Page 8 of Live To Tell

“Yes, Holly?” I ask.

“A couple of other girls are in the infirmary today.”

I straighten. More tiara shenanigans? “What happened?”

“Blood loss,” she whispers. “I didn't want to go into details with Grayson around earlier.”

That's what I needed to do to gain entry into the infirmary last night? Offer a vein to a hemia? As if that’s even a possibility—or desire. Grayson could’ve helped. I shake away the thought. We’ve well-established the unlikelihood of that.

“And this is what you referenced at the library—a party inside Darwin house. Humans and hemia?”

“Does that bother you?” asks Holly.

“I've no desire for an invite to a bloodfest. I don't consume blood, remember?”

“I mean, Grayson taking a girl's—or girls'—blood,” she says cautiously.

“If he did so, Grayson chose unwise behavior. Although, better a human than a witch, as he has poor self-control.”

Poor self-control. Like I have around him. I'm beginning to learn the term hypocrisy and when to apply it. Like now. To myself. But still...

“No. Grayson didn't partake.”

Holly frowns. “How do you know?”

“I just do.”

And that's the problem. I know Grayson's body didn't contain human blood this morning, and I know he’s worried that I believe he took part.

Is Grayson aware how aware I am?

“He appeared too pale for a recently gorged hemia,” I add.

Grayson wasn't stupid. I hope.

Finally, the over-studious Rowan joins us, and Holly's conversation topic abruptly ends. “I'm late,” she says and dashes away.

“Huh?” Rowan digs hands into his trouser pockets and watches her go. “What have I done?”

“Recently? Nothing untoward in your behavior has bothered me.”

He laughs. “No. What have I done to upset Holly?”

“Oh. No idea.” I pull my phone from a pocket and mutter. No response from my last message to Dorian. As I stab another to him, Rowan takes the phone from me with warm fingers. “What?”

I'm irritated by the beginnings of a smirk.

“I know something that you don't know, Violet.”

“Are you five years old?” I retort. “And there's little that you do, hence I had no need to pay attention to Mr. Woodside's class today.”

Human students file from the classroom and we follow. There was less chatter and activity in this lesson compared to the last one I attended. I’d presumed due to their late night party but are some paler for other reasons?

Outside, I rest against the painted wall as Rowan stands over me, his magical and physical proximity sparking a different awareness. I don’t avoid closeness to Rowan any longer—obviously—but I’m perturbed by how his effect grows. Rowan doesn’t touch me, but he’s already imprinted on my skin from the times he has, my dislike of contact confusingly absent with Rowan.

“Occasionally, teachers confiscate magic items,” he says.

“I imagine so, since this is a magic school for teenagers who're likely to commit delinquent acts due to age and immaturity.”

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