Martyr (22 page)

Memories swirled inside the lobby. Over there was the vending machine that had saved him on more than one early morning of skipped breakfast and sleeping in. Over there, the wooden cubbies that had served as their mail delivery system. And in front of them, the desk used by the house mother and hall counselors, the place he'd often lingered at night to chat with the others about schoolwork and life outside. He nearly dropped to his knees as the full weight of his past slugged into his stomach.

If not for this place, he never would have learned magic. He probably wouldn't have survived the first few days of the Resurrection.

He owed this place everything.

Yet he also felt like this place had taken everything away. And here it was again.

“You are lucky,” Dreya said. She stepped up beside him, her words cutting through his reverie.

“What?” he asked.

“This facility. I am envious of you. I would have enjoyed studying here very much.”

He would have asked where
she
had learned magic, but she swept past him before giving him a chance, Air a cool glow in her throat.

“It is all so empty,” she said. “So perfectly preserved. And yet there is no magic at work.”

Tenn grunted. He didn't want to relive those final days, but that seemed to be where he was edging.

“We all left around the same time,” he said. “By the time the Howls got here, there was nothing to eat.”

He glanced around, surveying the empty lobby. The last time he had seen it, the room had been crammed with students in the grips of panic. And yet the exodus had been organized, disciplined. There wasn't any screaming or crying. News of the monsters had hit them early, and they knew what they were meant to do. After all, they had been trained in the one art that would allow them to fight back.

“I wonder,” she said. She slid one finger of the dusty tabletop.

“What?” he asked.

She turned and leaned against the counter.

“I have seen abandoned places,” she said. “Many. The Howls still came through. The necromancers still delighted in destruction. I do not think it was just the emptiness that kept the Dark Lady's army at bay. I think they were afraid.”

“Afraid?”

She nodded.

“Most of the Academies were razed to the ground within the first few weeks of the Resurrection. An assurance that no more mages would be trained to fight back. There must be a reason this one was spared.”

Tenn shrugged and looked around, trying to think of what in the world could have scared the necromancers away from this place. It didn't make any sense, but Dreya's words had weight. Nothing had been spared the chaos of the Resurrection.
That's
why the place had seemed so wrong. It was too perfect. Too anachronistic.

It felt too much like a trap.

“We should stay close,” Tenn said. Now that the idea was lodged in his brain, the empty hallways seemed ominous.

“Lead the way,” Dreya said.

A part of him wanted to take them to the opposite wing, to some random stranger's room so he wouldn't have to feel like he was stepping into an old life. But there was another part, a masochistic part, that wanted to see his old bed. He'd dreamt of this place more often than he could count. He wanted to lay those nightmares to rest, one way or another.

So he led them upstairs and down the hall, toward a room near the fire escape in case they needed a quick getaway. All the doors along the hall were closed and unlocked, their faux wood surfaces glinting in Devon's light. A few still had the construction-paper signs the hall chair had made before they arrived. The rest of the signs littered the floor like faded leaves. It felt like being in a crypt, like every one of those closed doors and fallen signs was a testament to a life unlived. He pushed open a door—the one across from his own—and held it for them.

“I'll stay across the hall. Knock if…well, if anything happens.”

“Would you like to eat first before we sleep?”

He shook his head.

“I'm not hungry. You two go on ahead.”

They exchanged a worried glance but didn't say anything.

“I'm okay,” he said. He knew they weren't after an explanation, but he felt like he was on the defensive. “It's been a long day. Too much on my mind to eat.”

“If you insist,” Dreya said. She reached out and touched his arm. “Try to get some sleep. We will set up wards in the night. Hopefully that will keep Matthias at bay.”

For some reason, the idea of Matthias haunting his dreams had all but slipped his mind.

“Thanks,” he said. “See you in the morning.”

Dreya let go of his arm with a smile, and he stepped back to let the door close behind him.

The moment the door was closed, he felt the emptiness contract. He walked over and pressed his forehead to his old door, squeezed his eyes shut. Without the light from Devon's magic, the hall was as dark as the tunnels of the guild, but for once, the darkness wasn't a comfort. He felt the dorm breathe around him, felt the hiss of steam in his ears as Water roiled with memory—his classmates, dragging a mattress into the hall and jumping around after sign-in; him, carrying his first care package from his parents back to his room, opening it while listening to music and dreaming of family; the day after the Resurrection, when they were dragged from their rooms at four in the morning and told they would need to return to their homes and defend their loved ones.

Tenn's hands squeezed the flesh of his thighs, his fingers digging in deep. The pain wasn't enough to drown it out. Those last few hours, packing everything he needed. Getting on the bus that never made it past the Michigan state line. Every “last,” ticking through his mind like a time bomb.

He released his grip and pressed his hand to the cold doorknob. Then, before he could tell himself this was a horrible idea, he opened the door.

History washed over him in a waft of dust and desertion. The faintest light filtered through the window opposite him, casting heavy shadows on everything within. He didn't need light or magic to see. His body knew every corner of this place—the cinderblock walls, the wooden shelves, the desk with his computer still sitting on it. He stepped slowly inside and felt the bile rise in his throat. Moonlight shone in from a space in the clouds. Photos still lined his wall—him and his few friends, making sand castles by the lake or eating lunch at the mall; his family at Thanksgiving; the tree outside his old bedroom window.

He collapsed to his knees.

His heart was on fire, every fiber of that muscle tearing itself apart. He gripped his head in his hands and sobbed on the floor, his tears pooling in the dust. Memories ripped through him, but it wasn't Water at work. No, the Sphere didn't need to do anything. The real wounds were all there—the pain, the history.

Him, lying in that very bed, staring at the ceiling and wishing he could fall in love. Staring at the computer, wanting someone to talk to. Watching the clouds roll across the sky and wondering what his eventual home would be like.

He'd had that. Part of it.

Jarrett, laughing and caressing his face in the small hours of the morning. Jarrett, taking his hand in his and promising eternity. All these memories, all fresh and raw and broken. Stolen.

He sobbed and rolled to his side, clutched his knees to his chest.

His entire life, the one semblance of normalcy, the one hope for a future worth living.

Gone. All of it.

And he would never get it back.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, curled in on himself and wishing death would take him. The fire from before, the burning desire for revenge, snuffed out. What point was revenge if there was no one to come home to? What was the point of pushing forward when everything he loved, everything he worked for, was continually ripped away from him?

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, his tears dried. He forced himself to kneeling and stared at his hands as they pressed into the linoleum. Moonlight filtered through the window clearly now. His hands were worn. Long, thin fingers, crossed with scars. They didn't fit into this place. Neither did he.

He pushed himself up, grabbing the chair for support. He was about to make his way to bed when he stopped. Something caught his eye.

The dust on his desk was lit up by the moon, a pale sheen of uniform grey. Save for one small patch.

Words had been written in the dust, a fingertip's scrawl.

His name. Not the name he went by now, but his real name. The one he gave up when he found his home empty. No one knew that name. Not even Jarrett.

And below it, two words.

Welcome home
.

22

This
time, there was no controlling Water. The Sphere opened under his weakened grasp and flooded his veins with memory, howled with the screams of his classmates, echoed the loss that throbbed within the walls of this place. The moment it opened, he knew without doubt why the place had been avoided by the necromancers and the sept—this place was
wrong
. Embedded deep within the foundations was a burning, nagging shadow of something terrible. Something inhuman. And that sense, that wrongness, twined itself around Tenn's heart. Water echoed the monster's hymn, and Tenn's body had no choice but to march to its cadence. He wiped the words from the dust. And with Water guiding his veins, he followed the pulse to its source like a blood vessel tumbling through veins.

He left his pack and quarterstaff in the room and slid out the door. A small part of him was dimly aware of how silent the hall was, how loud his footsteps were on the tile. But the twins didn't stir. He opened to Earth and felt them sound asleep in their room. He kept the Sphere open, but it wasn't necessary; Water guided him forward on sure legs. He was nothing but a stick in the stream.

He didn't stop at the lobby. He continued down into the basement, toward the room where the laundry machines and ping-pong tables were.

The room below was more than just a lounge. Doors lined every wall, and behind them was a series of tunnels that linked every building on campus.

He could practically feel the ghosts of his classmates here, but the perception was dim, lost under the crashing of his mutinous Sphere. He slipped through the lounge like a sleepwalker, past sofas and tables littered with magazines, and made his way to a door at the far end. It opened silently under his touch, the hall beyond stagnant with dead air and abandoned purpose.

The door at the other end was locked. Water roared like rapids.

A flick of Earth, and the mechanism released. When he stepped inside, Water stabbed him with agony, a pierce that coiled through his guts and made his eyes flutter. The walls in here breathed pain. And that pain, that crippling hurt, drew him forward and filled him with a new sort of ecstasy. A different sort of hunger.

In a small corner of his mind, he knew the room should have been like many of the other downstairs lounges, with sofas and tables and bookshelves. But this room looked like a kitchen. Knives dangled from grids on the ceiling and steel bowls piled on every surface. Rows of metal tables were meticulously arranged side-by-side in the middle of the room, more knives and bowls artfully displayed on top. Stacks of wood or metal were piled along the corners of the room in pyramids. Tenn didn't need light to know that there was no dust in here. He could sense it—the cleanliness, the almost sterile scent in the otherwise stale air. And yet, despite the order, he knew the walls should be bleeding. They were already screaming curses through his veins. He pitched forward. The door slammed shut behind him.

That's when he noticed the body.

It was the mouth of the whirlpool, and Water left him no choice but to gravitate toward it. That slumped form against the wall dragged him forward, tugged at Water with a hook he had no desire to escape. His Spheres told him blood still congealed in the body's veins, the flesh pulled tight and mummified. Male. Older. Tenn dropped at the body's side, his head spinning, spinning.
I shouldn't, I shouldn't—I need to get out of here, I need—
Water drowned the fear. It sang a horrible ecstasy. The body was wearing a suit, a wool suit. Tenn's fingers brushed the rough fabric. His hand pulled itself toward the body's face. Fingertips brushed dead skin. Water screamed.

“Dmitri,” she said. “You love me, right?”

He nodded, trying as hard as he could not to look at her with new eyes
.

“And you see the good I'm doing, yes?”

He nodded again. It was all he could do, really; it was impossible to talk through the gag, and the ropes tying his wrists to the chair were strong. He'd given up struggling hours ago. The walls were thick down here. Even if he could have screamed, no one would have heard him. Even if he managed to escape these bonds, there was nowhere for him to run. The whole faculty had gone insane
.

Helena pushed herself away from the desk. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore the pencil skirt and white blouse that he'd always joked made her look like the sexy librarian. He wasn't joking now. And neither was she. In one hand there was a scalpel from one of the art studios. It was already covered in his blood. His skin burned with cold and pain, his blood dripping in slow rivulets to the sterile tiles below. She hadn't hesitated the slightest bit when she'd brought the blade to his flesh
.

She leaned in close to him, her green eyes blazing
.

“Then you understand why I must do this.” Her eyes flashed to the blade in her hand. She wasn't a Howl, not one of the monsters that had been kept out of sight of society. He knew that much. She was worse. He'd watched her slow progression toward madness, toward power. And like everyone else at the Academy, he'd done nothing to stop it
.

Hell, he might have encouraged it
.

He'd been on the admissions board, had hand-picked the students she used for subjects. He'd found fuel for her madness. So much of this was his fault…