There is only one way to describe Diana Riorson's story; complicated. Her family is a wreck. Her father- dead. Her brother-disappeared. But if there's one thing she's learned in her many years at Basgiath Orphanage, it's that to survive she needs to...
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I finally close my textbook, unfolding myself from the armrest I've made myself comfortable in. It's dark outside, only lanterns guiding the way to various diverging pathways.
I finish off the end of of one my two plats, securing it with a shimmering gold hair tie and flicking it over my shoulder to join its sister. I know I'm already late and if I waste anymore time lazing around, Xaden will actually kill me.
Okay, maybe not kill, but make my life a living hell. I shudder at the thought of him making me clean the group bathrooms or worse, a curfew.
With that thought, I push myself off the chair and walk over to the door, carrying my textbook under my arm as I listen to the absence of sound that drifts through the wooden splinters.
I twist the doorhandle, only for it to shudder and remain stuck in between hinges. I jiggle it once again, prying the handle further back and digging my nail into the space between the two screws, but it's no use. It continues to stay in place, unmoving.
"Hey!" I bang on the door. "Open up!"
There's no reply.
Of course, there isn't. Every sane person is partying it up in the dormitories or nursing off injuries in the infirmary. As for the executives, I doubt any of them would miss me, except maybe Professor Markham and Devera.
Not to mention Lester. And Jameson. Liam. Rhiannon. Xaden?
"Fuck no," I mutter, sliding my textbook across the large wooden table in the middle of the room. I glance around at the cartography equipment, debating if that shiny globe is dense enough to cause serious damage to the door.
I take a few steps back, give myself a running start, then kick down the door as hard as I possibly can. My foot rears forward, pushing every once of power I have onto the door.
Despite my leg feeling like it's been yanked from my socket, the wood barely moves. It doesn't even groan against the hinges, but rather glows.
Shit.
There's a distinct burning smell—Acrid.
When I turn around, I only see bright orange death flickering all around me, grabbing onto the fabric banners that hang over the fireplace and swallowing them whole. I look down at my feet, only to see smoke drifting in and out of the room. The only evidence of my death scene besides the burning possessions, are the smoke fumes wafting through the tiny crack in the door.
For some reason, I'm imagining Jack Barlowe's face standing on the other side. He silently cackles, waiting for the screams to start. He wants to wake up tomorrow to hear my name on the death call.
With no witness, there's no crime. And without me, the plans change.
But there's no time for that. There's no use dwelling on those facts.
