Page 4 of Splitting Secrets
That’s so wild to think about.
Less than twenty-four hours, and everything I thought to be true has been flipped on its head.
A mental wall slams down against the thought.
I can’t fall down that rabbit hole.
Instead, I peer out at the campus before me and brace for the humiliation of being carted to who-knows-where with four sour-faced people. Naturally, Devlin and the faculty housing are quiet. But the silence gets weird when the rest of the campus feels just as abandoned.
There are no students filing in and out of lecture halls or eating in the dining hall. No one studying or throwing a ball in the quad. It makes no sense. We’re only one week out from finals, and no one is around?
It could be a mind game. Some way they’re using their gifts to block everyone out. I can only hope they’re using the same energy to block me from view. I’m so out of my depths here, it’s laughable.
Just as I’m about to ask where they’re taking me, they hook a left and cut across a small break in administration buildings that leads to the back of the original Landry home.
I try to commit the path to memory, but they move so fast through what I assume are the domestic passages of the home where employees used to buzz through, hooking a quick left here and right there. Finally, we reach a door that leads to somewhere I know—the Landry ballroom.
A false door sits at the back of the room, disguised to appear as one of the decorative mahogany panels. The tall man—I think his name is James—hooks his finger through a small latch and yanks the panel open, revealing an ominous set of stone stairs that stretch into a pool of darkness.
The four of us shuffle onto the landing as James tugs the door shut until it seals so tightly I can’t see inches in front of my face. Something clicks to my left, and a line of sconces roars to life, the fire ignited from nowhere. They’re evenly spaced on either side of the stairs, continuing down a seemingly endless tunnel of stone that James has begun his descent toward.
Panic slices through me like a hot knife.
This is it. This is where they’re going to take me to chop me up and make me disappear without anyone knowing. The air smells damp and putrid—the perfect place for a kill. I wonder how many people have been brought down here to die.
Dread has my steps faltering, slowing me down until Raze’s chest collides with my back. I bounce off him, my body recoiling at his touch. He doesn’t say anything, just glares down at me with that blank expression that makes me want to slap some emotion into him.
James turns at the sound of the scuffle, his face compressing into a flat look. “Hurry along,” he chides impatiently. “We’ve only got a little bit more of a walk.”
Raze backs up the command with the incline of his chin—a silent warning to keep going, or face the consequences. My feet reluctantly move again, my survival instincts deciding thatwhatever lies ahead is probably still better than the consequence that will come from challenging the hulking man at my back.
True to his word, James and the other man make an abrupt left at an offshoot of the tunnel. Divina hangs at the intersection with a disassociated look, her arms wrapped around her torso as if she’s holding herself for comfort. She allows me and Raze to pass by her without issue. I turn away from her stony face to see that they’ve led me to a small corridor with two open doors on each side.
Cells.
These are prison cells.
Terror claws at me again, propelling my body backward. They aren’t going to cut me up and kill me. They’re going to leave me down here for who-knows-how-long to rot.
Isn’t that worse?
Raze shoves against my back, pushing me toward an open cell on the far right. The two men stand beside the door expectantly, their arms crossed over their chests as if this is simply an inconvenient deviation from their regular schedule.
For the first time since we left the beach, I look over my shoulder at Raze for help. He maintains the same blank expression, and it’s like oxygen for the fiery rage burning inside me. My rebuttal to his palms against my back is swift. Before any of them can anticipate what’s about to happen, I swing my fist completely around and slam it directly into his jaw.
The same strong, stubbled jaw that was scraping against my skin just over a day ago.
Fight-or-flight mode has kicked in, and I’ve defaulted to violence.
The other two men shout their protests.
I resist the urge to hug my fist against my chest and release the sob of emotion that’s been building up inside of me since the beach. There was a cracking sound when my fist hit hisface that felt unnatural. I’m sure I’ve broken something, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins hasn’t allowed me to feel the pain from that yet.
My eyes remain fixed on Raze, though. On the way his usually-relaxed eyes have widened into saucers for the first time ever. On the angry scowl pinching his brows together. The way one hand cradles his jaw as the other flexes a fist at his side.
He looks absolutely feral. An injured animal, ready to strike.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he surprises all of us by standing there, utterly still, as we process what I’ve just done and who I’ve done it to.
