Fear Her Wrath III: It Runs on Blood

Chapter 4

"Miss Hunt?"

I jolted awake, knocking my water bottle off the desk in the process. Dr. Kessler, the elderly chemistry teacher, was peering at me through his thick glasses with a peculiar expression on his face—well, more peculiar than usual. It took me a second to work out where I was and how long I'd been there. Chemistry II. Fourth period. I glanced at the clock over Dr. Kessler's desk and saw that the bell had rung two minutes ago.

Somehow I'd slept through it.

"Sorry," I said, starting to hastily pack my things. "I... tried. Really."

"It was a noble effort," croaked Dr. Kessler. "But... may I point out that repeatedly slapping oneself in the face is a somewhat distracting way to maintain consciousness?"

Dr. Kessler wasn't smiling, but I could tell he, at least, thought my vain attempt to stay awake in his class was very funny. I was frustrated. While I hadn't exactly been getting straight A's since the beginning of 10th grade (or, let's be real, even straight B's), I'd started the new school year determined not to spend nearly as much time hovering just a few grade points away from academic probation. It wasn't like I never fell asleep in class anymore, but I had been doing better.

Until just then.

"Maybe I should try jabbing myself with a pen," I mumbled.

"You really should attempt getting more sleep," said Dr. Kessler. "Rather than resorting to the periodic self-infliction of moderate pain. It is time for lunch, Miss Hunt, so if you would—."

"Yeah, sorry," I said, stuffing the last of my things into my backpack. "Um... I didn't like, sleep through a quiz or anything, did I?"

"This time, no," said Dr. Kessler. "But do take note of the assignment on the board before you leave."

I surreptitiously snapped a picture of the homework Dr. Kessler had scrawled on the blackboard on my way out and set off ay a cautious run for the lunch room.

It's probably about time for me bring you up to date about what went on in the Fen in the three months since Glassface's rebellion against the Montagnese family—the "War of Broken Glass," as some tactless hack in the Marbrose Evening Examiner decided it should be called. You've probably picked up on some of it already—great critical reading skills if you have, by the way—but there's no harm in laying it out so you know exactly where things stood in Fenley Island.

Firstly, Frankie Markopolos was the new caporegime of the western Fen, and Dalton Reaves probably would've gotten the east end if it weren't for his limited rapport outside of Frankie's crew and lack of managerial experience. Instead, Arturo "The Cyclops" Gallone—one of the Aurelio regime loyalists who held out against Glassface—got the job, and Dalton was compensated with a significant cut of most of the rackets in Frankie's new regime and getting to answer directly to Don Montagnese—making him a caporegime in rank if not in responsibility.

Icemane, Psychosis, Deadstream, the Nihilist, and Glassface were all safely locked away in Rothko Supermax. Everyone who'd sided with Glassface in the gang war last summer—well, everyone that hadn't been shot outright—was languishing in Merceron Penitentiary. That included Albert Rosinski—doing a six-month stretch for an old assault charge courtesy of Assistant District Attorney Comstock, ever the useful idiot—and "Buffalo Mick" Anselmo, whose loyalties during the Glassface Affair had been ambiguous enough to narrowly avoid sleeping with the fishes. Like many others, Anselmo claimed he'd been lied to about who he was fighting and why.

The housecleaning provoked by Augusto Vaccari's betrayal had weakened the mafia's hold over the Fen and the rest of Marbrose City. The other criminal elements in the city's underworld—the Ambrosius family, the Tongs, the rogue freaks—were moving in to fill the vacuum. The ward bosses were anxious. The police were anxious. The mafia soldiers on the street were anxious. All because of me. I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised they finally put out a hit.