by Lucy Auburn
In the shadows, I stared at him. I took it in: the bit of blood in one corner of the mouth that used to curve upward just for me, the crooked twist of his neck, the feet that dangled when they used to dance. A wind kicked up, enough to shift the edge of his shirt, and I saw the bruise in the shape of four knuckles, the one I put on his skin what seemed like a lifetime ago, when the storm was a distant shape on the horizon.
It didn’t feel real.
I wanted it to feel real. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel something close to what he’d felt, the brother I’d shared a womb and a life with, who was suddenly as far away from me as two people can get.
So I took a step forward, as if that would break the shroud between what was and what I didn’t want to be.
Something moved beneath my foot. Without a whisper of warning or a hiss of alarm, a snake jolted up from the wet grass, twisted its head around, and struck my ankle.
I screamed. The sound was so sudden that it surprised us both; the snake’s fangs dug in deep. Feeling wild and out of my mind, I bent down, grabbed its jaw until it came unhinged, and pulled it off me.
It was just a little thing, a rat snake with dark gleaming scales, wet with rainwater, no doubt forced from the banks of the river by the storm—just like I’d been forced from my house. As I yanked it off my ankle and pulled my foot from its back, it twisted around to bite me again, fangs sinking into the meat of my hand where my thumb met my palm. Its teeth were so big they nearly went through to the other side.
The pain sent something through me that tore my heart into pieces. I looked up at Silas’s body swinging from the tree and sobbed, falling to the ground on my knees, shaking with grief and anger and the knowledge that I’d done it, I’d left those bruises on his rib cage, I’d seen him last before he died, in anger far from me.
At some point Wally came up the hill, out of breath and wild-eyed, and made the kind of sound that a wild animal makes when it’s being skinned alive. He put a hand on my shoulder and leaned down towards me, collapsing in the middle with pain and grief.
We cut him down together.
I don’t remember much of that.
I also don’t remember much of what happened afterwards.
But when my mind wanders off track, when I forget for a moment that I live in a world without my brother in it, I reach over and press my fingers into the small red marks on my right hand, at the place where the thumb meets the palm, and I squeeze until the pain is real.
The snake let go, but I won’t. I never will.
They won’t see me coming, either.
Chapter 10
I didn’t remember sending the email until I got the reply.
It was the night before his funeral. I was sleeping on the pullout couch in my aunt’s living room. Daddy was staying in a hotel; Mom won’t talk about why, but I can guess. It doesn’t seem to matter, even though once upon a time it would’ve been all that mattered.
I could feel the fire growing inside me, looking for fuel to burn. And I was afraid the only tinder it’d ever find would be me. Death didn’t seem so bad when I knew who was waiting for me on the other side.
So I opened the email and scanned it with uninterested eyes. It didn’t matter what the admin running the Legacies blog had to say about what Coleridge did to my brother. I was the last person to see him, after all, and I was sure in that moment that what he did was my fault. I’d replayed our final conversation over and over again in my head, blaming myself. Nothing was worse than the moment I rose from the ground, formed my hand into a fist, and punched him in the side. I was sure it was what tipped him over the edge.
If he’d only had me, I told myself, he wouldn’t have had a reason to die.
That’s what I thought. Until I read the message.
Brenna,
I have to admit, I’ve let a hundred emails lie dormant in this account’s inbox since the day I stepped away from Legacies. But not this one. This one, I couldn’t pass by.
I’m sorry about what happened to your brother. That kind of harassment is not okay, and it should never have happened. Whatever the filthy rich teens of Coleridge Academy think happened that night, none of them know the truth, but all of them have decided what it is, because it fits their preconceived notions of what people with fewer means are like: animals.
I hope your brother Silas is okay.
I had to lean back from my phone at this and wipe the tears from my eyes. Blinking through them, I read the rest of the email.
If you want to find the truth at the center of all the lies, it’s going to take some time. That’s the bad news. The good news is, mobs like this move on quickly. They’ll find their next target for righteous harassment soon. In the meantime, do not engage. I can’t stress that enough. People like this have nothing to lose, and you can’t predict their next actions. I suggest you stay far away from the internet mob.
But that doesn’t mean you can’t investigate the truth. If there really is a video, track it down. If you can find the alleged victim, learn what she has to say straight from her own lips. Gather evidence, and give it time. Whenever and however you choose to enlighten the rich masses, make sure you go in prepared. This is not the sort of thing to do half-cocked.
Unfortunately I can’t help you. Like the person who ran Legacies before me, I’ve started a career, a family, and a life of my own. To be honest, I don’t have the time, even though I know the blog is something the world needs: accountability for the young, rich, and soon-to-be powerful.
Maybe you have the time, though. If you do, nothing is a better source for tips than this blog and this email inbox. So I’m handing them over to you. Do with them what you will.
I’m also handing over a tip for you: look into The Elites. They’re starting at Coleridge this fall as juniors, but they’ve been running in the circle of its incoming class for over a decade. The richest of the rich, they’re certainly behind what happened to your brother—none of their crowd makes a single move without their say-so. When they tear someone down, they stay down. In their minds forgiveness is something only the richest deserve, and guilt is decided by their hands. Nothing would give me more joy than to see them be held publicly accountable.
There’s one more thing I have for you: the attached enrollment packet. It’s yours if you want it. You can’t run an investigation without a source on the inside, and there’s none better than your own two eyes. Not to mention it sounds like your brother shouldn’t be heading to Coleridge on his own. So go with him, and slake your thirst for the truth.
Just don’t ask how I got it. Needless to say, I gave my share of favors in the time I ran Legacies, and I’m owed plenty in return. Your admission into the academy is the culmination of the last of those favors; after this, I have none left.
Do with it what you will.
Best,
Legacy II
I stared at the email for several long minutes. My reverie was only broken by the sound of soft footsteps coming down the stairs. Flicking the light at the end of the hall on, my mother entered the living room, her thin wisp of a silhouette backlit as she approached the pullout bed on quiet feet.
“I thought you’d still be awake.” Perching at the edge of the bed, she reached out and smoothed my hair down. “You shouldn’t be reading on such a tiny screen.”
“My computer and tablet both got ruined in the storm,” I pointed out. “This phone is all I’ve got.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she offered, “Your brother’s laptop was in my car. I’ve still got it. It’s yours if you want it.” Leaning down to kiss my forehead, she cupped my cheek with a thin, warm hand. “He’ll always be with us, you know. He’s watching over us even now.”
Mouth dry, I murmured something agreeable, even though I found it impossible to imagine my brother up in the clouds with angels and harp music. It just seemed too ridiculous to contemplate.
All I knew was that I would get to turn seventeen, but he wouldn’t.
“I think the laptop would be helpful,” I told my mom. “For school, if nothing else.”
“I’ll get it for you in the morning.”
I didn’t fall asleep that night—last night, the final night that it didn’t feel quite real, before I saw them lower his coffin down into the dark.
Instead I stayed up, thinking and planning.
Whenever I was about to drift off, I pinched the base of my thumb until I felt awake again.
Revenge is all I have left now that they’ve put him in the ground.
I know who instigated the worst of the harassment that targeted my brother. Four rich boys with no better things to do. They call themselves “The Elites,” as if being born with a silver spoon in each of their mouths wasn’t enough to set them apart. There are whispers about them in hidden corners, places I find on the internet because I have nothing else to fill my life now that he’s gone and everything is different.
Grabbing Silas’s laptop, I flip it open, put in his password—Brenna224—and look at what I haven’t dared to admit to myself existed before now: every filthy thing they said to make him put a rope around his neck and end his life.
In the chat logs, I find their names.
Cole Masterson. Lukas Dupont. Tanner Connally. Blake Lee.
Again, in the emails and comments, the social media messages and viral movement.
Cole Masterson. Lukas Dupont. Tanner Connally. Blake Lee.
Even where they aren’t there, the influence is clear. It’s written all over the friends who do their dirty work, the sources in the posts that tear him down, the text messages with coy not-quite-death threats hoping he’ll jump to his death or die in a fire. The world would be better off without him, they say, and they convinced him it was true. I hate them more with each passing breath.
Cole Masterson. Lukas Dupont. Tanner Connally. Blake Lee.
Around me, life somehow goes on. My cousins squeal as they poke and pinch each other, playing a merry game of tag that nearly knocks over the dinner table. Cheryl scolds them; my mother watches them with pain in her eyes. I know she sees innocence in the little boys playing around her feet, and is remembering my brother as he was as a child.
But I can’t remember him that way.
The only way I can see him is how he looked as Wally drove him to Connecticut for a week of orientation at Coleridge: happy, alive, and looking forward to something.
My father’s fists couldn’t knock the hope out of Silas, but those rich boys did it with their words. They didn’t lay a hand on him, because they didn’t have to—once they tore him down, they knew he’d end his own life.
How else could they have seen the messages taunting him, encouraging him to commit suicide, and done nothing? When they thought a girl was assaulted they unleashed the hounds of hell, but the instant it became clear the so-called perpetrator was becoming a victim, they were silent. They sat back. They watched. No doubt they enjoyed it. People like them always do.
The Elites killed my brother.
For that I’ll make them pay.
11 It continues…
Thanks for reading.
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Also by Lucy Auburn
Phoenix Academy
Phoenix Academy: Awaken
Phoenix Academy: Unbound
Phoenix Academy: Forged
Phoenix Academy: Reborn
Coleridge Academy Elites
The Snake in the Grass
The Pawn
The Knight
The King
The Queen
Selena Pierce
Fae Like Me
Hell Sucks
Godspring
Seven Trials
The Black God
Wild Heart Chronicles
Primal
Feral
Savage
Standalones
Three for a Witch
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About the Author
Lucy Auburn is an urban fantasy/paranormal romance writer who lives in the Southwest. She loves writing interesting stories about strong women. Some of the writers who inspire her include Patricia Briggs and Sarah J. Maas.
She values her privacy and does her best to keep her online life and her real life separate.
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www.LucyAuburn.com
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