Deciding I either need to stop freaking myself out or go back to bed, I walk through the door. And try to ignore that all the candles in the sconces and chandeliers are still lit.
Then again, it’s a good thing they are. Because it’s not like I can just flip a switch and flood the place with light. Even though I want to. The bone chandeliers look a million times creepier now that I know they’re actually real bones and not some cool student-made art project.
For a second, I think about forgetting the whole thing. About heading back to my room and to hell with the tunnels. Staring at the ceiling above my bed has to be better than making my way through Katmere’s very own version of the Paris Catacombs on my own.
But the need to paint has been growing exponentially in me since I left my room a little while ago, until I can practically feel the paint brush in my hand. Until I can practically smell the pungent oil of the paints on my canvas.
Besides, if I let these tunnels—and the memories they hold—run me out of here now, I don’t know if I’ll ever again work up the nerve to come back.
With that thought in mind, I pull out my phone and swipe open the music app I downloaded earlier. I choose one of my happy playlists—Summertime （Un）Sadness—and “I’m Born to Run” fills up the silence around me. It’s hard to be scared when American Authors are singing about how they want to live their life like it’s never enough. Talk about an anthem tailor-made for this situation.
So in the end, I do what they suggest. I run. And not some little jog, either. I run my ass off, ignoring how the altitude makes my lungs feel like they want to explode.
Ignoring everything except the need to get through this damn creep-fest as fast as I possibly can.
I don’t slow down until I’m running at a slant up the tunnel that leads to the art cottage. Once I finally make it to the unlocked door, I shove it and practically trip over my feet in my haste to get inside.
The first thing I do is reach for the light switch just to the left of the door. The second thing I do is slam the door shut as hard as I can and flip the lock. I know Dr. MacCleary says she always keeps the door open in case one of her students is inspired, but as far as I know, she didn’t just narrowly escape being a human sacrifice. I figure that gives me at least a little bit of leeway.
Besides, if someone else is actually ridiculous enough to want in here tonight, they can knock. As long as I know for sure they aren’t trying to kill me, I’ll be happy to let them in.
Sure, maybe I’m being paranoid. But I wasn’t paranoid enough four months ago, and all that got me was a vacation I can’t remember and my very own set of horns.
That’s not a mistake I’m going to make a second time.
After spending a minute just catching my breath, I grab the paints I need and head into the classroom. I’ve already got a really clear idea of what I want the finished background to look like—and what I need to do to get it there.
With any luck, the monsters of Katmere Academy will hold off trying to kill me long enough for me to get something done. Then again, the night is young.
18
I Think I Had
Amnesia Once…
or Twice
“Come on, Grace, wake up. You’re going to miss breakfast if you don’t get up soon.”
“Sleepy,” I mumble as I roll onto my stomach and away from Macy’s annoyingly cheerful voice.
“I know you’re sleepy, but you have to get up. Class starts in forty minutes and you haven’t even had a shower yet.”
“No shower.” I grab my comforter and pull it over my head, making sure to keep my eyes closed so I won’t be blinded by the hot-pink fabric. Or give Macy the idea that I’m actually awake. Because I very definitely am not.
“Graaaaaace,” she whines, tugging on the comforter as hard as she can. But I’ve got a death grip on the thing, and I’m not about to let it go anytime soon. “You promised Jaxon we’d meet him in the dining hall in five minutes. You have to get up.”
It’s the mention of Jaxon that eventually breaks through my dazed stupor and allows Macy to pull my comforter down. Cold air rushes against my face, and I make a half-hearted grab for the covers, still without opening my eyes.
Macy laughs. “I feel like our roles are suddenly reversed here. I’m the one who’s supposed to be hard to get out of bed.”
I make another lunge for the comforter and this time end up grabbing onto a corner of it. “Give me,” I plead, so tired I can’t imagine actually getting out of bed. “Gimme, gimme, gimme.”