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Archon(8)

By:Sabrina Benulis


The instant he was out of sight, Nina tossed her book aside and grabbed Angela’s arm. “Do you know who that was?”

“Should I?” Angela blinked, partially blinded by a nearby flash of lightning.

“His name is Kim, and he’s off-limits. Don’t get involved.”

“You know, he was the one who forgot about the whole vow of celibacy thing—”

“He’s involved with Stephanie,” Nina hissed.

Angela hoisted her own bag onto a shoulder, careful not to snag her arm gloves. “What? You said that Brendan is Stephanie’s boyfriend!”

Something she still found hard to believe.

“Yeah. The official one. The show-off boyfriend.” Nina pointed down the hallway, at wherever Kim had disappeared to. “He’s the real thing. And if you like guys and you go to the Academy, it’s the one reason you might wish you were in her shoes for a change. So listen to me this time and stay away from him.”

“And if he approaches me instead?”

Nina rolled her eyes and grabbed Angela’s smallest portfolio. “I can only warn you once.” She took a deep breath. “Now tell me where you live and I’ll help you cart your stuff. At least I won’t be flirting with you along the way.”

“On the east side of campus. Near the ocean.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Angela picked up the rest of her belongings, dragging her largest painting in a portfolio on wheels, sidestepping the dwindling crowd. The second she looked up again, there was Lyrica, standing a few feet away, a curious expression on her face. She must have lingered behind Stephanie, maybe to spy on Angela, maybe to get a moment to herself. But it was obvious she’d also seen everything that had taken place with Kim. Lyrica lifted her eyebrows, amused. Then she sauntered away to the exit.

Already, I’m under some kind of microscope.

Already, Angela was wishing the fire had worked.

The next storm swept in off the coast after dinner hours.

Luz vanished behind a screen of silver, raindrops battering mercilessly against old stone edifices, spouting in vast sluices from gutters that hung hundreds of feet above Angela’s dormitory. She’d been situated on the upper floor of an old mansion, half of its foundation angling perilously over the sea, the other half facing toward the center of the Academy where she could revel in the view of a hundred or more towers, most of them connected to one another by vast bridges of stone, or at the very peak, thick tunnels of carefully sealed glass. Candles flickered through countless windows, yellow eyes that glared out toward the sea.

The surf was breaking hundreds of feet below her building, and still it sounded almost as loud as the thunder. Angela must have fallen asleep without realizing it, because when a particularly loud boom shivered through the walls, she jolted in her seat, shocked to find the book she’d been reading was now lying on the floor.

She picked it up and set it back on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. The flames had muffled to a mass of burning cinders.

Angela stared at them, bitter inside.

Fire wasn’t enough. Or bullets. Or knives.

She rolled down one of her arm gloves, examining the grotesque patches of skin, most of them slightly raised and dark with scar tissue. Her legs had fared better, but not by much. When Angela set the blaze months ago, her arms had, of course, been nearest to the fire, but after passing out, she’d survived to find horrendous burns striping her legs to midthigh. The disappointment of seeing those wounds almost equaled her disappointment at being alive. She’d planned on waking up wrapped in the wings of her angel, not trapped for weeks in an infirmary.

Now you’re here in Luz, wasting your time so you can apologize to a brother who probably wishes you’d succeeded too.

It was hard to kill yourself when someone or something you couldn’t see was protecting you. At least, Angela had come to the conclusion that the supernatural was looking out for her after she tried stabbing herself, and the knife blade snapped when it met her skin.

Ten separate times.

Then there were the guns. All in perfect working order. All either misfiring or refusing to fire when the moment arrived. Nooses held tight until she slipped them around her neck. Then they unraveled and dropped to the floor. If Angela tried to suffocate, she’d simply black out and wake up to find herself breathing again. If she tried drowning, the effect was usually the same. Fire had been one of her last resorts, and that had ended the most disastrously of all, killing her family instead. That left two options: jumping off a building, or getting someone else to kill her. The latter choice usually either wouldn’t be fair or wouldn’t be right. Encouraging serial killers wasn’t the morally sound way to rid the planet of your existence. And most people didn’t want to be a murderer, even an accidental one.