by L.J. Shen
No one mentioned the party after what happened.
Not the next day, when Papa, Poppy, and I boarded the plane to Heathrow, or the days that followed, when everyone settled back in England—Dad and I at Carlisle Castle, which was empty due to summer break (summer session hadn’t started yet), and Poppy at our Hampstead Heath house.
Poppy naturally presumed I’d escaped the attic on my own—she didn’t know I dropped the key—and I didn’t correct her assumption. When Papa questioned us about what happened that night, we were both adamant that a lit cigarette had caught the bushes on fire, and we’d called the firefighters.
Naturally, the Todos Santos police came to investigate, too. And when they’d concluded, they backed this version of events. All they needed was one tilt of the head from Vaughn Spencer. He wasn’t joking—his family really did rule the bloody town.
I wasn’t mad at Poppy. She had no way of knowing I was trapped. I didn’t have my phone with me, and when I dropped my key, there was so much commotion and noise in the backyard, she surely missed it. But there was one persistent part of me that wondered why she hadn’t looked for me—at least checked.
Even though I was in Berkshire and she was in London, Poppy still sent me a fresh basket of something sweet every day. Sometimes a courier knocked on my dorm door. Sometimes Papa left it on the threshold of my room. Sometimes it simply showed up on my nightstand in the morning. It was her silent way of saying she’d cocked up, she knew it, and it wasn’t going to happen again.
Apology accepted, sis.
My abbreviated summer came and went in a colorful, sticky blur. Pope was yachting in the Seychelles with his parents and two older sisters. I very much doubted he spent the time preparing for his internship. I didn’t know what Vaughn was up to, but I was sure it involved some sort of satanic ritual, knife play, and torturing babies.
Me, I was holed up in my new room in Carlisle Castle on the staff and interns’ floor, devouring book after book, greeting Papa in the hallways occasionally, and planning for my next assemblage. The new room had been furnished and decorated with the things Papa had found in my old room, the things I had purchased with Mum when I was twelve: the Nightmare Before Christmas sheets and pillows from our visit to Stratford, The Cure posters we got in Camden Town, photos of my portfolio—yellowed and dated, curling at the edges—stapled to the walls. Even Mum’s flowery quilt was still there, and when I inhaled into it really deeply, squeezing my eyes shut, I swore the faint scent of her clean perfume and sweet self wafted into my nostrils.
My things in my room hadn’t changed one bit from the last time I was here, yet it didn’t feel like mine anymore.
The year in Todos Santos had changed me. Everything looked silly and juvenile through the same eyes that had watched a house burning, an angry boy being pleasured in front of the entire school, and my sister’s heart shattering on the hallway floor of All Saints High in front of the “It” crowd. I couldn’t help but look at my room through Vaughn’s icicle eyes, and what I saw embarrassed me.
I didn’t even know why, but still couldn’t bear to make any changes.
It wasn’t like it mattered. It wasn’t like I was planning on inviting him over. In fact, I’d filed a request to change the lock on my room, because most locks were too easy to pick, and I didn’t want to take any chances where it came to Vaughn Spencer.
Two weeks after my return to Carlisle Prep, I sat in my room, working on my next assemblage. I’d started from the prop—the crown—because I figured it would take me the longest. The pinnacle of thorns was almost done, elaborate and heavy, coiling up like a gigantic crest. Thorns, like Vaughn, were difficult to work with—spiky, yet delicate. They broke so easily, but made me bleed so often. I’d never worked with such an evasive material before.
A spike pricked my thumb just as a knock came on my door. I sucked the blood from my flesh, spinning around in my chair and bracing my elbows over the drafting table behind me.
“Come in,” I said.
I thought it’d be Papa. School didn’t start until next week, and the interns weren’t supposed to be here before the following Saturday.
When the door opened, the pliers in my hand dropped.
Rafferty Pope stood in the hallway, his golden mane a mass of curls, highlighted by the sun, his piercing green eyes shining all the way across the room. He was taller and broader than I remembered, with a youthful, deep brown tan and dimples that kissed his cheekbones. He looked…
Handsome? Stunning? Glorious?
All those titles couldn’t do him justice, and still, Pope stirred nothing in me—except an ecstatic rush of platonic love. He took a step into my room, his balled hands shoved into white polo pants that only further highlighted his tan.
“Lenora Astalis, misery treats you well. You look fit.” He stopped a foot from me, quirking his head sideways with a smile.
“Rafferty Pope, happiness treats you well. You look brilliant yourself.” I moved to stand toe-to-toe with him.
The boy who’d gone ghost hunting with me when we were kids in the castle. Who’d explored hidden paths and unearthed secret doors with me. We shared history, entwined interests, and a deep respect for each other.
Our arms found one another, and we hugged long and hard. He still smelled of the ocean, the sun, and foreign spices that made my mouth water. Pope ruffled my hair in an older-brother gesture.
“Sorry you didn’t get the internship. You bloody deserved it, Lenny.”
I didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter. We pulled away. I frowned at him, our fingertips still hovering over one another, not quite ready to fully let go.
“What are you doing here so early, Raff?”
“Oh.” He ran his hand through his hair, chuckling awkwardly. “I thought I’d get a head start on my piece. It’s a bit complex, and I heard Spencer is already bollocks deep in his project. You know I’m a competitive prick. I can’t believe they let him continue working on the piece he auditioned with.” His mouth curled in dissatisfaction.
“I do.” I scoffed, stepping away from him. The mere mention of Vaughn ruined my mood. “Vaughn Spencer can get away with anything. Even murder.”
There was a beat of loaded silence as my words soaked into the walls, as if inking themselves into my room, settling as a universal truth.
“I better go see Ms. Hawthorne about my room.” Pope jerked his thumb behind his shoulder.
Was he as nervous about Vaughn as I was?
“Sure. Duh.” I rolled my eyes with a smile. “Well, good to see you. Maybe we can grab a bite downtown after you’re done settling? Kebab and Irn-Bru?”
It had been a tradition for us in prep school.
Each weekend, Pope and I would march an hour into the nearest town to get kebab and chips in vinegar from a little tourist shack by the Thames. We’d never determined whether the food was divine because we were used to the organic, sugar-free cafeteria food at Carlisle Prep, or because the hour journey each way in the rain, snow, or baking heat unclogged our appetite and led us to devour the food when we got there.
“Ah, the feast of warriors and nectar of gods.” He offered a theatrical bow on his way out, tipping an imaginary hat. “Your wish is my command, milady.”
“Nerd.” I mocked.
“Drusilla,” he teased, his smile radiating just enough heat to make my childish room seem more bearable.
After Pope left, I sank back to my chair in front of the drafting table and shook my head on a chuckle as I bent down to pick up the pliers. When I glanced at them, I realized my thumb was still bleeding. Too lazy to make the trip across the castle to ask our secretary, Ms. Hawthorne, for the first aid kit for just a Band-Aid, I sucked the remainder of the blood into my mouth.
I threw my head back, closing my eyes.
His blood.
Why was I so thirsty for his blood? Why couldn’t I stop thinking about it? Despite what Arabella had said, I wasn’t a vampire. I wasn’t into blood play. At least, I di
dn’t think I was. Yet there was something about Vaughn Spencer I wanted to break.
I had a fierce need to peel back his flesh and see what was underneath. Unveil all his secrets.
I dropped my eyes shut, shook my head, and smeared my blood across the crown of thorns.
There is so much beauty in the darkness. It’s just harder to find.
As Pope and I spent time together over the next week, I got a lot better at pushing Vaughn out of my thoughts. He barely occupied my mind anymore. I gained confidence with each passing day, convincing myself I’d be able to assist him with his mysterious piece and still work on mine.
I’d survive his cruel words, his annoying tendency to burst into my life with garbage and blood and taunts. And for all I cared, he could parade his blow job partners around all day long. The vast majority of students at Carlisle Prep weren’t of legal age yet, and I doubted he was dumb enough to try any funny business with them.
Pope and I worked all day from dawn till sunset—he on his piece and me on mine—eating biscuits and drinking sweetened tea during lunch breaks. Pope worked on a magnificent, floor-to-ceiling painting on canvas. He was attempting to paint a futuristic, post-apocalypse London—dark, edgy, and extra gray. For now, he was setting the general tones and coloring on the canvas. For this moment in time, the castle felt like our playground, as it was completely empty, aside from a handful of staff and my father, who was holed up at his office. At dinnertime, Raff and I walked to the nearest town for fish and chips and came back full, satisfied, and slightly drunk on ice-cold lager. Poppy still sent me sweets, and sometimes Pope and I dropped chocolate buttons into our morning coffees and devoured them before we started the day.
On Friday, summer session students began to trickle into the castle. Saturday, they were going to pour through the hallways in a rush of squeaks and giggles, getting ready for classes on Monday. Raff and I avoided the entire commotion by borrowing Papa’s boat and sailing it on the Thames all weekend while getting drunk on cheap wine. The sun shone so bright, its rays sank past my skin. My freckles came out, and my hair became golden and softer. The little crinkles beside my eyes reappeared, too, which meant I was finally smiling again.
On Sunday, we anchored the boat by a little hill and had a picnic. Pope was juggling fruit. “Catch!” he’d command when I least expected it, throwing grapes and apricots into my mouth. He was always in a good mood, goofy and sweet-tempered—so different from the tortured, scowling artists I’d grown up around. Only I knew better than to think there wasn’t darkness hiding behind his ultra-bright smile.
“How’s your sister doing?” he asked, out of nowhere, after we’d both decided to dip our feet into the freezing water.
I had absolutely no doubt Raff had zero interest in Poppy. Growing up with him, I knew his style. Neither I nor Poppy were it. He liked the sweet but psycho ones. Emphasis on the latter. Every girl he’d dated at Carlisle Prep had ended up dropping out due to poor grades, suspended, or expelled. Whether drug use, body dysmorphia, or cutting and severe depression, they always had a reason to disappear.
Normal bored him to death, and I knew even my slightly Goth self was too sweet for more than friendship. Probably the extra-strength All Saints version—with the dyed hair and extra-weird clothes—would’ve still been too vanilla. To him, Poppy was a prudish angel.
“She’s fine. She quite liked California,” I said carefully, thinking about her time before the breakup with Knight. “But I think she’s happy to be back in the UK.”
“Poppy fits right in with the California girls.” Raff popped a grape into his mouth.
I shrugged off his comment.
“And Vaughn Spencer? What terms are the two of you on right now?”
I wanted to laugh, because who knew? Last I saw him, he’d saved me from a fire before promising to give me hell. No one knew what Vaughn was thinking, including, I suspected, Vaughn himself. God knew I’d stopped trying to figure him out.
“Doesn’t matter.” I drew circles in the water with the tip of my toe. “I want to stay here. I want to work with Harry, Papa, and Alma. With you. If that means tolerating the bastard for six months, so be it. He’s not the king of the school anymore. And if he tries to hurt me, I’ll make sure he stands corrected.”
Pope grinned.
“What?” I frowned.
“Bastard toughened you up,” he observed, standing up and shaking his wet feet in my face.
I tried to punch his thigh, but he took the hand I sent his way and pulled me up. I didn’t want to go back to Carlisle. The hallways were going to be jammed with students, the toilets forever clogged, and I’d have to go back to wearing flip-flops to the shower to avoid fungus. I was going to miss the quiet and seclusion of having Papa and Rafferty to myself.
“I toughened myself up. The so-called bastard had nothing to do with it,” I hissed.
“So feisty for a Virgo,” Raff tooted, reminding me he was little brother to two horoscope-enthusiasts. “Which reminds me, your birthday is coming up. Anything special I can give you?”
I had something in mind, but now wasn’t the time to ask for it. The idea was so crazy, I knew he’d be into it. Although, it wasn’t the sort of thing one usually asks from a childhood mate. Then again, Raff and I were both quite abnormal, and he never shied away from bizarre things.
“Yes, actually, but you’ll have to keep your mind open.”
“My mind is nothing but open. An artist with a closed mind is like a limbless dancer.” He winked.
We gathered our things and hopped onto the boat. As we sailed our way back to the castle, it began to drizzle, the first rain of the season. Summer was coming to an end, and with it, my few weeks of uninterrupted bliss. Come Monday, everything was going to change.
I wasn’t ready, yet at the same time, I felt ripe for something I couldn’t describe, bursting at the seams. The air was thick with possibility. I hadn’t told anyone what I was working on. I wanted to help Vaughn deliver his piece to Tate Modern, then reveal mine to private galleries in hopes of snagging a good internship.
Something occurred to me while Raff was anchoring the boat and helping me hop onto the grass. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and frowned at him.
“You know, I never bothered to ask who you chose for your assistant.”
It made sense that he would’ve asked me the minute we learned I didn’t get in, but he never did. I hadn’t brought it up, because the subject of the internship was so sore, so sensitive for me. For a while there, I’d barely agreed to talk about it at all.
Raff smiled his cocksure grin and gave me the answer that shook the earth beneath my feet. “Oh, no one I know. She wrote me a heartbreaking letter about how much she wanted to get in, and frankly, it helped that her father invested eight hundred thousand quid in the exhibition I have planned for next summer. Her name is Arabella Garofalo. Actually, she’s from California, too. Perhaps she could be your friend.”
Fat chance.
And though this was yet another cruel turn of events, I couldn’t really muster much surprise. I made some excuse to Raff and left immediately, the blood draining from my face as rage filled my heart.
Fat chance, with a side of making me borderline suicidal.
I didn’t show up at the dining hall for the festive Sunday dinner, which marked the official beginning of both summer session and our internships.
The idea of Arabella sitting there next to Raff made me want to pull out every hair on my head, even without exploring the idea of seeing Vaughn again.
They were supposed to be here by now, but I had no intention of willingly seeing them.
I paced my room, fists clenched, my CD player tucked into the waistband of my sweatpants. Lit’s lyrics reminded me I was my own worst enemy.
I passed out in my bed at some point, headphones still on. When or how, I don’t know, but I was definitely sleeping until I felt a hand brushing my hair aside, a harsh, warm breath skating over my ear.
&nb
sp; The headphones were pulled down gently, wrapping around my neck.
“I like you in this position, Good Girl—like a frightened dog curled into itself.”
This time, I didn’t pretend to sleep.
This time, I grabbed Vaughn’s golden, almighty, so-talented-it-was-allegedly-insured left hand and twisted it, darting up to a sitting position. My eyes popped open, blinking and trying to find a slice of light in the otherwise dark room. In the half-second it took me to adjust, Vaughn had pushed me back to the mattress, captured my wrists, and jammed them against the bed, his knee landing between my legs.
He growled in my face. “Never touch my hands again.”
I laughed, then arched my back, trying to lift my pelvis and kick him, since my hands were firmly locked. He applied more of his weight to me, laughing darkly as his knee accidentally pressed against the sensitive nub between my legs. I wondered if he’d sat at Arabella’s side at dinner. If they’d already made up after what happened at my house and charmed their way into Pope’s good graces. I hadn’t had the chance to warn Raff off Arabella. I’d needed to cool down before laying it out for him.
“How…” I trailed off, narrowing my eyes at him. “I changed the lock.”
He shifted slightly, ending the friction between his knee and my groin, and I almost moaned. The pressure had felt good, and I did everything I could not to let my eyes roll and wiggle myself lower, so he’d touch my clit again.
“Haven’t you learned anything? You can change your lock, your zip code, your hair, wardrobe, your entire fucking life, and I’ll still always find you. Touch your shit. Stake my claim.”
“You are so bloody full of yourself.”
“Bet you’d like to be full of me, too.”
“Keep telling yourself that while you hold me hostage underneath you. We both know I’ll knee you in the bollocks and stab you in the heart if you let go.”
I wished I was exaggerating, but after what he did with Arabella the last day of school, I wasn’t. Even though he’d saved me, I hated him with all my heart after that humiliation, and I didn’t even know why it bothered me so much.