A Lesson in Vengeance(50)

She’s real.

I shove back my chair and grab the tartan throw from where I’d tossed it on the foot of my bed, wrapping the wool knit tight around my shoulders as I clatter down the stairs and out the Godwin House back door.

The temperature has plummeted since Ellis and I cut across the quad after fencing practice the other day. My breath clouds in front of my face as I dash across the short field behind Godwin. Already my teeth are chattering; I’m too aware of my bones caught beneath my skin, of my own mortality in the face of Alex’s…of Alex’s…

I don’t know what she is now.

By the time I’m ensconced under the tree cover, I start to wish I’d brought a flashlight, or at least my phone—something I could use to light the way. As it is, branches cut my cheeks, and I trip over unseen roots, stumbling from trunk to trunk and blinded by my own adrenaline.

“Alex?”

My voice doesn’t echo; it’s swallowed by the forest, the silence somehow more complete in the wake of my words than it was before.

The air out here is granite-dry, sucking the moisture from my skin and making my lips feel raw. I twist my hands tighter in the knit throw and slow my pace, too conscious of the way the tree cover consumes the light of the moon, the way the snow muffles every step. If something were to come up behind me, I wouldn’t hear it until it was too late.

The nape of my neck prickles. I whip around, but there’s nothing there, just the blank faces of dying trees and the penetrating dark.

My breath is too loud now. I tug the edge of the tartan blanket up over my mouth, like that could muffle the sound. It only succeeds in making me feel half suffocated by the damp heat of my own air.

“Alex?” This time her name comes out softer, quavering like a baby bird.

I have no reason to think Alex’s ghost is benevolent. She might have drawn me out into the night with any number of motives. She might intend to kill me.

I never should have trusted her absence. I never should have doubted her ghost was real. I knew she was here, knew it in my blood. Why would Alex’s spirit leave me alone if Margery’s curse won’t? Margery claimed Alex the same night she claimed me: the night of my séance.

My fault. All of it—my fault.

I stop in a clearing, turning in slow circles. I can’t watch every angle at once; I can’t guarantee that the moment I turn my back on that tree, this one, her specter won’t slip from between the vines to close cold fingers around my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. If she hears me, she gives no sign of it.

Then I turn on my heel and sprint out of the woods as fast as my feet will carry me. I stumble and trip over rocks and roots, stagger up the steps to Godwin House, and all but collapse in the back hall, dripping melted snow onto the floorboards and shivering in the sudden heat.

I place black tourmaline along my windowsill, a defense against whatever—whoever—I saw. But when I climb into my bed, I can’t sleep.

I’m afraid to close my eyes.



* * *



—

I’ve planned the third Night Migration, notes written with Ellis’s leaky fountain pen and slid under doors, folded and tied with twine. Kajal finds me the morning after I deliver the notes while I’m making tea in the kitchen, her eyes red-rimmed.

“I can’t come tonight,” she says. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but I didn’t want you to end up waiting for me.”

“Are you sick?” I ask.

Kajal grimaces, an expression that comes across as pained. “Yes. I suppose it’s that time of year, isn’t it? I don’t doubt I’ll infect all the rest of you by the end of the week.”

“Oh no. I’m sorry. Here, let me make you some tea. And don’t worry about tonight, really; you should rest—”

“What’s going on?”

We turn to find Ellis in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, already dressed in a blazer and twill trousers despite the fact it’s not even eight in the morning.

Kajal sneezes into her elbow then scrubs the heels of her hands against her cheeks. “I’m ill. I’m not going to make it tonight, obviously, so I just thought—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ellis interjects. “Of course you’ll make it tonight. It’s just a little bug. We couldn’t have a meeting without you.”

“I really can’t.” Kajal’s hair is usually perfectly coiffed, silky and coaxed into loose waves; today it’s pulled into a messy bun and tied off with a scrunchie. She looks like she needs to be in bed, not tramping through the frigid woods.

But Ellis’s frown deepens, and she pushes off the doorframe, stepping farther into the kitchen. “You have to come. This isn’t optional, Kajal—you made vows during initiation. You’re bound to us now.”

“It’s fine, Ellis,” I say, and I find myself having shifted to put my body between Ellis and Kajal—although I don’t really remember moving, although I know Ellis wouldn’t hurt her. “Magic isn’t real, remember? So there won’t be any evil spirits rising from the grave to punish Kajal for taking one night off.”

Of course, the vows we all made during initiation weren’t that kind of vow anyway—I’d been so careful to keep magic far away from our earlier rituals, to be good—but it’s an argument that will work on Ellis. That’s all that matters. And if she still wants me to practice magic tonight, to perform for her like a prize horse, she’ll agree.