Page 17 of Shattered & Returned

“Paranoid about assassins?”

Orren snorted. “They’d be foolish to try it.” Then he shot me a sideways glance. “Ah, that sarcasm Morrigan warned me about.” His forced chuckle at my depressed humor hung awkwardly in the stairwell. The desperation in his eagerness to connect almost made me pity him. I recognized that hunger for approval all too well.

“He only comes here for his study,” Orren added. “It’s warded to kill intruders.”

“How inviting,” I deadpanned.

We reached my floor with me wheezing and Orren annoyingly unaffected. He produced an ancient iron key, its teeth oddly jagged, and turned it in the lock with a satisfying click.

The chamber beyond was cavernous with vaulted ceilings. Three canopied beds with black quilts nestled beneath half-length windows. Everything, from the black sand-colored desks to the high-backed chairs, was steeped in gothic austerity. I felt as though I’d stumbled into the Dark Ages—all shadows, blood, and whispered curses.

“Does the school employ doctors?” I asked, running a finger along the dustless desktop.

“Healers,” Orren corrected, his nose twitching. “Only the finest.”

“Good.” I gestured at the room with a flourish. “You’ll need them for all the students driven to depression by this cheerful decor.”

He blinked at me, then rubbed his nose as if it were a snout before he realized it. He clasped his hands behind his back, shoulders squaring like a soldier awaiting orders. The transformation was almost comical—my kidnapper turned obedient retainer in mere hours.

The scent of beeswax candles and dried lavender barely masked the underlying chill of centuries-old stone. A yawn cracked my jaw before I could stop it.

“I’ll leave you to rest, Lady Bloom.” He placed the key on the entry table with exaggerated care. The title rolled off his tongue with newfound reverence.

His footsteps faded down the corridor before his final words floated back: “There’s an outfit waiting in the third closet.”

The far bed called to me. After a hasty wash in the ensuite, where the water ran suspiciously warm without any visible heating, I collapsed onto the mattress, towel clinging to my damp skin. Somewhere between one breath and the next, fatigue claimed me.

“Let us in!”The chorus of voices scraped against the windowpanes.

The dead, dozens of them, pressed their hollow faces to the glass, their ashen skin stretched over sharp bones, blackened lips moving in unison.

“No!” My voice cracked. “Leave!”

“My queen!” The lead specter pressed a skeletal hand to the glass. The others took up the cry, their wails building into a storm of sound that vibrated in my head.

The window groaned under their collective weight. Hairline fractures spiderwebbed across the pane as more wraiths joined the throng, their long and yellowed fingernails scritch-scritch-scratching at the barrier.

My heart thumped in my throat, my chest tightening. Orren had promised these walls were warded. Why then could I see the hunger in their empty eye sockets? Why did the very air taste of grave dirt and rotting lilies?

“My queen, please let us in!”

“I’m not your fucking queen!”

The glass bowed inward with an ominous creak.

I sucked in a sharp, desperate breath just as?—

My eyes flew open.

Silence. The dead were gone.

I snapped my head toward the window.

A single fingerprint lingered on the fogged window, streaked and smudged, before it faded.

I snatched at my nightgown, fingers plunging into the pocket. The inhaler. Cold plastic met my grip. I wrenched the mouthpiece between my lips,sucking in medication.

Air flooded my lungs. My heart refused to obey, hammering against my ribs like a trapped thing. The cold clung to my skin, my next breath forcing a ghost of frost from my shivering lips.

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