Falyn inherited Piper’s hate, but it’s like she’s not quite sure where to source it from. Maybe, at first, it was because she thought I killed her best friend. But that’s all over now, despite Dr. Luke walking free. I’ve never been near Lover’s Leap, and a part of her knows it.
Not that it matters. All Falyn understands is, she needs to be mean in Piper’s place.
“Stop, before you make a bigger fool of yourself,” Riordan says as he steps into view, Ivy tottering after him. He hungrily eyes the book’s remnants in my arms but pulls out his phone and starts tapping.
“Aw,” I say, but my voice shakes with both pain and humiliation. “Are you telling Daddy on me?”
“Someone has to get you under control,” he mumbles. “Might as well be your keeper.”
My jaw drops in outrage. I’m nobody’s problem. Indignation stings the back of my eyes.
“How dare you,” I seethe. “All I want is to escape you bastards—”
Before I can finish, Willow shoves me again. This time, I spear her with my elbow, clipping her boob. She stumbles away with a cry.
Falyn settles a disdainful glance on her friend, but easily dismisses her, preferring the easier mark that everyone’s staring at. She says, with saccharine venom between her teeth, “Oh, honey, it makes sense that you’d want to earn sympathy points by becoming a burn victim, but sadly, that role is already taken in Chase’s life. Now you’re just a waste of skin that poor Emma could be using.”
Shock jolts through me faster than singeing my flesh against flame. Emma was Falyn’s friend before the accident. How could she?
“Say that one more time.”
The whispered warning stalks through the crowd before I breathe a word.
“But louder.”
The crowd parts, revealing Chase.
He knifes through, stopping just short of me, but his vision is centered on Falyn. He stares at her with brown eyes so bright, he must be calling upon the forest around him to emit such vicious energy.
“By all means, expand upon my sister’s pain.” Chase offers a predatory grin, licking the top row of his teeth at the expectant bite. “Then, we’ll see how well you’ll fare after that.”
Falyn blanches under his stare, but unfortunately, doesn’t stay quiet. She points at me. “Did you see what the crazy bitch did? If you want to fuck someone over for insulting Emma’s name, look to her. She’s the one playing in the flames, thinking she won’t get burned.”
“I thought I told you, what Callie does is none of your business,” Chase says.
Riordan joins the conversation, and points. “Did you really give her that?”
“Guys,” Ivy says, holding out her hands. She waits a beat while all eyes turn to her, giving a single, slow bat of her eyelids while centering her balance. She lifts her finger at me. “I’m pretty sure my bestie needs a hospital.”
So many fingers. Pointing at me. I scan the faces behind them, and the faces behind them, all staring, a mixture of awe, mirth, and horror. A few phones pop up above heads, camera light on.
I’m barren. Adrift. Exposed.
“If you’re taking such responsibility for her,” Falyn sneers, but her voice sounds muffled and far away. “Then explain to your sister why you’ve decided to fuck a pyro while her burns are still healing—”
“Screw you, Falyn—”
“Fuck, Chase, why have you given Callie access—”
A keening tremble spreads inside my chest until my entire body silently quakes.
“Burn harder, next time, possum…”
“—the bitch dives in after it like she’s the fucking Dragon Queen—”
“I’m trying to save you from the biggest mistake of your life—”
“We’re elite for a reason. We don’t defend pathetic school transfers…”
“You have your orders. Your obligation is over. Let her stake herself in a burning woodpile for all I care…”
Possum. Bitch. Pathetic. Mistake. Obligation.
“Callie, is what they’re saying true? Are you sleeping with Chase?”
The last voice, light and sweet, has me blinking out of my fugue, and I lock onto Ivy.
She teeters toward me, yet her expression exudes sobriety after asking the question.
But her perfume’s too strong, the colors of her dress suddenly too loud, and burning pain, so hot it’s turning my fingers into nubs of blue fire, won’t stop pulsing its distress within my skull.
There are so many watching. So few of them care.
Riordan has the time to spit out, “Just fuck her and leave her, the way you were supposed to,” before a savage, piercing wail splits through the room.
The small part of my mind that’s removed itself from the situation realizes it’s coming from me.
My lips are stretched wide on a scream, so loud, so brutal and rough, that I’ve silenced both the argument and the room.
Hush weaves around me like a blanketing mist, and I glance from face to face, backing up, skittering forward in the meager circle of space they’ve allowed.
Chase blinks at me, the first show of surprise I’ve ever seen in him, while the rest gape.
Ivy takes a hesitant step. “Callie…”
“Let me leave!” My voice is shredded paper, a nest of hornet stings, eroded rocks rubbed raw from saltwater.
Falyn clutches Willow in stunned horror, and they both dance to the side when I dart toward them. I use those few seconds of their dumbfounded shock to sweep past.
Riordan attempts to say, “Don’t let her—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Chase’s tone is deadly. Final.
I stumble out the door, turning my back on them before the moonlight can illuminate my tear-streaked cheeks.
13
Using my good hand, I call the Briarcliff chauffeur service, enduring the extended wait by crossing my arms around the book—holding my burned hand closest to my chest—and jumping from foot to foot to keep warm. Ivy doesn’t come after me. Chase doesn’t track me down. I’m left alone to stew or recover. I’ve yet to decide which one.
My cheeks are sticky with the half-frozen saltwater of my tears, but I’ve stopped crying, choosing to quell my upset into an inner trembling instead. Sobs will get me nowhere. Breaking down will make me fall. If my goal is to uncover Briarcliff’s trove of secrets, I can’t keep losing it around Chase, or his friends, or the school.
I swipe a hand across my eyes and find the positive. If anything, my freak-out will serve as a handy distraction while I continue to get to the bottom of things.
After twenty minutes pass, Yael rolls up, and I dive into the back seat without a word.
He takes stock of me through the rearview but remains professionally silent as he drives me to the dorms.
Charred leather scrapes against my fingers as I carefully lay the book on my lap, resisting the urge to begin reading it under pale moonlight and Yael’s mixture of scrutiny and concern.
The knowledge between these pages is both the source of my misery and the match lighting my power. I gave up a lot to keep this in my clutches. Trust. Pride. Skin.
Please, mysterious raven book, be worth it.
When Yael pulls up to Thorne House, I murmur a thank you and step out.
“Promise me you’ll get that looked at?” Yael asks softly from the front seat.
I glance down at my hand, my fingers curled against my cleavage, the wounded flesh desperate for both the warmth of my chest and the frigid coolness of the October night.
“It’s not that bad,” I reply.
Yael snorts. “You don’t have to put on an act with me. I know how it goes around here. When that wound really starts screaming, at least go to the nurse in the morning, okay? My wife won’t forgive me if I don’t make sure you’re all right. If my daughter left a party all disheveled and hurt, without her parents nearby…”
The heartfelt concern in Yael’s tone causes a tortuous lump in my throat. I’m caving at his concern—the firs
t show of in-person, grown-up worry I’ve received since coming here—and dying at the thought that I have no parents at the same time. Any daughter-like relationship with my stepdad, I ruined with two, self-destructing words: It’s him.
“Thank you, Yael,” I manage to croak out before shutting the passenger door. I lean down into his window that he’s since rolled open. I manage a shaky smile. “Tell your wife not to worry. I’ll see the nurse in the morning.”
Yael nods, the lines around his mouth smoothing. “You need to go anywhere tomorrow, you know who to ask.”
“I do,” I say, and to his shock, reach out to squeeze his hand resting on the steering wheel. “Your concern means a lot.”
“Ah, kiddo,” he sighs, and my heart twangs at his use of Ahmar’s affectionate term. “Not everybody gets out of this place unscathed.”
He rolls up his window as I retreat, and I give one last wave before entering Thorne House, fumbling one-handed with my clutch for my student ID.
Our shared area is dark when I step into Emma’s and my dorm room, not that I expect her to be awake and cracking open beer cans while holding a party on Saturday night.
The question of why she wasn’t at the lake house pops into my head, but I dismiss it just as quickly. No way Emma would want to immerse herself in that kind of crowd, with every room at a party-goer’s mercy the drunker and hornier they got.
Well. Not every room.
I blink from the vision of the Stone panic room, so sure it was a hidden entry into … what? Secret Society headquarters?
Jesus, I really need to think before I spew my theories into the universe—no, into Chase’s universe.
I’ve really fucked it up with him, but I can’t linger too long on that thought, either.
Laying the book on the kitchen countertop, I think of how much I’ve ruined by keeping it in my possession. All those questions I’d bartered for Chase to answer this week? There’s no chance in hell he’ll be willing to give me information now.
I set that thought aside, too. At this rate, my mind will become such a blank slate, even robots will envy it, and oh, how I wish that could be true.
The inner light of the freezer casts its glare directly into my eyes, and I wince as I claw around for a handful of ice to put in a hand towel.
“Do you mind?” Emma snaps behind me. “A starving cat makes less noise at this time of night.”
Still halfway into the freezer, I peer over my shoulder. She stands just outside her doorway, her glowering silhouette illuminated by the soft lamplight behind her.
I straighten, moving fast to drop the ice into the towel before my good hand becomes my frostbitten hand.
“Sorry,” I say. “This is all I needed. I’ll be in my room.”
I press the hastily made icepack to the burn starting at the outer edges of my pinky finger and moving down to my wrist. When the cloth contacts my skin, I wince and curse.
Emma hisses in a breath. “What is that?”
Her stare bores into my hand.
“Nothing. Just…” shoved my hand into an active fireplace to save an unknown text… “an accident.”
She comes closer, her eyes carving a path for her strides, and grasps my wrist.
“Hey—ow!” I whine, but it only makes Emma inspect it closer.
She whispers, “You’ve burned yourself.”
“Yeah, I got too close to the fireplace at the lake house. Don’t know what I was thinking, sitting by the hearth.”
Emma’s gaze flicks up, her familiar, coppery brown eyes searching my hazel ones. She utters two words, and they stick to the base of her throat. “Don’t lie.”
I stiffen. Against my better judgment, the professional photo I saw of her interposes onto her face, my vision combining the two, the darkness of the kitchen making it easier to pretend to see the old Emma. She still has the same cheekbones, though now they harbor the twisting vines of pinkish scars. She has the same straight, pert nose, the same Cupid’s bow lips. Her hair has kept its burnished gold, but it’s dulled by lack of care.
For the first time, I wonder if the scars left on her body are but a glimpse of the mutilation she suffered inside her mind.
Without releasing my wrist, she flips the light switch by the door, bathing us in halogen light. I blink at the sudden brightness, but Emma’s unaffected. She jerks her chin at the book I’ve left on the counter. “Do you have a lie for that, too?”
“No, I … well, I didn’t steal it. I can tell you that much.”
She spends a few seconds studying the book’s jacket—or what’s left of it—but I cannot, for the life of me, read her expression. Daniel Stone’s name is obscured and melted to ash, but does she know it’s her father’s? That it was in his study? Is she mad I have it?
Her attention snaps to my wrist with such predatory precision, I have to resist the urge to yank my hand away.
“You shouldn’t put ice on a second-degree burn,” she says, twisting my hand until I expose my inner wrist. “It could cause tissue damage.”
A rush of guilt flows into my stomach. What am I doing, showcasing my minor burn to a girl who was trapped in a fire? “Really, you don’t have to—”
“Tap water or cool compresses only,” she interrupts. “No sprays, no Vaseline, because that will cause the skin to burn hotter. And don’t pop any blisters, either, even though you’ll want to. You’ll cause an infection.”
“Emma…”
“Put your hand under running water.” Emma pulls me to the sink and turns on the faucet. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “Wait here. I have stuff.”
“Thank you.”
I don’t know what else to say, but Emma doesn’t give me an opportunity to expand, anyway. She scurries into her room, and I spin to face the sink, listening to the opening and shutting of drawers as she moves around.
Emma returns, sits me at one of our—new—stools by the counter, and wordlessly cleans and dresses my wound.
We must spend at least fifteen minutes together in silence, but I don’t feel the need to cut it with sound. Her movements are soothing, her touches delicate and light, her hands moving with grace and confidence, her full focus on my hand.
I stare at the crown of her head for a while, then watch her wrap my hand with sterile gauze, and I wonder, with a surprising ache, whether the nurses and doctors handled her with the same care that she’s showing me.
Don’t feel sorry for her, that deep, inner voice of mine reminds. She set the fire. Chase told you, remember?
Yes, but she was attacked, first. Her scars aren’t solely from burns.
As if sensing my deeper study, Emma sits back, propping my arm at the elbow and raising my hand. “Keep this elevated for an hour or so. It’ll help with swelling.”
“I … I don’t know how to thank you,” I say, my voice sounding strangely weak after not using it for a while. Then I remember—oh yeah, I screamed it to shreds about an hour ago.
“Then don’t.” Emma stands, cleaning up her first aid kit and washing her hands. She turns as she’s drying them, her gaze straying to the book.
I’d known it was sitting there. I felt its proximity like licking flames, though it emits no heat. I’m desperate to dive in, to carefully turn each page and figure out the sign of the raven.
I gather the courage to say, “Emma, about the library earlier—”
“If information on the Nobles is what you’re after, you’ll find it in that. It’s my father’s rule book.”
My brows jump in surprise.
Amusement glitters in Emma’s stare, but it’s gone too soon. “Don’t tell me you dove into fire for something you knew nothing about?”
I frown at my bandaged hand. “That obvious, am I?”
“Doesn’t take a genius to see a burned book—that wasn’t barbecued when I last saw it—with a burned hand, and put the two together.”
“Yeah.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Your brother’s pretty pissed at me.”
&
nbsp; “Oh. Of that I have no doubt.” Emma tosses the towel she was using to dry her hands on the counter. “But it’s not because of what you’ll find in there.”
I lift my head. “No?”
Emma’s lips turn down in an agreeing no, and as she passes me on the way to her bedroom, she tosses over her shoulder, “Those answers you’re wanting? You’re looking at the wrong side of the coin, Callie.”
I spin in my stool right as Emma’s door shuts.
And if I go and smack my hand on the door, begging for her to elaborate, I know what I’ll get in response.
Silence.
If I’m wanting to expose the society and potentially involve them in Piper’s murder, it’s clear I’m on my own.
Piper.
Her name sears into my brain, and I scramble for my clutch, amazed I’ve been so distracted, I didn’t think to look up her third lover. Her unborn child’s father.
In my defense, a lot happened between Ahmar’s admitting of the name and parking my ass on this stool.
But now, under the kitchen lights of a quiet, undisturbed dorm room, I have the time to try and figure him out. Yes, the police are two steps ahead, but perhaps it’ll soothe the rush of urgency in my mind if I could put a name to a face.
Is he a student at Briarcliff? Part of the Nobles? The reason Piper fell off a cliff?
Spurred by a new burst of energy, I set the phone on the counter and tap with one finger while my other hand stays raised, starting with the online Briarcliff Student Directory.
Sadly, it’s not that easy. No one named Joaquín del Pozo is enrolled at this school.
Deciding on a more generalized approach, I open my internet browser to search his name, narrowing down the geography to Briarcliff and its neighboring towns. If nothing of use comes up, I’ll have to figure out a way to cajole Ahmar into either letting me see this guy’s rap sheet, since he was in the system already, or at the very least, get Ahmar to admit where this dude comes from.
Now, there’s an idea. I switch from the search engine and go to the free criminal background check database and type in Joaquín’s full name. If he’s a minor, nothing will show, but if, by chance, he’s an adult, and considering Piper’s proclivity for older men…
Virtue (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 2) Page 9
