Faith Heights

Chapter 48

I squinted and walked a little closer, unable to make out anything more of the strange shape. It was only then when I moved forward that I heard a soft dripping sound, like a tap leaking onto damp ground. I headed back across the room and opened the nearest curtain, hoping to shed the sky's dim moonlight upon the room. It didn't help much, but at least I could make out what was causing the dripping sound as I looked back over my shoulder.

Isabella Leclair, bloody and draped across an armchair.

I let out a shriek before clamping my hand over my mouth, whipping my head around to look for whoever had done this to her. I took a few hurried steps forward as if to help, but I was far too late. The logical part of my brain told me to search for a heartbeat. Check for a pulse, and then call an ambulance. Or I could find Lydia and have her talk me through healing Leclair. I needed to do something.

But the pain in my chest told me there was no point. There was so much blood pooling around her, I doubted there was any more than a few dry drops left in her body. I couldn't even tell where her injuries were; her body was entirely consumed in the red liquid. I couldn't see where the blood ended and her olive skin began. Her body, underneath all the carnage, was contorted at such an angle that it would have been impossible for any life to have remained within her veins.

Who could have done this? It was certainly not self-inflicted. But from the way everyone at Faith Heights had gossiped, Leclair was practically invincible. Immortal. Untouchable. A merciless protector. 

How could this have happened?

The question was worthless. As much as I wanted to deny it, my gut was telling me the impossible truth. I already knew what happened, and it had me sprinting back across the lawn as fast as my legs could carry me. 

The angels were already here.

***

At first, all I could think was that I needed to run as fast and as far as possible. Apparently my feet deemed my dorm to be such a destination. But as my mind began to grind again, I realised that it was probably the stupidest thing I could do to go back to my bedroom. If these angels had arrived to take care of a problem I'd caused, and had slaughtered the messenger, then my life definitely wouldn't be worth sparing. I was far from an expert on angels and their abilities, but keeping away from my room had to help my survival a little.

I turned to my left and sprinted the rest of the way to Jackson's wing. The doors were open, so I didn't cause too much of a commotion as I barged in. A few silhouettes lounging in the common room glanced up at me, but I passed them in a blur. Jackson's room was on the second floor, and I prayed he'd be inside, not out in the possible angel-infested woods.

I knocked a dozen frantic times before the door flew open, revealing a ruffled-looking Jackson.

"Geez, Lila. I was just taking a nap after a few of us went for a run. What do you want?"

"You went for a run?" I demanded.

He ran a hand through his hair, and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. "Yeah, we got back about an hour ago. Did we have plans to meet up or something?"

I latched onto his arm. "Did you see anything else in the forest? Near Leclair's office?"

The question was inane; angels wouldn't need to flee through the woods. They'd fly from the scene without a trace.

He looked at me as if I'd asked him to tap dance. "Haven't we been over this? Anything you saw out in the forest shouldn't surprise you by now. It was probably just another pack of werewolves or shapeshifter."

"No, it's not like that." I shook my head until my neck hurt. Tears sprung into my eyes, which was a mild relief. I was beginning to think I'd handled finding a dead body like a robot.

Jackson noticed the shift in my expression. He put a hand on my shoulder. "Oh crap- hey hey, don't cry. It's ok. Just tell me what's wrong." He urged.

I tried to speak, but I couldn't stop gagging on my own wet sobs. There was no single pearl of grief, just an ugly river of disbelief and anger. My nose clogged like a dirty faucet and my eyes began to sting with rawness as I felt more tears stream down my cheeks. Jackson ushered me into his room and shut the door behind us. I'd probably been making quite a scene, judging by the sounds of other doors opening curiously. But that didn't matter. Everything was in ruins, and I couldn't stop it from crumbling into dust.

"What happened?" He tried again.

"Leclair is dead." I tried to say. It came out more as a pitchy gargle.

"What did you say? Something about Leclair?" He gently prodded, sitting me down on his bed.

"She's dead." 

Jackson's lip twitched up, as if waiting for the punchline. When it didn't come, his face paled, and his fists curled around the edge of the bed in a white grip.

After a long silence, he swore. "What the hell happened?"