Page 26

Even if it doesn’t always work as he intends.

Complete and utter madness has ensued around me, my mind hazy, and as the sun sets and the shadows grow larger, it takes me an alarming amount of time to convince myself I’m not seeing the ghosts of the dead that walk these halls or the grim reaper himself setting out to drag us all to the underworld with him.

I blink down at my hands pressing into the cool stone beneath me, my knees bruising as I look around in a daze, trying to regain my bearings. When did I get here?

An unbearable pressure in my pelvis has me crossing my legs and I realize I must have started getting up to pee. On unsteady legs, I climb to my feet, staggering off in search of a restroom where I can relieve myself. It takes what feels like hours but must have only been minutes to make my way to the bathroom, bumping into shouting students and tripping as I try to escape the call of my name that seems to lurk in my periphery.

I barely make it in time, relieving myself moments before I’d have been covered in my own urine. After washing my hands and splashing my face with cold water, I grip the edges of the porcelain sink, staring back into my reflection.

Dark circles sit beneath my eyes, once honey brown and full of life, now ashen and unfamiliar. Red waves swirl over my shoulders, tangled in the same way my stomach is twisted in knots. My shoulders sag and I suck in a deep breath that’s meant to calm me, squeeze my eyes shut and blow the air out, counting backwards from ten before opening my eyes.

A shout tears from my throat at the face staring back at me, hovering over my shoulder as if summoned by Satan himself.

John.

He’s back from the dead.

I spin around to face him, hoping he was nothing more than my subconscious’ twisted sense of humor, but when I see him standing before me, strong and steady as if the very thing I’ve spent the last five years running from had never happened, my heart drops to my toes and my feet stay rooted in place.

“I-I thought I buried you!” I screech, slamming my palms against his chest, but he remains an immoveable statue.

“Calista,” he growls out, my name sounding all wrong on his tongue. Nothing like the way Alastair says my name—full of passion, love and longing. He reaches for me, and I duck, dodging him.

“This can’t be happening,” I murmur, trying and failing to shake myself out of what must be a terrible nightmare.

He manages to wrap his arms around me, shouting my name as he tugs me to his chest, holding me firmly despite the way I flail and scream, clawing at his arms, pleading with him to let me go and return to hell where he belongs. “Calista! It’s me! Please quit fighting me, my ruin.”

I don’t quit. I can’t.

Not until the scent of cinnamon and cedarwood break through the fog, the sinewy arms wrapped around my torso begin to morph into familiar ones covered in black ink and tales of love and literature. Not until that nickname, so sweet and pleading, finally makes it to the forefront of my mind.

Only then does the fight leave me, my body going slack in his arms as he breathes out a heavy sigh and tugs me closer. I bury my face in his chest, wrap my arms around his neck and breathe him in, tears cascading down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” I whisper, a sob wracking my body.

Alastair slides a warm palm up and down my back in a gentle caress, grounding me back to the present where I’m not the only murderer around.

As my heart rate begins to settle and my mind fogs over, I become weightless, only partially aware of his strong arms cradling my body to his as he walks us through the throng of people and returns us to the little safe haven he’s created for me. “Sleep, now, my ruin. Sleep and allow me to watch over you, body and soul.”

With those words, my eyes fall shut and the world around me dulls to a muted whisper.

Chapter 11

The Day After

Calista

The first thing I feel is the gentle caress of the sun swathing my skin in her golden gaze.

It bleeds through my eyelids in gold bands, fractured by frost-laced windows. For a long moment, I don’t move. My lungs ache when I try to breathe—raw and heavy—and my head hums like I’ve swallowed a swarm of bees.

Everything is too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after the world has ended.

“Open your eyes for me, my ruin,” Alastair whispers, nuzzling his face into my hair as if he’s trying to convince himself that my heart still beats in my chest. As if he’s trying to convince himself we’re still alive.

Are we?

When I open my eyes, my vision is blurry and the room churns as if the very air we breathe is pulsing.