Connor rolls his eyes and pushes me toward the door. “Long story. We’ll be back later.”
I grin as we move into the hallway. “Now you’ll have to learn just to impress Matthew.”
“Matthew is easily impressed. It’s one of the reasons everyone loves him. So where to?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just haunt the hallways. I’m convinced half the student body stands around waiting to witness a crime.”
“I know! It’s creepy.” Connor releases an exaggerated shudder, and I laugh yet again. When have I ever laughed this much? For a brief moment, I almost feel normal. For a brief moment, I don’t hate Madison Academy.
Chapter 8: Opponent
Four days pass without a word from Daniel. No note, not even a sign. I peek into his room every chance I get, and the panic mounts as the days wear on. I try to maintain a positive façade in public, but it gets harder the more obvious it becomes that something’s wrong. I’m haunted by the impulse to act, to search for him, to call for help—anything—but I have no idea what to do. His warnings are always lingering in my head. If I act, I’ll only make things worse.
Clausen has completely infiltrated my life as well. Anna never returned as my counselor and each session has been getting harder and harder to fake. I sense today’s will be brutal as the gnawing fear chips at my slipping public mask.
“So, are you officially my new counselor?” I ask, dropping to the chair.
“Yes. Unfortunately, Anna was overbooked so I stepped in to relieve some of her load.”
“And by that, you mean me.”
“Some of our students go months without direct contact from me.”
“Oh, I’m supposed to be honored then,” I say dryly. “Look, I know why you’re here and what you’re waiting for. We’ve already been over it. Why can’t I just tell you when I’ve made up my mind? I’m sure you’re too busy to have the same conversation over and over again.”
“I’d like to understand your hesitation, Rebecca. If one of your classmates had a gift that could help you, wouldn’t you want them to use it?”
“I would. I’m just not convinced my gift will help Daniel.”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. So how do we overcome this lack of trust in yourself?”
“I don’t know. Maybe through time.”
“Well, I wish we could wait for your confidence, but I’m afraid there’s an urgency to his situation that you’re not understanding.”
I flinch at the blow. After a second, I manage to pull in a breath to regain my composure. “Where is he?” I ask, ready for the fight. “How can I help if I never know where he is?”
Clausen remains silent, gaze boring into me. “I believe I can find him if you agree to help.”
My blood runs cold. Maybe Daniel wouldn’t want me to give in, but what choice do I have? “What do you want me to do?”
I strain through a sleepless night, listening for any sign of Daniel’s return. Hour after hour I wait, cursing Clausen for his deception. After all the drama, the threats, he can’t possibly go back on our agreement. What good is an extorted promise without the reward?
I’ve almost given up when the creak of our suite door slices through the oppressive silence. Bolting from my bed, I run to the common area and freeze.
No!
I grip a chair and catch my breath against the rising emotion as several men carry their victim to his room. They ignore me, and I wait until they leave to advance.
Light from the common area makes the space even darker, and I fumble for the lamp. The sudden glow reveals Daniel strewn on the bed, unconscious.
“Shit!”
I rush to his side and do my best to adjust him to a more comfortable position. Panic mounts at the lack of visions when I touch his face and watch his chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. My heart pounds as I absorb every jolt of evidence explaining his recent absence. They must be desperate for whatever it is they want. Desperate and impatient. Did they finally succeed in breaking him, or only push him to the brink of intolerance? I shudder at the thought that they stopped because they had to, not because they wanted to.
A disturbing pattern of bandages lines his chest and fuels my anger. The calculated nature of the wounds suggests this interrogation was more systematic than the encounters in my visions. He must not be being entirely honest with me. He certainly didn’t tell me the truth about that room.
“Daniel,” I whisper, patting his cheek. “Hey, can you hear me?” I take his hand when he still doesn’t stir and trace the horrible red marks circling his wrists. Shivering, the ache of tears climbs in my chest again. I blink them away and grip his hand tighter, hoping for some evidence of consciousness. Still nothing, and my gaze scans his graphic tattoos while I wait. So many images to hide—what, exactly? Manipulation? Lies? Sadistic games he can never win.
