Page 125 of Divine Oaths

“So you mean he didn’t drink it?”

“No, it was Honey, she…” Alaster hesitated. “She took Kasem’s glass and drank from it instead. Like she knew.”

“Sigma and Theta did organize the vigil,” the president said simply.

“Under your orders and supervision,” Alaster challenged. “You didn’t—”

“Are you accusing me of something?” the president said, his voice stern, baiting Alaster to say what they were both thinking.

“No—no, I… Of course not. I apologize if that’s how my words came across. I just… I’m taking everything in.”

“I thought you wanted the Westfield estate.”

“I did. I do.”

“And yet you hesitate,” the president said. “This is a golden opportunity. Kasem may not have been poisoned, but no one will know otherwise if he dies tonight. He’ll just be another one of tonight’s casualties.”

Alaster swallowed. “But this is wrong. I—I never agreed to any of this. We can file petitions, make our case for why our side should have the estate. The Board already has the conservatorship. They’re the ones who want me as heir. But this isn’t who we are. You’ve told me that over and over again, since we were children.”

Suddenly, there was a violent crack.

The president had backhanded Alaster.

“Don’t be so sniveling and pathetic. Stay the course and you will have your inheritance. When Kasem dies, we’ll make him the perpetrator of tonight. Understood? But if you fail, I will put this disaster on you.”

Alaster recoiled from the president. For a long moment, silence stretched between them.

He thought he was speaking to the man who had raised him, but in reality, he was speaking to the creator of the curse that had destroyed the Saint James lineage.

“Now,” the president said, “if Honey dies, her spirit will search for that ring. I want you to keep it for her. If it’s destroyed, then her spirit will die forever. And you’ll never see her again. Do you understand that, Alaster? There are a few other objects like the ring that I need to collect. The crow masks from the swamp, and the one you are holding now. The champagne flutes gifted to our current board of trustees. All of them are special. All of them must be preserved.”

The ring, the crow masks, the champagne flutes—they would all be relics that trapped souls. Winhall had been responsible for so many torturous deaths and, in turn, was creating wraiths. They’d do his bidding however he ordained it, whether they pursued the Saint James heirs or killed Poppies to make more wraiths of them.

Everything fell into place in that moment. The curse. The deaths at Westfield. The hazing rituals. This whole time, I had believed that only the Kent lineage of the Saint James family was cursed. But there was another side to the curse, the unmitigated consequence of General Winhall’s reign of terror on the university.

From the botched summonings to the hazing rituals to students like Danny, who’d suffered under the weight of the university’s iron grip, and everyone who’d drunk the poison during the vigil. In complying with General Winhall’s will, all of them became manifestations of the curse, whether they knew they were his puppets or whether they did his will as a way of propping up Westfield as an institution.

“Father, please. Why are you doing this? Ever since you became president, you haven’t been yourself. Remember when Grandfather died? You told me he changed too, when he’d inherited the presidency. And so have you. You’ve changed.”

At the door, there came a knock. Provost Henning emerged, and she was joined by three Sigmas.

“Why haven’t the authorities been called yet?” Provost Henning demanded. “I’ve spoken with Angelica and she said the situation is dire in the medical ward. She’s working on an antidote for the poison, but she won’t have enough.”

“We were just heading there ourselves,” the president said, nodding at Alaster. “Go first. We’ll meet you.”

Alaster didn’t hesitate. He was out the door and gone, leaving just the president, the Sigmas, and the provost.

“Sigmas,” President Saint James said. “Why are you unmasked?”

Without hesitation, the three Sigmas wore the masks they’d brought with them. It happened in an instant. Their heads snapped back; the pointed beaks of the crow masks that now covered their faces oozed silver. Three figures emerged: the Sigmas from the swamp. The ones who had died that day with Luke. They too had become wraiths. And now they were possessing the living Sigmas.

Provost Henning screamed, fainting instantly. One of the fraternity brothers caught her before she fell while the president’s laughter boomed.

“If she’s dead, find a relic to trap her soul,” he said. “For too long, I’ve let her and other faculty exist here without one of my soldiers tethered to them. When the members of the board are dead, you may gift them their own relics, but remind them that I am their creator. And I, who have existed in this infernal form for centuries, demand their loyalty. If they dare defy me, I will destroy them and their relics and curse them to the afterlife with brimstone and fire.”

“Yes, General.”

They left then, the president and the Sigmas, with Provost Henning in tow.