Killer Crescent by Leigh Kelsey
13
Aday later, I was climbing the walls. If this place had been anything like a prison or an academy, I might have had something to do—lessons to not pay attention to and laundry to ignore while gossiping or making out with my Slasher. But instead we were left to our own devices, trapped within the iron gates of Blake Hall’s grounds and watched by the advisors constantly. Wherever I went, eyes burned into my back; it had taken me this long to realise it wasn’t the other residents, or even my stalker watching me, but the watchmen who prowled the corridors. Who all answered to Dean and Ivelle—Blue-Haired Lady.
I wondered if Dean had told them to keep a closer eye on me; he’d been ultra protective when I emerged from the whimpering woods. Not that he’d bothered to come find me all yesterday or today. I’d been left by myself, and it was starting to make me crazy.1
I’d even gone into the television room and hung out in the window seat I’d promptly thrown a witch out of, claiming the spot for myself. But apparently the Mystic Club got pissy when you gave a witch a concussion and then threatened to stab their leader’s eyes out with your sharp, pink fingernails. Sensitive people, witches. Good thing Edison hadn’t been there, or I’d have cut his balls off if he’d even looked at me.
I flopped onto my bed, my skin crawling with inactivity. I needed to do something.
“I’m bored,” I whined out loud.
The next trial had been postponed for a few days, and I didn’t have another how-to-use-magic session with Vivian until tomorrow. Slasher was napping while the sun was up, and I’d yet to make any besties in either Crescent or Mystic Club—although I wasn’t holding out much hope, since neither seemed to want anything to do with a dual-blood—so I was left talking to myself.
“You know what would make you feel better?” I asked myself.
“I don’t know, Other Rebel,” I replied, staring up at my cream ceiling, the lightbulb humming loudly. “What would make me feel better?”
“Finding someone to hunt,” I replied, my heart already picking up at the thought.
“But I don’t have any jobs out here, and none of my contacts know where to find me thanks to stupid Dean basically kidnapping me,” I huffed.
“You don’t need a job to kill someone,” Other Rebel pointed out. Intelligent woman, that Other Rebel. I liked her.
“Good point,” I agreed, sitting up in a rush as a grin crossed my face. “I bet we could find someone mean and dickish to murder. We’d be doing a public service, really, ridding the world of someone gross.”
Other Rebel didn’t reply, but that was fine, because my mind was already racing with opportunities. Everything was dull today, and I was still shaky from the list of crazy shit that had happened to me, for example:
- Being sent into a scary woods to fend for myself against monsters that maaaaybe wanted to eat me.
- Being forced to relive every traumatic nightmare that had driven me gradually crazy until one day my mind snapped and the old, sane Rebel went bye-bye.
- Nearly getting impaled to death by a big, stakey cage.
- Being stalked by a huuuuge, scary wolf who believed it was a woman who’d set the traps and killed two wolves and a vamp.2
Bruises had formed in a billion places across my body, and not all of them were fun ones left by my possessive mates. My stalker had left a ring of fingerprints around my upper arm like a tattoo, and my almost-death left a bunch of hurty places from Slasher slamming into me.
Not to mention my heart felt a little bruised, and my grief over losing Ana had wrapped around my throat like a permanent noose. I needed to feel more like myself again, and sinking into bloodlust always made me feel better. Other Rebel was right; I needed to kill something. Well, someone. Animals were too cute to hurt. People were horrible.
Really, everyone ought to thank me for getting rid of the worst ones.
I stripped out of my pale pink vest and blue jeans, flicking through the hangers in my new wardrobe. I hadn’t had time to pack many things, but at least I’d brought the essentials. I pulled on my black skinny jeans, my dark hoodie, and zipped it up over an equally inky shirt. I’d been living my best pastel bubblegum fantasy lately with all my clothes cerise, rose, and flamingo, but I was still head over heels in love with black, the perfect echo of my corrupted soul. It felt good to be decked head to toe in ominous jet, like my clothes were a warning to everyone to back the fuck off.
I grinned as I hid my favourite knives in my waistband, my boot, and strapped one to my back beneath my hoodie. I swore I could breathe easier when I set off out of my room, stalking down the corridor with my murder bag slung over my shoulder.
Most of the witches took one look at me and kept out of my way, but the wolves rumbled growls as I passed, like they could sense the threat in me. I batted my eyelashes at them and swung my hips as I sauntered past. The vampires mostly ignored me, which was kinda rude, but I already had one vampire mate so I stuck my tongue out at them and kept walking.
“Where are you going?” a tinkling voice demanded. Oh good, Daisy, the head witch was back for round two. I strode past her down the gloomy hallway, aiming for a door I’d found that exited near the back of the hall.
“Bulgaria,” I replied arily, and snorted at her pinched expression. Why were witches always so sneery? Didn’t they know their faces would stick that way? “Or maybe Japan. I haven’t decided yet.”
“You can’t just leave,” she blurted. “It’s against the rules.”
I rolled my eyes and ignored my whiny shadow’s complaints. “Who died and made you prison warden?”
“I’m the most powerful Mystic Club member—”
“Good for you, love.” I reached the door and pulled it open, blessed nighttime air biting my exposed skin, filling my lungs in a rush of comfort and familiarity.
“Which means everything you do reflects on my witches and me, and I won’t—”
I slammed the door on her face with a snort, and skipped down the slope towards the road and the gates.