RIOT HOUSE

by Hart, Callie

  I made a copy of her file with all her personal contact information a week after I took the photo. I considered calling her before she even arrived, just so I could hear her voice and stop driving myself mad with wondering what she would sound like. I’d managed to show a little restraint, though. But I couldn’t stop myself from texting after our English class. I’d wanted to rile her up. To watch her reaction from afar. Annoyingly, she’d barely reacted at all. She’d been confused at first, because she didn’t know the number, I’m assuming, but then her face had gone blank.

  No fear. No anger. No irritation. The only emotion I saw cross her face, from my casual lean against the wall fifteen feet away, was a brief flicker of amusement, at which point she’d tucked her phone back into her pocket and jogged up the steps towards the biology labs without a backward glance.

  “Why are you so dead set on this girl, anyway?” Pax asks, making a hell of a noise as he purposefully fires the lid on a can of pringles across the room, jams his hand inside, pulls out a stack of chips and stuffs them into his mouth.

  I tap out a sentence, focusing on my laptop screen. “She’s nothing. She’s unimportant.”

  “Bullshit, Jacobi. You haven’t shown the slightest bit of interest in a girl since Mara and you know it.”

  BANG!

  I think I just shattered my laptop’s screen.

  I shouldn’t have slammed it closed so hard, but then again Pax shouldn’t have just uttered that name within my earshot. He knows better than that. Closing my eyes, I inhale a shaky, uneven breath, trying to level out the rage spiking in my bloodstream. “I’m glad we ironed out a deal with The Contessa,” I grit out through my teeth. “You gotta get the fuck out of my room, though, dude. I’m serious. I gotta get this paper done. I need to clear my head, and I can’t do that with you bringing that shit up, yeah?”

  I wait for Pax to argue. Arguing is second nature to him; he grew up in a house full of lawyers. For better or for worse, he chooses to keep a civil tongue in his head instead. “All right, man. No drama. I’m gonna head down to Cosgroves’ and grab some beers. You want something?”

  I clench my jaw so hard that it cracks when I force my mouth open to speak. “Not beer. A forty of Jack,” I tell him.

  “Whew. Going big on a school night. My favorite kind of Jacobi.” He leaves, humming a raucous song under his breath, and I sit very still, with an image of Elodie Stillwater blazing in my mind.

  Why am I so dead set on her?

  Because she’s innocent, and I’m not.

  Because she’s wholesome, and I’m not.

  Because she’s untainted, and I’m not.

  And, most importantly of all, because she’ll be so pretty when I make her cry.

  5

  ELODIE

  “We should have met yesterday, Ms. Stillwater, but I’ve found that giving a student a day or two to settle in can be helpful. I knew Carina would do a good job of showing you around. She’s a good girl. A good friend, if you’re in the market for one. I apologize for putting you all the way up there on the fourth floor, but four-sixteen was our only available room. I hope you’re comfortable enough. Please pass on our apologies to your father. Colonel Stillwater was very clear that he wanted you situated on the second floor, but there’s nothing we can do right now. Maybe next semester—”

  “Really, Principal Harcourt, it’s not a problem. I don’t mind being on the fourth floor.” Yes, it’s a pain in the ass having to hike all the way up those stairs, but apart from being in such close proximity to Damiana and the blistering cold in my room it doesn’t really make much of a difference where I sleep in this godforsaken place. It’s all the same to me.

  Principal Harcourt nods, fidgeting in her chair. Her office is imposing, just as old and drafty as the rest of Wolf Hall, but it’s light and airy and feels less oppressive than the rest of the academy. The woman herself is in her late forties, with a touch of steel grey in her long dark hair that’s swept back into an uncompromising chignon. Her eyes are a little distracted, unfocused as they flit around the room, landing on everything from her academic texts, the plaques on her walls, and the wilting peace lily in the pot on her desk, but never resting on me.

  “I had the pleasure of meeting your father once. Quite an intimidating man,” she says breathily.

  Intimidating? She really doesn’t know the half of it. I fiddle with the apple I’m holding in my hands, worrying at its stalk. The inch-long woody stem snaps off in my fingers, and I let it fall to the floor. “Yes. He’s very well respected.” I could say so much more. I could tell her about the nights I spent twisted up and afraid beneath my bedsheets, wondering if he was going to burst through my bedroom door at any moment. She’d understand then how unimportant the location my bedroom here at Wolf Hall really is to me, so long as I’m as far away from him as is physically possible.

  “Now,” the principal says awkwardly, opening up the top drawer of her desk. She takes out a sheet of paper and sets it down in front of her, sliding it toward me. “I hate to have to go through this with you, but I’m afraid it’s academy policy. Here at Wolf Hall, there are a number of things we do not tolerate. As you’ll see from this student-faculty agreement, the use or possession of drugs is strictly prohibited. We also do not allow any sort of…carousing. Ahem. Contact of a sexual nature is also prohibited. No members of the opposite sex on any of our female or male floors. No inappropriate touching, or…or…well, you can read for yourself there, can’t you. You can leave the academy on the weekends, but doors are locked by nine o’clock sharp. During the week, you must remain here on school grounds. From Monday through Friday, leaving Wolf Hall for any reason without prior written permission from myself or another member of the teaching staff is taken very seriously. There are other items on the list that you can review at your own leisure. I take it none of that will be an issue for you, though?”

  “No, of course not.” Jesus. Who does she think I’m going to be getting hot and heavy with? And I’ve never stepped foot in New Hampshire before; as far as I’m concerned, this place might as well be the seventh circle of hell and there’s no way out for me.

  “Good girl. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some paperwork to catch up on. I believe you have a French class to be getting to. I’m sure you’ll enjoy that, given that it was your first language.”

  “Actually, I never learned Fre—”

  “Good, good. Off you go now. If you need anything, please let someone at the administration desk know and I’m sure they’ll be happy to help you. Have a lovely day, Elodie.”

  I’m ushered out of Principal Harcourt’s office so quickly I almost forget to collect my bag before the door is slammed loudly behind me.

  I take a deep, calming breath, slinging the leather strap up and over my head. I have no idea where my French class is or which direction I’m supposed to head in, and since Carina threw out my map yesterday morning, I find I’m at a bit of a loss. Carina had to get to class, and without my guide, I—

  I see the dark silhouette, hovering at the mouth of the corridor that leads to the principal’s office and a cold sweat breaks out across my back.

  Crap.

  My scientific mind tells me that this old, crooked, rambling building isn’t haunted, but the shadowy figure looks distinctly ghost-like as it moves toward me.

  I could be wrong, but I’m betting none of the training my father drilled into me will be useful against non-corporeal forms. Stilling my racing heart, I step forward, swallowing down the lump in my throat, and…Wren Jacobi steps into the circle of flickering, dim yellow light cast off from a sconce on the wall.

  I don’t know if I should be relieved or twice as scared.

  His black clothes contrast so dramatically with his pale skin that he looks like the negative of a photo, brought to life. I didn’t see him again after English yesterday, so I’d tricked myself into believing that I wouldn’t be seeing him today, either. Clearly a very stupid, naïve thought, because here he is, l
arger than life and way more threatening than any apparition. The hallway’s wide but not wide enough for me to skirt around him without having to acknowledge his existence. I duck my head, tucking my chin into my chest, eager to get past him as quickly as possible…

  “Stillwater.” My last name echoes down the hallway, ringing in my ears. His voice is cold and stiff. “They sent me to escort you to class. Come with me.”

  Oh. That’s just…fucking wonderful.

  He sounds pissed that he’s been assigned this task. I move closer, dragging my heels as much as possible, trying to delay the moment that I reach him and we’re standing face to face in the confined space, unable to avoid each other’s gaze. It comes all too quickly, though.

  God, his eyes are so green. I’ve never seen eyes that color before. He doesn’t blink as he stares down at me, his top lip twitching like it wants to curl upward in disgust. He brushes a hand through his thick, wavy hair, blowing hard down his nose, his nostrils flaring. “Try to remember the way,” he says curtly. “I’m not doing this twice.”

  I don’t even want him to do it once.

  He spins, turning around and showing his back to me, and then he takes off at a fast clip, heading for the east wing of the academy. For every one of his long strides, I have to put in three in order to keep pace with him. Tension radiates off him as he marches ahead of me, clenching and unclenching his massive hands into fists.

  With the heavy, solid oak doors to all the classrooms firmly closed, concealing the students inside, a thick silence floods the hall as Wren leads the way. Cursing myself for being so damn stupid, I rip my gaze away from his ass, telling myself that I wasn’t checking out the way his jeans hang a little too low, revealing the black waistband of his underwear. No, no way was I checking that out.

  I’m hot all over and flooded with unexplained shame. If I inspected that shame up close, then I’d discover that there is a reason for it, and that reason has an awful lot to do with the way Wren’s mouth had looked yesterday when he said the word fuck in Doctor Fitzpatrick’s class.

  A deviant shiver runs down my spine, and I shake my head to dislodge the memory. I’m quickly making new memories, though. The stubble on the back of his neck, short and black, where his hair’s been cropped so close to his skin is perversely fascinating. I stare at the base of his skull, like I might be able to pierce through the skin and bone and see right into his mind, and all the while, my hands grow clammier and clammier. I nearly leap out of my skin when he angles his head down and to the left, barely showing his features in profile for a brief second as he says, “You’re throwing in with Carina, then.”

  “Throwing in with her?”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something else. “You’ve chosen her as a friend,” he clarifies.

  “Yeah, I suppose I have.”

  “Interesting choice.”

  This is the kind of leading comment that invites someone to ask questions: what do you mean by that? Is Carina a sociopath or something? Should I stay away from her? Unfortunately for Wren, I’ve spent an awful lot of time figuring people out, as well as uncovering their intentions, and he’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’ll give him what he wants so easily. He has something he wants to tell me about my new friend Carina? Then he’s going to have to offer the information up all by himself.

  I say nothing.

  Wren Jacobi says nothing.

  Down the hallway we go, Wren walking ahead of me, his tall frame solid, his shoulders drawn back in the same over-confident way kids who are born into money all seem to have. He takes a left, and then another left, and then a right, and before I know it, I’m completely turned around, and I have no clue where I am.

  So much for remembering the way…

  Wren stops abruptly, spinning around, and I almost walk straight into his chest. Applying the breaks as quickly as possible, I pull up just in time, a mere eight inches between us. This close, I have to crane my head back, pointing my chin at the ceiling in order to look up at him. “What’s she told you about Riot House?” he demands.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sure Carina’s mentioned Riot House by now. I wanna know what she’s said.”

  Lord. He gives his orders uncompromisingly, as if it’s never occurred to him that anyone might deny him the information he’s seeking and tell him to go fuck himself. As far as Wren’s concerned, there is no reality or parallel universe in which he isn’t unquestioningly obeyed by all. Those eyes of his, the brightest jade, swirled through with flecks of amber and glorious gold, are so surprising that they almost have me blurting out the answers to questions he hasn’t even asked me.

  Dark chocolate.

  The Beatles.

  George Orwell’s 1984.

  My suspicious nature keeps me firmly glued to the tracks, though. It pokes at me with a question of my own: Why does he want to know what Carina said about Riot House? Was she supposed to keep her mouth shut about the place? Is Wren’s home a forbidden topic of conversation, punishable by…fuck, I have no idea what kind of punishment Wren might subject a person to if they were dumb enough to displease him. I already know it wouldn’t be pretty. Going back over the few words Carina uttered about Riot House, I decide it’d be harmless to just give in and tell him. Not that he deserves the explanation. “She told me that that’s where you, Pax and Dashiell live. That’s it.”

  He narrows his eyes. I don’t think he believes me. “Did she tell you what we do there? Did she tell you about the rules?”

  “I don’t know anything about any rules. And whatever you get up to in the privacy of your own home is really fine by me, man. It’s absolutely none of my business.”

  He blows out down his nose—a long, unhappy exhalation. I’ve said something wrong, apparently. “Okay, dude. Well, tell her that she needs to keep it that way. If we find out that she’s filling people’s head with shit, then—”

  “Ah, there you are. Mr. Jacobi, what are you doing, loitering out here? Straight to the office and straight back to class. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it?” A tall, reedy woman with frizzy blonde hair and weak blue eyes stands in the hall behind Wren, holding an open textbook in her hand. Her eyes meet mine and she smiles.

  A muscle tics in Wren’s jaw—a sign of annoyance if ever I’ve seen one. “We were just coming,” he says tightly. Nudging me with the toe of his brown leather boots, he urges me to go ahead of him, toward the blonde woman, who beams.

  “You’re my first ever French student, Elodie. I’m Madame Fournier. I can’t tell you how excited I am to have someone in the class who can speak the language fluently.”

  “She doesn’t know a lick of French,” Wren mumbles, pushing his way past the woman. “Turns out our little French whore isn’t so French after all.”

  Madame Fournier reels at Wren’s statement. “Mr. Jacobi! Apologize to Ms. Stillwater immediately!”

  Wren pauses alongside Madame Fournier—long enough to lean in close, bringing his face close to the French teacher’s. He peers at her through his impossibly dark eyelashes, a look of quiet contempt on his face. “What’s my other option? Because I’m currently maxed out on apologies.”

  Madame Fournier turns a brilliant shade of crimson. “Aller en enfer,” she spits.

  Wren smiles. “Convince the old man to cut me loose and I’ll head there directly. In the meantime, I’ll be in the back row of your class every Tuesday until the end of fucking time.” He straightens, standing at his full height—a monster wearing a black long-sleeved t-shirt and a vicious smile—and casts a bored look back at me. “Come on. There’s a seat open right next to mine.”

  He grabs hold of me by the wrist.

  Shock jitters up my arm, echoing around the chamber of my chest. It booms like a struck bell in my head, roaring in my ears louder than a raging ocean battering against a shoreline.

  He has me by the wrist.

  “I’m perfectly capable of walking,” I say in a clear, calm v
oice. “I don’t need to be dragged anywhere.”

  If he doesn’t let go of me in five seconds, I’m gonna wrench myself free. I’m gonna kick him in the balls. I’m gonna break one of his goddamn fingers.

  Five…

  Four…

  Three…

  Wren releases his hold on me, smirking infuriatingly. “I don’t know what got into me. I guess I’ll see you in there.” He goes, leaving me standing next to Madame Fournier, who flusters and chatters incessantly about manners and how boys will be boys, but the whole time I can see the nervous edge in her eyes. She can’t hide the fact that her hands are shaking as she snaps her textbook closed and tucks it under her arm.

  Inside Madame Fournier’s room, massive French flags hang from the walls. By the blackboard at the head of the room, the obligatory shot of the Eiffel Tower hangs, framed, on the wall next to pictures of Edith Piaf and The Louvre. I do a quick appraisal of the desk/chair situation and quickly calculate that Madame Fournier is very low on the pecking order at Wolf Hall. Doctor Fitzpatrick gets a lofty, light, massive office with enough room for a miniature library and an open fireplace, and the French teacher gets a standard box room with only two windows, no personality and desks with lids that look like they date back to the thirties.

  And…yep. Just fucking great.

  There is only one open seat available, and it just so happens to be right next to the brooding, dark-haired asshole who’s burning hand I can still feel cuffing my wrist. He didn’t tighten his grip on me. He didn’t pull me after him. He did nothing but close his fingers around my skin, but it feels like he fucking branded me with his touch, and now I’m forever doomed by his mark.