Page 69 of Coveted

“What is it?” I ask when I reach Lucan, trying to keep my voice light.

Wordlessly, he gives me the paper.

Reading it, I swear under my breath.

Death comes in threes. First Hannah, then Parker. I bet the cute scholarship girl is next.

My back tingles like sharp fingernails are dragging over my skin.

“Who wrote this?” I ask.

Lucan stands, his eyes roving over the attendees. “I don’t know. But I’ll fucking kill all of them before anyone hurts you.”

“It’s probably just some asshole making a bad joke.”

But his stare is a thousand miles away, like he’s already decided it’s his job to fix the situation and there’s nothing I can say to stop him.

He clamps his hand around my wrist. “Come with me, Sadie.”

“What?” I try to tug myself free. “Where?”

His hold on me tightens.

While I hit him and hiss, Lucan leads me to a stone platform under an archway in the middle of the room.

An altar.

We draw the attention of every guest, conversations petering out. The bass through the speaker continues thudding like a frantic heartbeat, matching mine.

Lucan produces a switchblade knife from inside his jacket, like the one he anonymously sent me.

Dread fills my chest like floodwater.

Oh god, what is he doing?

I pull harder to get away, but he holds me easily.

The crowd falls completely silent and becomes deathly still. From up here on the altar, the guests resemble eerie stone statues.

My eyes search out Clara and Juliette in the dark sea of faces. Juliette tries to dash to me, but Clara grabs her and pulls her back, muttering urgently in her ear. Within moments, Juliette stops trying to get to me, standing to watch like everyone else.

Clara gives me an encouraging nod, which bewilders me further. What could possibly be okay about Lucan hauling me onto a literal altar and producing a knife? Is this another “harmless” Darkbloom tradition? Because I’m beginning to think those don’t exist and the people here are nuts.

Before I can bite Lucan’s hand as a last resort, he brings the switchblade down swiftly.

Gritting my teeth, I wait for a sting.

No pain comes though.

As he releases me, he slices his palm with the blade. Blood flicks to the stone beneath our feet like syrupy wine.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, staring at him in horror.

Has he lost his mind?

Was he ever in possession of it?

He presses his bloodied thumb to my forehead, marking me.