Foretold (St. Bastian Institute 1)

“Yeah, but maybe if we’d been through what he had, we’d go a little bit murdery, too.”

“First off, murdery isn’t a word, and second, he’s Theodore’s son. Psychopathy is in his blood.” I realised my error when I glanced from the road to Peter and found him frowning.

“Then it must be in my blood, too,” he said in a low voice.

I reached out and squeezed his thigh. “It’s not the same. You’re only distantly related to Theodore. And we have no idea what kind of life Vasilios lived before he got here. He said Oreylia was a harsh place, and even in that harsh place, he was considered an outcast because of his mixed heritage. That has to affect a person’s sanity.”

Now, Peter smiled. “I think you just made my point for me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, you win. Poor little Vasilios has some kind of villain origin story that we’ll probably never know all the details of, but that still won’t make me feel sorry for him. If he was free right now, he’d be out there plotting to murder my parents and take over the city.”

“I guess it’s good that he’s being sent to a prison no one’s ever escaped from,” Peter said.

“Yes. Now can we try and forget about Vasilios? I want to focus on enjoying our date and your handsome company.”

Peter’s smile deepened as he leaned towards me and placed a featherlight kiss on my neck. “As you wish,” he murmured, and desire coiled in the pit of my stomach.

Oh, I was going to have a really hard time keeping my hands off him in the darkened movie theatre.

20.

It was Valentine’s Day, and I was puzzling over what to wear.

Peter had something special planned. He said to be ready at eight, but I couldn’t decide whether to wear trousers or a dress. A dress seemed like the fancier option, but it was still February, and even my dhampir genes couldn’t defend against the bitter cold outside.

Oh, screw it. I’d wear the dress. Hopefully, whatever Peter had planned for us would take place indoors. I pulled the deep blue midi dress from my wardrobe, laid it out on the bed, and went to see if Rebecca had any hair accessories that I could borrow.

When I returned to my room, armed with a hair clip the same colour as my dress, I paused in the doorway.

“How had he …?” I said, walking over and admiring the vase of red roses sitting on my dresser. They shimmered with magic, and my skin tingled as I pictured Peter sneakily teleporting to my room to leave them for me to find.

How romantic.

There was a white card nestled within the roses. I plucked it up, a smile on my face as I opened it to read the message. Then, my face fell as my heartbeat sped up, eyes scanning the neat, cursive letters as anxiety swarmed my belly. This wasn’t Peter’s handwriting. No, this was the same handwriting that had been on the note in my locker, the one left by Vasilios.

Dearest Darya,

Is it too soon to ask if you miss me? I have been wallowing in this cell for only a week, and already, the walls are closing in. But never fear. I have a plan to reunite us sooner than you think. In the meantime, I hope you like the roses. I’ve bespelled them with a little surprise. Simply pluck a petal from one of the stems to reveal it.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Yours always,

V.

xxx.

Panic coursed through me as I stared at the roses. They continued to shimmer with magic, but I didn’t dare touch them. For all I knew, the spell could be a malevolent one. And if the dark look Vasilios had given me when he realised my deception was anything to go by, in all likelihood, it was designed to cause harm. I dashed from my room, finding my parents downstairs in the living room.

“Darya, what is it?” Mum asked, eyeing me in concern.

“You both need to come upstairs,” I said, out of breath.

They followed me up, and I gestured to the flowers.

“Are those from Peter?” Dad asked.

I shook my head. “They’re from Vasilios.”

“That’s not possible. He’s been sent to the Prison of Thorns,” Mum said.

“Look,” I told her, handing her the note. “That’s definitely his handwriting.”

Mum studied it while Dad eyed the note over her shoulder.

“How the hell did he manage to get the flowers in here?” I asked in alarm. My skin crawled at the possibilities.

“It shouldn’t be possible,” Mum said, her hand hovering over the flowers. She was far braver than I when she plucked off a petal, and then the flowers emitted a strange tune.

“Is that a song?” I asked, the melody sounding familiar.

“I think so,” Mum said.

Vasilios had bespelled the flowers with a song. But why? My dad’s face was thoughtful as he listened. “It sounds like “Sealed with a Kiss” by Bobby Vinton.”