They sense weakness.

Macy and I race down the stairs together, then split off once we get to the first floor. She has drama in one of the outside cottages while I have Ethics of Power. It’s a senior seminar taught for one six-week period, and it’s required to graduate—I assume because Uncle Finn isn’t okay with sending a bunch of powerful paranormals into the world without some grounding in right and wrong.

It’s an interesting subject, and also the only one I’m taking that I’m currently doing well in, since I haven’t missed any classes, but I dread it anyway. The teacher is brilliant, but she’s also a real jerk. Plus, her classroom is, by far, the scariest room at Katmere—and that’s saying something, considering the tunnels down below the castle are filled with human bones.

I’ve asked about a million times what this room was originally used for, but no one ever answers me. I think it’s because they’re trying to spare my delicate sensibilities, but all the not-knowing does is spur my imagination on…and not in a good way. How many reasons could there possibly be for soot stains and claw marks etched into stone? Especially when there are remnants of what look to be iron shackles at various heights and locations in the room…

A quick glance at my phone tells me I’ve got about a minute before the tardy chimes go off—and by chimes, I mean the chorus of Uncle Finn’s new favorite song, Billie Eilish’s “Bury a Friend.” Because he really is all about the atmosphere. It drives Macy up the wall, but after spending the last twelve years of my life following a boring bell schedule, this makes a nice change.

The ethics classroom is separated from the rest of the castle by a long, winding, windowless hallway, and I move through it at a run—partly because I’m late and partly because I really hate being in this passageway alone.

There’s nothing overtly scary about it, except every time I walk through here, I get a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with Alaska and everything to do with something being off in this part of the school. Really, really off.

Of course, the hallway leads to what I’m pretty sure is a centuries-old torture chamber, so is it any surprise it feels creepy?

Eventually the passageway ends, and even though I know I’ll be late, I pause for just a second to get my wits about me and to smooth my hair. After all, its location isn’t the only thing that makes this the scariest room at Katmere. It’s what’s inside that also stresses me out.

Which is why, even though the tardy chimes sound, I still take a couple of moments for a few deep breaths before opening the door and ducking inside the large, circular classroom. I keep my head down and aim for one of the empty desks in the back, but I’ve barely taken two steps before my teacher’s voice booms across the classroom.

“Welcome, Miss Foster. So nice of you to join us for class today.”

“I’m sorry I’m late, Ms. Virago.” I start to tell her it won’t happen again, but I’ve been at Katmere Academy long enough to know not to make promises like that. Especially to the most shrewish teacher in the school.

“As am I.” She speaks slowly, biting off each word like it’s the enemy. “See me after class for an assignment to make up what you missed.”

What I missed? I glance around the room, trying to figure out what I could possibly have missed in ten seconds, but it doesn’t even look like they’ve started taking notes yet. Ms. Virago must see me looking, though, because her eyes narrow right before she spins around and marches back up to the front of the classroom, her heels clapping out an angry staccato rhythm with each step that she takes.

“Is there a problem, Miss Foster?”

“No, not at all—”

“Then perhaps you should explain to us how Rawls’s first principle can be applied—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am.” Hudson’s voice rings through the classroom, his tone placating and…angelic? “But could you please go over what Kant’s stand would be on magical torture one more time? I’m still a little confused by his categorical imperative—”

She sighs heavily. “CI is not that hard to understand, Mr. Vega. At least not if you pay attention.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just really struggling with Kant’s entire philosophy, to be honest.” There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice, and I swear he sounds sweeter than I have ever heard him.

“Well, then maybe you should see me after class, too. You and Miss Foster can spend your weekend working on an extra-credit project together.”

“I would—”

A loud cracking sound fills the air, and half of Jaxon’s pen goes flying across the room. It bounces off Ms. Virago’s podium before rolling across the floor to land at her feet.

She turns her stink eye on Jaxon and Flint who, God bless him, cracks up. Just full-on starts laughing like a hyena in the middle of class.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I hate this damn class despite the interesting subject. Not only do we have the teacher from hell, but somehow I’m part of the most screwed-up testosterone-filled quadrangle—rectangle—square?—in history.

And that’s before Ms. Virago announces we’re going to spend the class working on different ethical problems as part of a group project—right before she gives a viperish smile and says, “Oh, and Miss Foster, Mr. Vega, the other Mr. Vega, and Mr. Montgomery, the four of you will be doing today’s very first presentation.”

19

Misery Hates

Company

“Really?” Jaxon is the first one to speak after we push our desks together. “You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?”

“This coming from the child who threw his pen at the teacher?” Hudson snipes back.

“I didn’t throw it. I—” He breaks off as he realizes his defense of what happened is going nowhere good.

“How are you, Grace?” Flint smiles.

“I’m fine.” As long as you don’t count having to spend the next ninety minutes in my own personal version of hell. “Why?”

“No reason.” He shrugs. “Just thought you were…”

“Looking a little rough?” I fill in for him. “It was a long night.”

Jaxon glares at him. “She looks fine.”

“I never said she didn’t,” Flint responds.

“You okay?” Hudson asks softly. “Did something happen after I left?”

“You spent the night with him?” Jaxon’s voice is emotionless, but the eyes he turns on me are anything but.

“Evening,” I tell him. “We spent the evening in—”

“Wow.” He swings his gaze back to Hudson. “Preying on upset girls is super classy.”

“Wait a minute!” I interject. “Nobody was preying on anyone—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have upset her,” Hudson interrupts me. “Then you could have spent the night with her.”

“Evening!” I clarify again as Jaxon’s fist clenches on his thigh.

“So how do you think Kant would feel about this whole thing you’ve got going on?” Flint interjects with a wave of his hand, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Hudson and Jaxon like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Are you high right now or something?” I demand.

“Hey, someone’s got to do the actual classwork,” he shoots back. “I’m just trying to do my part.”

“By exacerbating the situation?” I glare at him.

“By refocusing us on ethics philosophers,” he answers with a look so deliberately pious, I’m surprised he hasn’t pulled out a halo to plop right on top of his afro.

“You couldn’t wait to go to him?” Jaxon asks.

“If by ‘go to him,’ you mean running into him in the library, then yes,” I tell him, not even trying to hide how insulted I feel.

“You know,” Hudson adds, “the big room with the books. Oh wait, do you even know what a book is?”

“I need a new group,” I say to no one in particular.

“I’ll be in your group,” Flint volunteers.

“You’re already in my group,” I tell him through gritted teeth. “That’s kind of the point of a new group.”

“Hey!” He pulls a mock-wounded face. “I’m the only one in this group who’s done any work.”

“Oh, really?” I ask. “And what work have you done exactly?”

He scoots his notebook over to me. He’s drawn a line down the center of the page and written Kant at the top of one side and Hudson at the top of the other. Underneath Kant is a sketch of Jaxon…with devil horns and a pointy tail.

Hudson leans over to check out Flint’s work and grins. “It’s a surprisingly good likeness,” he tells Flint, who holds his hand out for a fist bump.

“What do you think Kant and Kierkegaard would say about bringing your personal issues into the classroom?” Ms. Virago’s voice slices through the already thick tension surrounding our group.

Because what this conversation really needs is her butting her nose in and making everything worse. I don’t want to make excuses to this woman, but since I can’t trust any of my partners not to screw things up, I know I need to try.