Killer Crescent by Leigh Kelsey

12

I’d come across the other residents of Blake Hall while getting food from the dining room, and walking the hallways, but I’d never seen them all in one place like this. A quick count told me there were thirty-seven of us gathered in the wide, dimly lit foyer—the only space big enough to hold everyone. Confused murmurs echoed off the high ceiling, muffled by the tapestries on the walls, and impatient steps squeaked on the tiled floor.

I bit my lip, feeling out of place as I followed the last few people into the foyer, immediately aware that everyone stood in one of three groups: the wolves all banded together in the Crescent Club, the witches stood in a Mystic Club huddle, and the vampires of the Crimson Club lounged separately but all vaguely together by the huge paintings on the far wall.

Hang on a minute…

I squinted at the middle painting of a black-haired man with a pale, aquiline face and a proud, haughty smirk. He was dressed in a see-through white shirt and a jazzy red cravat, and I was almost a hundred percent sure¹ it was my Slasher.

I would have gone to stand beside it to inspect the portrait if that wasn’t clearly the designated Crimson Club spot. Did having a vamp mate qualify me to hang out with them? I didn’t know. Didn’t think so.

Ughhhh, I hated this. It was like being back at Falcon Manor all over again. I’d walked away from this bullshit. I didn’t want a clique or a club; I wanted to go back to my life of gorging on doughnuts during the day and stalking victims at night.

I ended up picking a spot next to a marble bust of Gloriella Blake, the apparent co-founder of this dumb hall, and crossed my arms over my chest, giving a warning scowl to anyone who dared to stare at me. I felt like a circus exhibit. Roll up, roll up, see the one-of-a-kind dual-blood. Under the full moon, she grows a fuzzy tail and super cute ears. In theory, she can cast spells like any other witch—behold the marvel! One more stare and I was going to do a handstand and wiggle my toes at them in a wave.

And anyway, I wasn’t the only dual-blood in the world, or there wouldn’t be a name for it. I was rare, and the stuck-up witches didn’t like to think about interspecies couples, but they were real, and so were their kids.

Why hadn’t my mum told me who my real dad was? Had Ana known? The thought of her keeping a secret stabbed deep into my heart, but I focused on my breathing and moved past it. Everything Ana had done was to protect me; if she’d kept a secret, it was because the truth would have put me in danger.

If everyone had known I was a witchy wolf back then, would I have been sent to Blake Hall as a kid? I’d never have survived the whimpering wood as a ten-year-old. No way in hell.

But the only reason I was here now was because some dumbass seer said I had volatile, dangerous magic that risked the lives of nice, innocent paranormals. So where the hell was my magic?

“Quiet, now,” a melodious, feminine voice called above the chatter, and the conversations halted mid-word as the jailors—tutors—advisors² walked down the dark staircase, halting on the carpeted steps above us. Nice—reminding us of our place in society. I scanned the advisors until I found Dean and smirked when I saw him already watching me, his gaze intent. I hadn’t expected there to be many plus points of spending a night in a nightmare-infested wood, but I liked this ultra protectiveness from my alpha mate. I liked it a lot. My imagination provided me with the image of him stalking down those carpeted steps, grabbing me, and throwing me up against the wall. Pulling down my jeans and fucking me there while everyone stared in horror or surprise or arousal. Showing everyone I was his and he was mine, all mine.

I shook my head to clear the fantasy, and realised the woman at the top of the steps was talking.

“—to tell you that three residents lost their lives during a routine trial.”

A routine trial! Reliving my sister’s murder was routine? I gnashed my teeth, planning murder as I narrowed my gaze on the striking dark-skinned woman. She must have been the head jailor of this place, the rehabilitation warden or chief babysitter—whatever the hell she went by. Electric blue braids flowed to her lower back, her eyeshadow and lipstick in a matching shade, and she wore a black corseted dress that wouldn’t have been out of place at Whitby’s goth weekend. She was cool in a dangerous kinda way, but I would still get stabby with her if she kept belittling my nightmarish trial.

I was too busy being angry to hear much of what my ‘neighbours’ said in response, their murmurings background noise to the memories of my sister’s murder.

“I’ll ask you to stay out of the woods while we investigate what happened, and try not to panic. We’ll find the culprit and deal with them swiftly and without mercy.”

A chill of excitement went down my spine. Dean said he was in charge of punishment; would my alpha get all murdery when he found whoever set those traps?

“If any of you know anything, come to my office in the tower any time before dawn.” I blinked. Before dawn? Was she a vampire? “And I want everyone who was in the woods last night to provide a statement.”

“You don’t think one of them killed those people?” one of the witches asked, strangely non-snooty thanks to the fear in her voice. “Are we safe in here with them?”

“I vote we kick them out, let them stay in the woods if they’re going to go around killing everyone.”

I rolled my eyes. But my curiosity did blink open its eyes. Who had made it out? Were the wolves dead, or had one of the vampires died? I bet Boyband was still alive; he seemed like the annoying type who never knew when to die.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the blue-haired woman in charge cut in, heavy on condescension. “Any more talk like that and you’ll be the ones moving into the woods.”

That shut the witches up. I smirked, crossing my arms over my chest, but I felt eyes prickling the side of my face. I glared across the foyer at the Mystic Club, and my blood went cold when I saw who was burning holes in my skull with his evil black eyes. I let all my revenge-y thoughts show through my eyes as I glared across the lobby at Edison. He quickly looked away, his mouth pressed thin, and victory burned like a fire in my chest.

“Is it the Discard Society?” a deep-voiced wolf asked, somewhere from the huddle of wolves. I supposed they were a pack all their own, bonded by rejection and crime. Or future-crime. It was unfair that we were all here because some seer saw we’d be dangerous. What if the seer was a fraud? I was definitely a danger to society, but I wasn’t going to murder with my magic.³

“Don’t be absurd,” huffed the chief advisor lady I really ought to learn the name of. “The Discard Society was an inflated rumour in the eighties. They were two people who messed around with blood magic, and they were both killed years ago.”

I gasped, my mouth popping open.

Blood magic?

I made a squeak of excitement that drew some weird stares, but I didn’t care. I neeeeeeded to learn blood magic. Could I make my My Little Pony carvings come to life and dance around a corpse’s chest?

Yet more reasons to find this Discard Society and join them. Although if they were back, and were trying to kill us, I’d have to kill them first. They’d nearly gored me in a wooden cage; they definitely needed to die a horrible, bloody death.

Interesting how quickly Blue-Haired Lady had shot down the wolf’s theory, too. Was there some truth to the rumours?

“Trialists from last night, follow me to my office.”

Ooh, trialists. That was a fun name.

And yep, out of the throng of vampires strolled Boyband, full of confidence and smugness. I hid a tiny fist pump. Called it! Dauntley was notably absent, though. Damn, the killer had taken down a vampire. I was impressed.

I squeezed through a huddle of wolves, moving in the direction of the steps, fully intending to brush past Dean on my way up the steps and accidentally rub my ass on his crotch. But before I could reach the staircase, a massive hand closed around my upper arm and yanked me into a dark corridor, flattening my back to an unfamiliar—and huuuuge—chest.

“Um,” I said, subtly feeling for one of my knives. “Hi?”

“Tell Ivelle the person who set traps is woman. Taller than you, Little Scorpion. Long hair, pale colour.”

“What?” I asked dumbly, fighting his unmovable hold on me. Damn, he was big. I tilted my head back and gawped at the vague shadow of a head two feet above mine. Woaahhhh, he was a giant. And annoyingly concealed by the dimness. I wanted to see his face. Was this my mysterious stalker? “Who are you?”

I slashed down with my knife, aiming for his thigh,⁴ but his hands tightened on my arms and he spun me back into the foyer. When I pointed my knife back down the corridor, it was empty.

“Dammit,” I hissed, goosebumps covering my arms where his fingers had pressed into muscle and skin.

The killer was a woman? But who the hell was she, and why was she trying to kill the residents of Blake Hall?