match for a poltergeist. And I know, I just know, one of the Snakes let it loose from the old broom cupboards down in the partially flooded part of the basements.

That prank has Landon and Mildred written all over it.

Oliver’s are a little crueller, a touch more direct and focused on one person. Dray’s are malicious. And always directed at just one person.

Landon will target anyone, really. Made ones, first years, faculty, he doesn’t care—doesn’t discriminate. He’s an equal opportunist.

And it’s fucking annoying, since it’s zigzagging me the longer, winding route around the East Quarter, then back up through the narrower corridors just to get to the tower.

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