Page 25

The top buttons of his shirt are undone, tie hanging loosely around his neck. My gaze drops to his feet where the gold and silver bobbles ornamenting the tree glint off the tops of his patent leather Oxfords, shuffling from side to side as if unable to stand still. For a man who is usually so formal and put together, his appearance shocks me.

A loud bang comes from high above us and the room collectively jolts, our gazes swinging to the offending window where the shrill wind threatens to break through. My heart settles back into my chest from where it had shot to my throat, and I ease back into Alastair’s embrace.

Candles flicker in sconces along the walls, their glow barely competing with the gray light filtered through the snow-laden windows. The students move like shadows, whispering and glaring, wrapping themselves in blankets, clutching pillows as though they could shield themselves from the madness outside—or perhaps it’s the madness within.

“It’s too cold,” one of the students whines, her frail arms wrapping around her waist as she shivers as if to emphasize the chill in the air.

“I can go adjust the furnace,” Professor Gravestone announces, and I can’t quite decide if that’s brave of him or incredibly foolish.

“Go! Go on, then!” Whitmore shouts at him and Gravestone’s eyes grow wide as dinner plates before he nods and scurries off, unlatching the doors and slipping outside.

“Headmaster, perhaps it would be helpful if you made an announcement explaining what you know? That might set some of the students mind’s at ease,” Delilah, one of the administrators, suggests in that calm and collected way of hers. She hides it well, but her panic is evident in the way she wrings her hands in her lap.

The clunk of the furnace working harder fills the room for a moment. The air grows thick, oppressive, tinged with fear and the metallic tang of panic.

Whitmore snaps out of it enough to start chattering on, but his words are broken up and spoken at an erratic pace. “Listen to me!” he shouts. “No one—no one—is to leave this hall! Not for meals, not for prayers, not for anything!” He whips around the room, his gaze flying from corner to corner before he throws his hands up toward the sky. “The solitude the Devil loves will not find us this day. I will not allow another death on my watch!”

A ripple of unease passes through the students. Some glance at each other, eyes wide, suspicions flickering like candlelight across the room. The Headmaster paces in jagged lines, then stops, pointing a trembling finger at the nearest table. “Watch one another. Trust no one! Not even those you call friends!”

I feel the air pressing against my lungs, thick and heavy, and my head spins. Students mutter, some laugh nervously, some scowl, eyes darting across the room as they measure each other for threats. Fingers point, whispers rise, and the tension coils tighter with every passing second.

Whitmore pulls a crumpled stack of papers from his back pocket, his hands shaking as he unfolds them and begins calling out names, collecting attendance. But it isn’t the names of the people present that ring out the loudest, it’s the overwhelming silence of everyone we can’t account for that echoes against the walls.

The world around us turns to madness before our very eyes as time slows to a crawl, dragging on with Alastair acting as a shield against the paranoia, a tether to my sanity in a world I no longer recognize. I can feel his steady heartbeat against my back, the warmth radiating through my chest, and for a fleeting moment, I allow myself to breathe.

When everyone is accounted for and the doors are locked shut, sealing us inside with our murderer, Alastair rummages through his bag, pulling out a copy of a book he has read to me on Christmas every year.

It’s a story of two people who had always felt alone during the holidays despite massive family parties and all the frivolous things that others cherish so much, but it wasn’t until they’d had no one but each other that they no longer felt alone. I know why he reads it to me, and the meaning feels even more pressing this year.

I allow his words to carry me through the next several hours, standing and stretching periodically, swapping positions for comfort and relieving ourselves, but otherwise, we remain attached at the hip, his eyes never leaving me.

My head swims, my vision growing blurry at the edges.

The dining hall is a cathedral of terror. Stone walls soar high above us, vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow. Candle sconces line the walls, flickering and trembling, throwing elongated, monstrous shapes across the cold, polished floors.

The Christmas tree towers in the corner, its ornaments glittering like frozen jewels, but the beauty is grotesque now—each ribbon and bauble a mockery of the warmth and joy that should exist today. I can’t look at it without feeling my stomach tighten, the festive lights dancing across faces twisted in terror.

The students are unhinged. Three of the older boys are clambering up the towering stone pillars that line the room, knuckles white, scraping against the rough surfaces. “Stop! You’ll fall!” someone screams, but their words are drowned in the rising cacophony. A group of students rush beneath the pillars, arms flailing, shouting frantic instructions, but there’s nothing to catch them and everyone knows it.

I clamber to my feet on shaking limbs. “Please come down! You’ll break your necks!” I shriek, my voice barely carrying over the hysteria. My knees shake as I clutch Alastair’s arm, nails biting into his sleeve. He wraps a hand around my waist, grounding me, but even he looks tense, eyes darting to each boy like he can’t believe they’re still climbing.

Another pillar climber slips for a heartbeat, and a collective gasp silences the room. One boy reaches the top and hesitates, and I feel my stomach lurch. Another scrambles after him, and someone shouts, “There’s nothing to save you!”

Alastair murmurs my name, low and urgent, but his voice gets lost in the ringing in my ears. Students are now yelling at each other, pointing fingers, screaming that someone is trying to kill them, that the food, the drinks, the storm itself is conspiring against us all.

A boy loses his grip. He flails, and Alastair clamps his palm over my eyes, his warm breath coasts along the shell of my ear and he whispers, “Listen to the sound of my voice and focus on it. Can you do that for me, my ruin?”

I nod, releasing a shaky breath.

“Good. You don’t need to watch what fate is going to befall those boys. You don’t need to focus on anything but the sound of my voice and the feeling of my skin over yours.” I lean into him, my back becoming flush with his firm chest and I can already breathe a little easier. “You’re going to think about last Christmas,” he whispers, his voice growing husky and I recognize exactly what part of that memory he’s recalling. This is not the place for that and yet, I can’t bring myself to care when his words are the only thing keeping me from spiralling.

“I-I remember,” I murmur, heat rippling beneath my flesh.

He chuckles, the sound tickling my skin and soothing my soul. “I’d certainly hope you would. It’s one of my favorite memories—we spent the day reading, drinking hot chocolate and opening gifts, walking around the university without fear of anyone seeing us because they were all home for the holidays and it was just us here where I could make you scream as loud as I wanted.”

My skin flushes and a vivid image of me grinding myself over Alastair’s length while he was handcuffed to the headboard and blindfolded with a pair of my stockings floods my mind, tingles erupting all over. “I’ve never seen anything more delectable than you in that red lace lingerie, ready for me to untie my favorite present.” His chest reverberates with a growl of approval and I know he’s imagining it too.

The vision he paints blurs, the red lace morphing into spilled blood and my stomach twists. My spine goes rigid as Alastair’s touch grows more insistent and though he keeps talking to distract me, I can’t hear him anymore, not through the heavy thud of bodies and the wailing screams that cut through his voice. Now more than ever, I appreciate his constant need to protect me.