Angry God (All Saints High 3)

We watched them from behind the grand bushes.

We’re safe, I thought. He saved me.

Yet I couldn’t thank him. Not after what he did with Arabella. Not after he called me a liar. Not after he’d humiliated me so many times in front of the people I hated.

I’d dreamed of piercing his heart with a spiked sword, and this act of kindness, of heroism, only made things worse somehow.

“Why did you even care? You said your father owns the police.”

“I’d walk away unscathed. You, on the other hand…” he trailed off, watching the firemen roam my backyard.

“And you care because…?”

He turned around to look at me. “I’m not done fucking with you.”

I wish you wouldn’t come to England.

For a moment I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud, that it had slipped past my lips, bitter and full of menace. I had a violent need to hurt him back. To get even. Then to save him, too. To be his equal. A god and a mortal, defying all odds.

“Wait till I get there, GG. You’ll wish I were dead.”

No one mentioned the party after what happened.

Not the next day, when Papa, Poppy, and I boarded the plane to Heathrow, or the days that followed, when everyone settled back in England—Dad and I at Carlisle Castle, which was empty due to summer break (summer session hadn’t started yet), and Poppy at our Hampstead Heath house.

Poppy naturally presumed I’d escaped the attic on my own—she didn’t know I dropped the key—and I didn’t correct her assumption. When Papa questioned us about what happened that night, we were both adamant that a lit cigarette had caught the bushes on fire, and we’d called the firefighters.

Naturally, the Todos Santos police came to investigate, too. And when they’d concluded, they backed this version of events. All they needed was one tilt of the head from Vaughn Spencer. He wasn’t joking—his family really did rule the bloody town.

I wasn’t mad at Poppy. She had no way of knowing I was trapped. I didn’t have my phone with me, and when I dropped my key, there was so much commotion and noise in the backyard, she surely missed it. But there was one persistent part of me that wondered why she hadn’t looked for me—at least checked.

Even though I was in Berkshire and she was in London, Poppy still sent me a fresh basket of something sweet every day. Sometimes a courier knocked on my dorm door. Sometimes Papa left it on the threshold of my room. Sometimes it simply showed up on my nightstand in the morning. It was her silent way of saying she’d cocked up, she knew it, and it wasn’t going to happen again.

Apology accepted, sis.

My abbreviated summer came and went in a colorful, sticky blur. Pope was yachting in the Seychelles with his parents and two older sisters. I very much doubted he spent the time preparing for his internship. I didn’t know what Vaughn was up to, but I was sure it involved some sort of satanic ritual, knife play, and torturing babies.

Me, I was holed up in my new room in Carlisle Castle on the staff and interns’ floor, devouring book after book, greeting Papa in the hallways occasionally, and planning for my next assemblage. The new room had been furnished and decorated with the things Papa had found in my old room, the things I had purchased with Mum when I was twelve: the Nightmare Before Christmas sheets and pillows from our visit to Stratford, The Cure posters we got in Camden Town, photos of my portfolio—yellowed and dated, curling at the edges—stapled to the walls. Even Mum’s flowery quilt was still there, and when I inhaled into it really deeply, squeezing my eyes shut, I swore the faint scent of her clean perfume and sweet self wafted into my nostrils.

My things in my room hadn’t changed one bit from the last time I was here, yet it didn’t feel like mine anymore.

The year in Todos Santos had changed me. Everything looked silly and juvenile through the same eyes that had watched a house burning, an angry boy being pleasured in front of the entire school, and my sister’s heart shattering on the hallway floor of All Saints High in front of the “It” crowd. I couldn’t help but look at my room through Vaughn’s icicle eyes, and what I saw embarrassed me.

I didn’t even know why, but still couldn’t bear to make any changes.

It wasn’t like it mattered. It wasn’t like I was planning on inviting him over. In fact, I’d filed a request to change the lock on my room, because most locks were too easy to pick, and I didn’t want to take any chances where it came to Vaughn Spencer.

Two weeks after my return to Carlisle Prep, I sat in my room, working on my next assemblage. I’d started from the prop—the crown—because I figured it would take me the longest. The pinnacle of thorns was almost done, elaborate and heavy, coiling up like a gigantic crest. Thorns, like Vaughn, were difficult to work with—spiky, yet delicate. They broke so easily, but made me bleed so often. I’d never worked with such an evasive material before.