I only managed to keep to Leclair's advice to stay in my dorm for a day. As darkness began to fall over the grounds, I slipped from my room and across the school's lawn. It was still light enough to make out my surroundings without the school's lamps, but the forest seemed to creep closer with an impenetrable fog. There was no full moon, so the grounds should have been safe enough to cross. But as I hurried closer to Leclair's house, I couldn't help looking over my shoulder every few seconds. There was no noise, but I couldn't shake the feeling of eyes burning into my back.
The school possessed an unnatural silence. The usual crickets and cicadas humming in the forest were gone, replaced by white noise. I could see vague silhouettes moving in distant dorm rooms, which brought me a small amount of comfort. In some lights, Faith Heights seemed entirely separate from the rest of the world, but at least I wasn't alone here. Nothing could hurt me, not with witnesses behind so many windows.
I ignored the prickly hairs at the back of my neck as I approached Leclair's front door, and knocked lightly. Leclair had said that the angels were arriving in a week, but I needed to know the exact date. Nick still hadn't replied after I'd rang him a handful of times, and I wanted to gather all the information possible before I went looking for him. Perhaps Leclair, with her all-knowing bizarreness, could tell me where he and Lucas were hiding.
When she didn't reply, I knocked again. Maybe I should have just come back another time. But it wasn't as if it was an unreasonable hour, and she'd called on me often enough for me to think it was within my rights to visit with questions. No sound came from inside, not her foreboding heels or her usual jazz records.
"Headmistress?" I called. "It's Lila Simmons. I was hoping to speak with you."
No response. I knocked again, more forcefully. To my surprise, the door creaked open, as if someone had forgotten to close it in their haste. Leclair must have been inside if the door was left unlocked. Maybe she had headphones on, or was in the shower? Hesitantly, I pushed the door open a little wider and slid inside, shutting it behind me. A small part of me hoped to give Leclair a fraction of the surprise she'd forced on me this past year.
"Headmistress?" I called again. The room was dark, and once again the cleanliness of the building struck me as unnatural. Everything was in perfect condition, although there was a thick layer of dust set over everything I could see in the minimal light.
Her office and bedroom doors were open, but there was no movement from within. Even though nothing was out of place, something seemed off, like the way the air darkened before a storm.
I should have left the building, but my feet propelled me forward. I checked the interview room, but it too was empty. The curtains were drawn shut in every room, which I'd never noticed before. It shouldn't have struck me as strange, but I couldn't rid myself of the disorienting pit in my stomach.
It was reminiscent of the first time I'd met Lucas, when my body's instincts had told me to run in the opposite direction. Those instincts, built up over several lifetimes, were easier to explain now that I knew the truth of his past actions. But I had no idea why I was feeling the same reflex here, in Leclair's empty apartment.
Nonetheless, I didn't need to be told twice. I was about to listen to the internal warning and leave, when something glistening caught my eye.
I'd glanced at Leclair's living room, the couch, coffee table, and small, old-fashioned television set. But I hadn't looked any further into the dark room. I could barely make it out in the scarce light, but there was something that didn't fit with the rest of the room, tucked away in the corner. I couldn't make it out from here, but it looked like some sort of rug thrown over the furthest armchair.
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?"