The Oxford Inheritance (25 page)

Cassie remembered what else Olivia had said. They needed an offering. Someone who would do anything for them.

Rutledge cleared his throat. “The rising's coming. That's why we wanted your mom. She was one of the only people strong enough to get away from them. She resisted them, I don't know how. That's why we sent her that package, to make her come back and finish this for good. We'd almost given up hope when you arrived, asking questions, making a mess of things. Why didn't she come?”

“She's dead,” Cassie said softly.

There was silence. Rutledge's face fell. “So it's just you now.”

“Us,” Charlie corrected him. “And you still haven't explained what you wanted Cassie's mum to do. These are powerful people. Christ, one of them's about to get elected the bloody prime minister. How are we supposed to stop them? What can the two of us possibly do?”

Rutledge looked at them sadly. “Without Margaret, there's nothing anyone can do. They take what they want, and we clean up the mess they leave behind. And this . . . it's only the beginning. They're out there, all over the world. Taking more than their fair share: starting wars
and profiting off the carnage.” He bolted to his feet. “Your mother was the smart one,” he told Cassie, desperation and weakness in his eyes. “She got out while she still could. Don't make it all in vain. Run, before they leave you with nothing left at all.” He quickly turned and wove his way through the café tables, disappearing out into the night again.

Cassie sat back, reeling from his story. She met Charlie's gaze across the table.

“You believe any of that?” he asked, searching.

She slowly nodded. What Olivia and Hugo were doing was real; she'd seen it with her own eyes. The dead bodies and broken lives they left in their wake were real. It wasn't just Oxford: their wickedness was spreading, unchecked, across the whole world. And nobody was going to stop them.

Unless she did.

“SOMETHING'S NOT RIGHT,” CASSIE TOLD CHARLIE OVER THE
phone, pacing in her attic. It was the last night of vacation; tomorrow the rest of the students would return, and with it her schedule of tutorials and lectures. It seemed almost absurd that she would have to turn in essays and debate the merits of coalition governments after everything that had happened the past few weeks, but Cassie knew she would have to keep up the appearance of her academic activities, at least if she wanted to remain at Raleigh long enough to figure out the final pieces of the School of Night.

“You want to narrow it down for me, darlin'?”

She had to smile. “Rutledge,” she clarified. “He's keeping something from me, I can tell.”

“What that man isn't sharing could fill a bloody book.” Charlie sighed. She could hear the TV on low in the background, and for a moment she pictured him in the bright and comforting warmth of his flat across town. “But short of holding him down and giving him an enhanced interrogation, I don't know what more he's going to tell.”

Cassie bit her lip. “It's been bugging me, the way he talked about Rose. He said she's never been the same. Present tense.”

“He's an old guy,” Charlie pointed out. “They get things jumbled all the time.”

“But they never found her body,” Cassie pointed out. “If he was able to get my mother away from them, give her a new identity, a fresh start, why couldn't he have done the same for Rose?”

“You think she's still alive?” Charlie asked slowly.

“I don't know what I think anymore!” Cassie sank down on a chair. “I feel like those philosophers I've been studying. One day someone comes along and says, ‘By the way, everything you think you know about the world is wrong.' All this is so crazy, and yet I've seen it with my own eyes.”

Charlie sighed. “I suppose I could run a check on property records,” he said reluctantly. “See if Rutledge has anything stashed away.”

“It would be remote,” Cassie said eagerly. “Maybe not even in this country. You heard him; he would have wanted to get her as far away as possible. Can you track his passport too? See if he's made any foreign trips?”

“I'll see what I can do,” Charlie agreed. “But what about you? They're coming back soon, aren't they?” He didn't need to say who.

“Tomorrow. I'll just have to pretend everything's normal,” Cassie said with a shiver of unease. She still hadn't told Charlie about what happened with Hugo. She wondered if she would be able to keep pretending with Hugo too, or if he'd see through her act. “I'll be fine, Charlie, don't worry. Term's starting tomorrow; I can just be busy with school. They'll understand.”

But as she hung up and lowered the phone from her ear, it lit up with a text.

Back at Raleigh. Grab a drink?

Hugo. Cassie stared at the handset, her heart in her throat. She quickly tapped out a response.

Working. Sorry. Another time!

She went to the windows and pulled the drapes, checking the bolt on the door. She shivered, feeling the chill of the dark outside, and the shadows that waited, lurking. Watching.

She'd told Charlie she could pretend everything was normal. But how was she supposed to fake idle chitchat with these people, having seen the things she'd seen? How could she pretend that everything was all right, when her mind was really racing to explain the terrible truths she'd discovered?

And if they realized she knew what was going on . . . Cassie's eyes lifted to the beam across the living room, picturing Evie's limp body.

They'd killed Evie. They may not have fixed the noose around her neck, or looped it across the wood, but they'd driven her to it, drained what self-preservation she had left until her mind was broken and empty.

Cassie felt a fresh determination. She would find a way to stop them, somehow. She had to, before they put an end to her themselves.

Hugo texted twice more over the following days, but each time Cassie replied
with a casual excuse. She threw herself into her schedule of lectures and essays, exiting Raleigh by the back gates and hiding in the modern library across town to avoid any run-ins with Olivia and the rest. She felt like a thief and a spy, creeping around the college, her heart galloping as she wondered if one of the group would be lurking around the next corner. Charlie checked with her twice, sometimes three times a day, clearly worried. “You can crash with me,” he told her, in another hurried phone call as she walked to meet Elliot at his studio. “That room isn't safe, they already broke in once.”

“And how would that look?” Cassie challenged him, striding fast through the lunchtime pedestrian rush. “They know you're digging into Rose's files. If they haven't put the pieces together and connected me yet, they will soon.” She checked the address Elliot had sent as she approached a narrow row of town houses tucked down a side street. This was the place. “And speaking of digging, have you been able to do that search on Rutledge yet?”

“Not yet.” Charlie sounded frustrated. “My chief inspector's been breathing down my neck. But he's out this afternoon, I'll do it then.”

“Call me after. And Charlie? Don't worry so much.”

“Don't get into so much trouble,” Charlie replied gruffly, before hanging up.

Cassie tucked her phone away. The front door to Elliot's building was open when she tested it, and she could hear laughter and music coming from upstairs. She climbed the narrow staircase to the top and found a party in progress, spilling out of Elliot's tiny flat.

“Cassandra!” Elliot emerged from the din, with a bottle of champagne in each hand and his hair in a mess. “A happy new year to you! Don't you look . . . ? Well, I was going to say well rested, but you look like you've been sitting in a dark corner binge-watching old
West Wing
episodes all break. No, wait, that was me.” He kissed her exuberantly on both cheeks, clearly a little drunk.

Cassie jolted back, surprised. “What's the party?” she asked as Elliot nudged her inside. “It's a little early for champagne, isn't it?”

“Darling,” a man interrupted from beside them, “it's never too early for champagne!”

Cassie laughed, still confused. The tiny flat was crammed with people and paintings, Elliot's canvases and art materials propped against every wall.

“We're celebrating. My bon voyage, in fact,” Elliot beamed.

Cassie's spirits fell. “You're leaving?”

“Au revoir to you all!” he declared grandly. “Hitching my bag over my shoulder and setting out into the great wide world. Well, London,” he corrected. “I got an exhibition!”

“You mean, a patron,” that same strange man interrupted again, a jealous edge to his voice.

“Now, now,” Elliot grinned. “I'll be sure to spread the wealth and introduce all you starving artists to my new rich friends.”

“No thanks,” the other man replied. “Being a kept man, funded by some millionaire to create, is the antithesis of artistic freedom.” He stalked off.

“Congratulations.” Cassie tried to sound enthusiastic, even as disappointment swelled in her chest. Elliot was one of her only friends in town—and her ally researching in the library archives. Without him . . . She tried to recover. “So tell me everything. Who's this patron?”

Elliot cleared his throat. “The Mandeville family trust.”

“Mandeville?” Cassie repeated, shocked.

“Oh, right, you know the kids, don't you?” Elliot said. “Anyway, it's just a grant to do whatever I want for a year, but who knows where it could lead? They're connected with all kinds of private buyers and galleries. It's my chance to get out of here,” he added, looking at her anxiously. “I can't stay stuck behind that desk forever.”

“Right, of course!” Cassie forced a smile. “It sounds great.” But she felt a chill, knowing Elliot was getting in deeper with the Mandevilles. Was this about her, she wondered? A way of removing an ally, her source of research? Elliot had tracked down all that information about the School of Night; perhaps they'd noticed and decided to get him out of the picture. It wasn't just her own safety she was risking with all her investigations. She'd put Elliot in harm's way too without even thinking about it. She could only be grateful they'd chosen this grant scheme and not some other, more permanent solution. “I'm sorry.” Cassie quickly pulled him into a hug.

“What for?” Elliot extricated himself, frowning at her. “I should be sorry. For leaving you holding the fort at the library,” he added.

“Nothing, just . . . Congratulations on the job.” Cassie swiftly changed the subject, peppering him with questions to cover the brief outburst. “When do you start? Will you have a studio at least as luxurious as this one?”

Elliot's departure gave Cassie new concern about her investigations, and
the stakes that were rising for everyone involved. She hadn't realized the risk she was placing on the people around her: Elliot, Rutledge, and Charlie too. The deeper she dug into the School of Night, the greater the
danger had become, until she found herself flinching at shadows as she walked home and startling at the sound of voices outside her window, wondering if Hugo had finally told the others about finding her in the maze, if they knew she was her mother's daughter
, if, if, if . . .

It was almost a relief when it came time for her first tutorial back after the vacation. Cassie set aside her research into Margaret, Rose, and what few articles she could find on the School of Night and turned her attention back to the weighty philosophy tomes she'd been studying, preparing her essay in plenty of time. But as she crossed the college grounds the next morning to Tremain's office, she couldn't help but wonder how deeply he was entrenched in the dark goings-on of the group. From the brief conversation she'd overheard between him and Henry Mandeville, it sounded as if Tremain had been involved in their lies for years, all the way back to Rose and her mother. Tremain had been fearful of the older man, that much was clear, but that fear only made Cassie resent him even more. He was to blame for Evie too. They all were.

Cassie climbed the staircase to his office and caught her breath, forcing her emotions back under control. She had to pretend everything was normal, she couldn't let him see the truth. She braced herself and pushed the door open.

“Ah, Miss Blackwell, you're still gracing us with your presence then.” Tremain turned from his stance by the bookcase. His gaze flicked over her with an icy edge. “I wondered if we would be seeing you again. Please, join your classmates.” He nodded to the seating area, where Julia and Sebastian were waiting.

Cassie's heart caught in her throat. She felt a rush of blood pounding in her ears. She hadn't seen Sebastian since that terrible night he'd attacked her; she'd almost forced herself to forget about him. Cassie could make out a scar running above his right eye to his hairline. Sebastian glared at her, his hatred seething and clear to see.

Cassie shrank back, remembering the feel of the wall scraping against
her back, the rough grip of his hand on her throat. “No . . .” she murmured. She looked to Tremain, stunned. “You can't be serious.”

“About what?” Tremain stared back, impassive. “Are you able to join us for your tutorial today or not?”

Cassie gulped for air. She couldn't believe she was expected to sit in the same room as her attacker, debate philosophy as if nothing had happened. How could Tremain do this to her? What was he trying to prove?

“We don't have time for your dawdling, Miss Blackwell. I've told you before, if you have a problem with your classes, you can always withdraw from your studies and leave Raleigh.” Tremain stared at her as if he was just willing her to go.

Cassie took another deep breath and walked over to the nearest chair. “I'm fine,” she bit out determinedly, taking a seat. She met Sebastian's glare, forcing herself not to look away first. “We can get started whenever you want.”

Cassie wasn't sure how she made it through the hour. All she could focus on was Sebastian's presence, just inches away from her. She couldn't help but let her gaze drift to the scar on his forehead. She could barely remember inflicting the blow that caused it; that part of the night was still nothing but a haze to her: anger and desperation and violent force. She should have felt guilty, she knew, but instead she felt a twisted sense of pride that at least he wouldn't forget his sins so easily—they were there in the mirror, every time he looked.

She hated him. She hated him, and Tremain, for forcing her back here again—remembering in flashes the detail of that night, reliving it in a dozen tiny ways as the conversation continued around her until finally the chimes of the Raleigh bells pierced through the room and Cassie could leap to her feet again.

“A moment, Miss Blackwell.” Tremain stopped her before she could bolt from the room.

Cassie clenched her jaw and waited, her anxiety turning to anger as Tremain flipped through some papers on his table and made her stand there awkwardly as Sebastian and Julia left. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. “Is this some kind of game to you?” she demanded, angry.

Tremain's head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“Putting me in the same room as that . . . that animal.” Cassie gripped her files to her chest to keep from shaking.

“As I recall, he was the one left in a hospital bed,” the professor pointed out. “He's already missed several weeks of tutorials because of your actions. It would hardly be fair to make him sacrifice any more.”

Cassie's fury beat hard in her chest. “Do you really hate me that much?” she whispered.

Tremain's face slipped for a moment, and she thought she caught a flash of guilt, but then his expression smoothed again, superior and sneering.