Page 20 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

Between kisses, he traces my lips with searching, awed fingers. I pant against them, wanting more and more and more, every surprise burst of lust that Rory turns onto me a reminder, a reassurance, thatyes, he’s into me, and his gift is bruising kisses that clear away all my thoughts, turning me into a mindless, oversensitive sap.

I crave it.

I crave him.

He breaks away from me, and I’m so dizzy, so distracted, that I can’t even remember what we were discussing beforehand.

“Goodnight, little saint,” he tells me, drifting down the hallway with a dark upturn to his mouth.

* * *

Although I don’t fully believe ghosts roam Lochkelvin, the shrieking wind sure gives me pause. I endure a restless night, listening to the slam of the wooden slats beside the tall bedroom window. Knowing that we’re in the dark surrounded by mountains for miles makes me feel small and alone, like each howl of the wind — the spirit of Lochkelvin — is in some way mocking of my lone form in this four-poster bed.

Staring up at the thick canopy, I wonder what actually happened inside this room — maybe even inside this bed — for Finlay to fly off the handle at my presence inside it. The wondering soon morphs into something more private, more X-rated, a mixture of the dreamlike sequence between me and Rory on the hill — because that did happen, didn’t it? That really happened, a flash of hot mouths and cold fingers pressing insistently against my opening. In my mind, there’s a recreation of that with the addition of Finlay, of a tight tangle of limbs and flushed naked skin and kissing and kissing and kissing…

With a bleary groan, I stumble out of bed. There’s a sweet ache building between my thighs but there’s also, more urgently, a sharp dagger of hunger slicing across my stomach. I’ve only had a bowl of mushroom soup and a few forkfuls of tofu all evening.

I glance at the clock. Two in the morning. It should be a deterrent, but it’s not like I don’t have a history. Wandering spooky corridors and hallways after the midnight hour is a certified hobby by now. And besides — how often am I going to be inside this fancy manor house? I’m nosy. I like exploring. And I’m very, very hungry.

Draping my black dressing gown over me, I pull out my phone. Phones work here — a novelty — but with intermittent cell reception and no Wi-Fi to even speak of, there’s still no point in carrying one other than to use it as an expensive flashlight.

I tiptoe barefoot down the plush, carpeted hallway of my wing and out onto the main staircase. The manor is almost completely mapped out in my mind now, but some parts are missing, remaining black unexplored gaps in my knowledge. For example, I’ve never been to the kitchens, though I know they’re large enough to be plural. I don’t know where Captain Porthos sleeps at night. And all of Oscar Munro’s rooms — an entire two eastern wings of the manor — are firmly off-limits to everyone.

It doesn’t take long for me to locate the kitchens. I follow the lingering scent of sharp spice and warm, melted chocolate — Rory’s midnight snack? I switch on the lights and gleaming chrome countertops wink back at me, as smooth and spotless as the day they were first purchased. It’s an orderly place, with knives glinting neatly from holders, each one hovering above a counter like a sword of Damocles. A large fridge takes prime position, but beside it, and taking up half the wall space, is a long and deep freezer chest. It’s industrial in scale, double the length of most store freezers, the kind that keeps ice creams chilled.

Only this freezer isn’t filled with ice cream. It’s stocked to the brim with meat. So many pink, fleshy hefts of meat, each individually wrapped in plastic and decorated thickly with crystals of ice. It makes me feel queasy just looking at it.

I grab a plate and assemble myself a sandwich, using one of the impeccably round floury loaves from a wooden box that turns out to be a bread bin. I eschew the intimidatingly fancy foil-wrapped pack of butter that boasts of itstraditional Scottish butter-churning heritagefor a vibrant jar that describes itself in a handwritten label as marmalade.

It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

I sit down at the counter and eat and eat and eat, chowing down on so many sandwiches that I use up almost half the loaf. I rifle through the fridge for more and find leftovers of my tofu stir-fry that have been meticulously wrapped by Armstrong. With a happy groan, I swap between my last sandwich and my stir-fry, moaning around my fingers at the deliciousness as food finally fills my belly.

There’s the sound of movement from the dark corner behind me, and I turn to see Captain Porthos at the back edge of the kitchen, raising his head with a curious sniff, his paws hanging outside an adorably fleecy red tartan basket. He pins his watchful gaze on me for a long moment, and I wave at him as I eat, but then he stands suddenly on all fours, his full form impressively big, cocking his large wiry head to the side, his black eyes no longer on me but staring attentively ahead.

With increasing speed and his ears pricked back, he pads across to the small incline of stairs and then up to the door, pawing at it and releasing a low whine. I approach behind Captain Porthos, gently opening the door for him. He peels through in an instant, and I rush back to grab my half-eaten sandwich — priorities are important — and follow him eagerly while eating the remainder.

I want secrets. I want to unravel Lochkelvin. I want to know what mysteries exist here, and Captain Porthos seems more than determined to lead me to them.

His quick paws scrabble across the monochrome tiles of the foyer, a direct and knowing intellect in the way he guides himself. When he approaches the doorway that leads to the fencing hall from earlier, he whines low in his throat again, and again I open the door for him. He slips down the stairs into the manor’s basement.

The fencing hall is eerie at night. Swords align the walls like warning signs, glittering in the dim light that is, for some reason, on. As Captain Porthos turns down the fencing hall and into a new area, he seems to pluck up more confidence, his movements increasing in pace, guided by a nose that’s higher and twitchier than ever.

I follow behind, feeling the opposite, growing steadily more unsure that I should be here. There’s a cubicle containing showers, and I get a flash of panic, the same irrational flash of panic I get every time I pass a tiled shower enclosure, that there’ll be a hanging body strung up next to the showerhead.

“Where are you going, boy?” I whisper, more for the soothe of noise, the acknowledgment that I’m not alone if I still have my voice. Captain Porthos pays me no attention, though his tail begins to wag from side to side like a fast-beating metronome.

Again, there’s a low whine. We’ve passed the fencing hall and turned down into an area of the basement that’s darker, the ceiling slanting lower. Turning overhead is a cool blue pattern of a kaleidoscope. The weft and weave of water. A liquid net.

A swimming pool.

Captain Porthos paws at the door, and I only have the faintest hesitation that maybe a dog shouldn’t be near a pool. He’s determined to be inside, and I should have known why, I should have realized long before now.

I pull back the sliding glass door, and the scent of chlorine engulfs me instantly. It’s strong, almost overpowering. The floor morphs into wet, ribbed tiles, and my bare feet skitter along them nervously.

Blue is everywhere. The pool glows a vivid neon cerulean, the pattern of the water captured by the ceiling like a photo in negative. There’s the sound of light splashing, and a tall figure cuts through the water from end to end, the sound of deep male breathing heavy in the air.

Captain Porthos is further ahead, gazing alertly out at the pool with a sense of longing. It takes a few minutes, a few minutes when I’m stuck there, frozen, thinking to myself that I should go, I should go, I should really fucking go, before the figure in the water notices me.

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