TRIGGER-WARNING:
The following chapter contains a depiction of self-inflicted gun violence resulting in death. Proceed with caution.

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The trees along West Street clung to the last vestiges of fall, brittle leaves crunching underfoot as the air carried the chill of winter and the scent of roasted chestnuts. Deputy Malik Thompson strolled along the idyllic storefront located in the heart of the small, rural town of Lockwood, Pennsylvania. He carried two steaming coffees, watching Doctor Henry MacGowan carefully.

Malik had been conducting this investigation largely on his own. The school's administration was notoriously tight-lipped, and he wasn't sure who he could trust within his own department anymore. Hope compelled him to believe that the truth may not lie within official statements, but perhaps within the fragmented whispers of those on the periphery. When he'd learned that MacGowan was willing to speak with him—despite the risk—Malik seized the opportunity. Perhaps this troubled faculty member could offer a glimpse into the darkness that seemed to suffocate the school.

The psychiatrist clutched his cup with a shaky hand, his knuckles white against the paper sleeve. The warmth seemed to offer little comfort, his nose as red as the rims of his eyes. Cold sweat dripped down the man's temple. His eyes darted between the quaint shops, their holiday decorations shimmering in the late afternoon light.

"You been drinking?" Malik asked, breaking the silence with a directness that matched the brisk pace of their walk.

MacGowan's gaze snapped to Malik, eyes wide. "You said you wanted to ask me about the student."

Malik adjusted his grip on the coffee. "Help me understand what's going on. You said you should have known—that you could've stopped it."

"If I speak with you, I'll be in breach of my contract."

"And yet, you're here." Malik raised his brow, glancing at the holiday lights flickering in the shop windows. "Look, I can see that you're scared, Doctor, and that's okay. You're a good man. I can see that in you. And confidentiality agreements don't bind you when it comes to the law." He took a deep breath, then asked softly, "What should you have seen coming?"

MacGowan's lip quivered, eyes falling to the ground, his steps faltering. "They keep dying. I can't stop it. I watch them, but I can't . . . understand the pattern." He dipped a shaky hand into his coat pocket, and Malik tensed for a moment, just before the psychiatrist withdrew a journal and handed it over.

"You watch the students?" asked Malik, flipping through its flagged pages. He nodded approvingly. "This'll be very useful, Doctor. Thank you. What about the faculty? Do you monitor your colleagues?"

"It's no man," said MacGowan, eyes shifting as though he was expecting someone to leap from the shadows. His fingers twitch over his other coat pocket.

Malik stopped, pulling his own windbreaker closer against the cold wind. "What do you mean?"

"I see that look." The doctor shook his head. "You have no idea what you're up against. You think you've got a serial killer on your hands."

Malik met his troubled gaze with a steady one. "What do you think?"

MacGowan hesitated, his breath misting in the frigid air. "Sometimes, the students involved in these incidents . . . They come to me before it happens. It's unsettling, but familiar. Every time, it's as though I'm no longer speaking with them . . . It's like, they have this glaze over their eyes, a frightening haze that makes me feel like I'm suddenly five years old again, staring at my father's face just before he beats me with his belt."

"I'm not sure I follow, Doctor."

"It's no man. I—I can't tell you what it is. But . . ." MacGowan's hands trembled, liquid sloshing dangerously in his coffee cup. "It got her. Monica."

Malik glanced at the man's tremors.

"I've failed them," said the doctor through gritted teeth. "It's coming for me next."

Malik stepped forward. "What is?"

"It wants me to hurt them. Hurt those kids I've spent my entire life trying to protect. I'm not strong enough to fight it. It's going to get me, and it will make me hurt them. Hurt them in awful, awful ways."

Malik noticed something had caught the doctor's attention, something behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, the deputy noticed a store clerk through the window, sweeping his little shop. The keep was watching them, a smile on his lips, and eyes the strangest hue of green.

"It's always been there," MacGowan pressed, pulling the deputy's eyes back to him, "lurking, waiting, watching, trying to get close to me." MacGowan's voice broke, eyes distant as he studied the shopkeep. "I thought I was watching them, but . . . it was watching me. And I can't let that happen."

"Doctor—"

"It won't use my hands!" the doctor yelled. Malik's heart dropped, he had been too distracted by the shopkeep, he hadn't noticed MacGowan pull a Smith & Wesson from his winter coat. Swiftly, the revolver was in the doctor's mouth. In the distance, a taxi beeped its horn.

"No!" Malik yelled, but he was too late.

There was a deafening boom. And then, the townsfolk screamed.

◢✥◣

Bianca Hawthorne wallowed in the greenhouse of Maria J. Westwood, a haven nestled within the sprawling gardens of the estate. It was a palace of life, where green dominated every corner, and Bianca could lose herself in its vibrant embrace. The cool, earthy scent of damp soil, the sweet perfume of flowers in bloom, the soft hum of bees flitting from blossom to blossom—it was healing to be here, surrounded by life.

She moved slowly, tracing her fingers over the velvety leaves of a potted fern, the texture grounding her to the present. Green had always been this. The color of life, of growth, but lately . . . it had taken on a different hue, one tainted with fear and death. Here, surrounded by plants thriving in their little ecosystem, she hoped to reclaim the color, to find some semblance of peace.

For however much longer she had left to live . . .

Bianca stood in the center of the greenhouse, the events of homecoming night playing over and over in her mind. The knife. The blood. The green. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the memories, but they refused to be ignored.

A voice broke through the haze, soft and tentative. "Hey, Bianca."

Bianca turned, her heart skipping when she saw Jackie Kwon, standing at the entrance. For a moment, they stared. Then, they rushed toward each other, arms outstretched. They collided in a desperate embrace, sobs wracking their bodies as they clung to one another. The tears flowed freely, and for a while, there were no words, just the raw, unfiltered grief that had been bottled up for too long.

"I've missed you so much," Jackie cried into Bianca's shoulder, voice muffled but heavy with emotion.

"I'm so sorry," Bianca gasped. "I'm so sorry for everything."

"I miss her," Jackie whispered, and Bianca agreed, plummeting them into another round of sobs. They held each other for what felt like an eternity, the world outside fading away as they sat with their pain. Slowly, the cries subsided, and they pulled apart, wiping each other's tear-streaked faces with shaky hands.

"Have you seen Cole?" Bianca asked.

Jackie shook her head. "I can't be around any of them right now. It's just too hard." Her eyes softened. "Are you worried about him?"

Bianca nodded. "He must be hurting right now."

"Because of Rayne and Lucas?" Jackie asked, already knowing the answer. She wiped her eyes. "Those two can't even contain themselves now that it's out. It's like they've already forgotten all about Hillary."

"Death is the shadow of love," Bianca whispered. "If we didn't love, then it wouldn't hurt so much to lose them."

Jackie pondered this a moment, her frustration seeming to melt away from her brow. "I guess I'm just surprised they were seeing each other all this time, that's all."

"I don't think they were. I think they were scared of Cole." Bianca nodded at her own speculation, the pieces of the puzzle fitting together a little too well. "No, they tiptoed around him until they couldn't fight their feelings anymore." Softly, she said, "And I think that's beautiful."

"Does that mean you like her now or something?"

"Or something . . ." Bianca's face crumpled, fresh tears threatening to well in her eyes. "Jackie, I will never stop regretting what I put you through. It was wrong. I wish I never pushed you away."

"What happened, Bianca? What happened that night?"

Before she could respond, the greenhouse door creaked shut, and they both turned to see Cole Bradford, leaning in the doorway, his muscles flexed under black-and-white tattoos, arms crossed. His presence was like a storm cloud rolling in, darkening the serenity.

"Cole," Bianca said, gasping, "we were just—"

"Oh, don't worry," he interrupted, pushing himself off the frame to draw nearer. "I definitely missed the part where I'm some evil overlord getting in the way of young love."

"I didn't mean it like—"

He cut her off with a dismissive wave. "Doesn't matter. That's not why I'm here." His eyes locked onto Bianca, the fire in them sending a familiar shiver down her spine. "B, can I talk to you? Alone?"

Jackie stood. "Anything you say to her, you can say in front of me."

"Fine then." His expression hardened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he moved closer to Bianca, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. She gasped, and before she knew it, found herself pressed up against the cold glass wall of the greenhouse, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Cole!" Jackie scolded. "Leave her alone!"

"Don't look so surprised," he murmured to Bianca, looking her up and down. "You said you needed me. I'm just"—he gripped her tighter—"fulfilling the request."

Bianca pushed him. "I didn't mean it like that."

Jackie glared at him with clenched fists. "You are such a dick."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. Let me have another guess then." He turned back to Bianca, eyes narrowing. "How did Hillary get that knife, B?"

Bianca glanced at Jackie, her blood running cold.

Cole stepped closer. "Green eyes mean anything to you?"

Bianca's eyes widened in horror, the memories she'd been trying so hard to suppress flooding back. The green. The knife. The terror in Hillary's eyes.

Jackie noticed the change in Bianca's demeanor, her voice softening as she spoke. "You know . . . Your eyes were green that night, Bianca. Do you know anything about that?"

"I—" Bianca stammered, her gaze flicking between Cole and Jackie, panic rising in her chest. "Cole, I . . . I can't— I don't know how to say this, but . . ."

"You're scared," he stated plainly.

She nodded, eyes downcast.

Cole reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it slowly. "Of this?" he asked, holding up a drawing for her to see.

Bianca's hands flew to her trembling lips, tears streaming down her face. "You know?"

Jackie leaned in, trying to get a better look.

The first flicker of genuine compassion finally lit his face. "I was hoping you'd tell me. What's going on, B?" he asked, his voice even gentler now. "What happened to you?"

Bianca couldn't hold it in any longer. The tears came in a torrent, her sobs echoing throughout the greenhouse as the weight of secrets threatened to crush her. The green of the plants around her blurred as she sank to the ground.

Jackie knelt beside her, wrapping her arms around her in a protective embrace. "It's okay, Bianca," she whispered, her voice soothing. "We're here. We're here with you. Just talk to us."

But Bianca wasn't sure that it mattered anymore. The shadows of that night were closing in, and she didn't know if there was a way out. Not this time.

◢✥◣

After a grueling day of detention, Rayne Foster had spent two hours immersed in the quiet of the Maria J. Westwood library. As part of her mandated community service, she'd been diligently filing books and organizing shelves. The task was monotonous but managed to offer a tranquil escape from the chaos of her life.

Her body usually ran cold, often seeking layers to ward off the chill; but these days, the anger and fear that had been a constant presence in her life had her running hotter than usual. She could feel a restless heat pooling in her skin, making the library's cold air almost oppressive. Her uniform was half-complete: a fitted sweater vest in a deep shade of gray that contrasted the bareness of her light brown arms. A pair of wide-legged black slacks highlighted her lean frame.

She smiled across the room when Lucas Abbott walked in, his presence a welcome distraction amidst the stacks of dusty tomes. He ambled toward the common area. The grand fireplace dominated the rearward wall, casting light over the intimate seating areas; the most striking of these was a collection of deep armchairs, upholstered in rich, burgundy leather that had aged to a patina of dark crimson. They were oversized and inviting, their high, winged backs and cushioned seats offering both comfort and a sense of seclusion.

Lucas lounged in one of the oversized chairs, his attire a testament to an entirely different day's work. His assignment was outdoors, in the garden by the courtyard. His crisp, white button-down was now crinkled, stained with earthly smudges. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing sun-kissed forearms. Despite the grime, a silver ring around his index finger caught the light from the faux-candles in the library's ornate sconces, a hint of his usual elegance amidst the dishevelment.

Lucas remained seated, absorbed in his book, though every now and then, their eyes would meet in fleeting glances. His lips curled into soft smiles that sent warm ripples through her. As soon as her last task was finished, Rayne made her way to him, her pulse quickening with a mix of relief and anticipation. Without lifting his gaze from the book, Lucas extended his hand toward her as she approached, placing a distracted kiss over her knuckles. She felt a flicker of disappointment—until he tugged her into his lap, settling her into the space that seemed to belong to her now.

He leaned forward, lips brushing her shoulder as he whispered, "How're you doing, baby?"

Rayne froze, surprised by the endearment, her heart stuttering somewhere between excitement and vulnerability. She wasn't used to this, the tenderness of it, the way it rolled off his tongue with ease. "I . . . uh," she stammered, feeling a rush of heat in her cheeks. "A-as good as I can be, I guess. You?"

"The work wasn't too bad," he murmured, though his lips lifted into a knowing smirk, clearly enjoying the effect he had on her. His fingers grazed the length of her bicep, tracing delicate paths along her skin, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The book remained propped open in his other hand, but his attention was on her now entirely. "Just found myself missing you."

Rayne cleared her throat, trying to regain her usual flirty aplomb. "Good. As you should."

Those lips, hot against her shoulder, broke open into a heavenly grin. Somehow, laughter could still exist in a place like this, even after yesterday. As if remembering it then too, however, Lucas sighed. "I finally have you," he said softly, "and now, we have so little time together."

Rayne's heart clenched, the ache settling deep in her ribcage. Because on top of it all, their time was running out. So many hours were wasted with this mindless labor, leaving them just enough time to meet in brief, stolen moments such as this. The shack, where they had once spent every night cuddled up together, was gone now—taken from them before they'd even had the chance to understand what this was, what they meant to one another. Oh, how she longed to have those nights back, now that their feelings had shifted to this. Something deeper, something real. But there was something even darker than the shadows looming over them now:

Lucas had been marked.

The spiraling symbols etched into his dorm room door were a death sentence. She didn't need to say it out loud; they both knew it. The last two people who'd borne those markings had died without warning. And while Lucas downplayed the discovery, Rayne saw it—the very same fear in his eyes that twisted her gut every time she looked at him. He was trying to protect her, to love her—trying to pretend the markings didn't mean what they both knew it meant. But even now, wrapped in his arms, Rayne couldn't shake the truth.

Their time together was slipping through her fingers faster than she could comprehend.

She placed a hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing his jawline. "Library's open for another thirty minutes."

"It's not nearly enough," Lucas said, his voice edged with a bittersweet yearning, his eyes lifting to meet hers. There was that same glint again—something warm and tender, shadowed by unspoken fears. His gaze held her captive, a liquid gold that shimmered in the dim light.

"No, it's not," she agreed softly, although her eyes flicked to the book in his hand again. She couldn't stop herself. "Lucas, why won't you tell me what you're reading about?"

His lips twitched, almost a smile, though something hidden flickered behind the amusement. "Do you want to be more involved?"

"Of course, I do," she said, her voice regaining its usual defiance. "I don't know if you've realized this yet, but you're the damsel in distress here, not me."

His lips brushed the bare skin of her shoulder again, only this time, it felt less affectionate and more like an attempt to conceal himself. When he pulled back to face her, the mask had returned, his smile even meeting the crinkle in his eyes. "How can I say no to you?"

Around her waist, his left arm held her in place, and the feel of his hand on her hip was steady and possessive in a way that left her feeling both grounded and utterly undone.

He nodded toward the book, his chin jutting slightly as his thumb absently traced circles over her side. "Flip to page ninety-one for me."

She did, but her mind was reeling, caught somewhere between the heat of his touch and the subtle urgency beneath his words. When the page opened, an illustration of three long, shadowy figures stretched between tree trunks stared back at her. Their presence was eerie, their forms familiar in a way that sent a chill down her spine. The shadow people.

"You found them," she whispered, "in a book?"

"They're not a new phenomenon. There are sightings of them all over the world."

She ran her finger over one of the silhouettes. "I don't believe it."

"When we were in the shack," he continued, "did you ever touch one of them?"

She had to think about it. "Not intentionally. But they've touched me a few times."

"What did you see?" he asked softly, referring to her visions.

"Death," Rayne said carefully. Her recollection was fuzzy, and she wasn't sure it was a concept she would be able to convey with words. "Just death. A flood of dark, chaotic images. Blood, screams . . . emptiness. Like staring into the abyss of the world's end. It was terrifying, overwhelming, so I had to push it away and just shut out the visions entirely."

"You can do that? Just . . . turn them off?"

She nodded, her gaze dropping to his lips, her fingers threading his curls. "With a lot of effort. It's what I did with you," she whispered. "After Cole, I felt so guilty, digging through his brain all the time. It felt wrong and violating, and I didn't want to do that to you."

"Should I feel precious . . . or jealous?" he asked, kissing the inside of her palm. "That you spent so much time in his head, ignoring mine."

"Precious." A smooth smile lifted her lips. "But if you want to be jealous, I'll allow it."

Lucas smirked, but the amusement in his eyes darkened with something deeper. Without warning, he tossed the book onto the table beside them, and in a fluid motion, pulled her closer. His hands gripped her legs, sliding her hips over his in a way that sent a sudden rush of electricity through her core. For a moment, heat crept up her chest, worried the librarian might find them at any moment. Then, she relished the thought.

Just when she thought she had him all figured out, Lucas reminded her that she still had so much left to learn. So much left of him to get to know, in such a short amount of time. He was vast, containing multitudes in all the ways that thrilled her. This version of him—lustful, envious, uninhibited—was intoxicating, especially knowing this was a version that only she could see.

His breath was hot against her lips, whispering, "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Oh, I think I do," she whispered, her lips barely brushing his before closing the gap, submitting to the tension. God, she loved this. His kiss was urgent—one hand gripping her thigh while the other wound through her hair, cupping the back of her head. It wasn't just desire; there was something raw and desperate in the way he held her, as if he were trying to hold onto something slipping away.

Then, in the haze of their kiss, something flickered in the back of her mind. A flash of red. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Blood.

Rayne pulled back, her chest heaving as her gaze fell over him. Desire still parted his lips, but now, there were tears, beginning to pool beneath his red-rimmed eyes. The drum of her pulse, the quiver in his breath—they were the musical cues that shifted them from a moment of hot-blooded youth to one of overwhelming, melancholic fear.

"Oh, honey," she breathed, her voice cracking. The endearment was soft, but it felt right, like she had always called him that. She held his face in her hands. "Honey, what's wrong?"

She wasn't sure why she even asked. She knew the answer.

He forced a smile. "I'm just . . . happy. To have this time with you."

Rayne hadn't meant for it to, but her hand on his cheek conjured more than just comfort. Visions flashed before her: the markings on his door, Olivia's lifeless body in his arms, Hillary's blood on Rayne's hands. Swiftly, she jerked her hand away, her pulse spiking, and Lucas immediately turned away.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured. "I'm not sure what you saw, but I'm sorry. My mind is such a mess right now . . ."

"Don't be. I'm sorry," she whispered, and she meant that. Some part of her hated herself for this, for taking pleasure in the carnal longings of someone so close to death. Now, he wouldn't even meet her gaze. "Please, don't do that."

"What?" he answered numbly.

She pulled his eyes to hers. "Don't overthink this," she said softly, though her own tears were starting to well in the corners of her eyes. She placed a hand over his heart, feeling the erratic rhythm beneath her palm, and pulled his hand over her chest too. "Don't you dare do anything else, okay? Just . . . keep loving me. Can you do that?"

Determination lit his irises. He nodded once, and those hell-bent eyes found her lips once more. A single tear slipped over as he gripped her chin, drawing her into another kiss. But this was far different than any they'd shared before. It was slower, sweeter, deeper, and definitely not library-appropriate, but Rayne loved every breath of it.

"Get a room, you two," a voice said from across the room, and they broke apart to see Spencer grinning at them.

Across the way, there were a series of blue velvet settees; they formed a semi-circular arrangement in the common area. Spencer and Pierce walked into the library and took a seat in them, the ornate brass buttons and sculpted backs creating a cozy enclave for their bodies.

Lucas chuckled, the moment broken as Rayne slid off his lap. When she stood, she positioned her body in such a way that Lucas was able to discreetly wipe the tear from his cheek. He forced another laugh, saying, "Come on, Spence, I'm a dead man walking. Let me live a little."

Realizing how painful his words were, he gave Rayne a remorseful look.

She nodded, understanding, but really, she was so . . . so angry. This entire situation was an injustice of the universe, and she just didn't have the words for it. Rayne took a seat on the arm of his chair, and his hand found its way to her hip, an apology etched in every gentle stroke of his fingers.

Slowly, Spencer's smile faded, his voice growing more somber. "You're way too calm, Luke. Do you really think we can stop this?"

Lucas picked up the book again, flipping through its pages. "It's not about stopping it."

"Like hell it's not," Rayne snapped.

Lucas rubbed her back. "I know. We're going to try. But more importantly—"

"What else could possibly be more important, Lucas?"

"You," he said firmly. "It's about understanding what we're up against. If we don't know what we're dealing with, we're fighting blind. We need to find out everything we can. If my being marked gives us any sort of advantage, then it's worth the risk."

Rayne shook her head. "Nobody asked you to play bait."

"I don't think he really has a choice, Rayne," uttered Spencer, drawing his shoulders inward. Something about the tense atmosphere made him shrink into himself, and his gaze flicked away, combing the mahogany shelves, eyes growing increasingly distant.

Pierce jumped in, trying to make sense of it all. "But why were you marked, Luke? Why now?" His arms reached across the back of the settee, a large wingspan settling into the cushions. Closer to Spence now, his fingers reached out and lazily sprang one of his orange curls, an attempt to draw his attention back to the conversation. "Think about it. Olivia never saw the shadow people, and as far as any of us know, neither did Hillary. But you three"—gesturing to Rayne, Lucas, and Spencer—"have been seeing them for as long as you've been here. So, why did they target Lucas now? Why did they even let you three see them to begin with?"

Rayne frowned. "You think they chose us to see them?"

"Well, I can't see them. Why can't I see them? Why just you three?"

"I don't think they chose us, Pierce." Lucas leaned forward. "I think we were . . . primed to see them. The three of us, our pasts are so much darker than yours. We've all seen death. Felt it. I think that's why we can see them, and you can't—because we're already linked to that darkness."

Pierce eyed Spencer, probably wondering the same thing as Rayne. What was his history? He faced Lucas, lifting his chin. "You read that in your book?"

Lucas shook his head. "To be honest, I'm starting to worry those things might not even be the biggest problem here."

Spencer's eyebrows twisted.

"What do you mean?" Rayne asked. "You're the one who said they were killing us."

"I know," he replied, nodding. "And that's honestly what I thought at first. But . . . I think this thing is so much deeper than that." He returned the book to page ninety-one. "There's so much lore regarding what these things could even be. Witches, vampires . . . even a manifestation of fear itself. But what if the simplest answer is the right one?" His finger found a paragraph beneath the word: ESOTERIC.

Rayne leaned in. "Lost souls?"

"Exactly," said Lucas. "If they're lost, they might not even know what they are anymore. Might just be fragments of their former selves. But . . . if they have memories . . . there's a chance we can use that."

"That's why you asked if I'd touched one," Rayne realized. "You wanted to know if I saw any of their memories?"

"Wait, hold up," Pierce interrupted, confused. "What are we talking about here?"

Rayne shrugged. "Oh, yeah. I can read minds. It's a thing." She waved, as if she could shoo away their shocked expressions. "I know, very exciting."

Pierce ran a hand through his black hair. "Ugh, this just keeps getting crazier."

"That is so cool!" exclaimed Spencer with a grin. "Can you read mine right now?"

Rayne smirked and reached out her hand. Spencer looped his fingers between hers, and when Rayne closed her eyes, she began to murmur, "Numbers. Math. Angry teacher. Mr. Johnson is yelling at you." She smiled, opening her eyes. "Now, you're thinking of Shep." Her hand withdrew slowly. "And I'll let you keep that thought to yourself."

Spencer's cheeks burned red. "I was thinking of the number four . . ."

Rayne chuckled softly. "Yeah, that's not quite how it works, Spence."

Their laughter, though brief, felt like a fleeting attempt to brush away the tension. But the weight of the room returned almost immediately, sinking in as the graveness of their futures settled over them. The flicker of light from the fireplace cast long shadows over Lucas's face, his playful smirk fading into something more troubled, too.

Pierce's gaze shifted from Rayne to Lucas, a new resolve sharpening his dark brown eyes. "This might be the best shot we've got, but if it fails," he trailed off, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Luke, you should consider calling your grandma. Get out of here before they . . ." he trailed off again, burying his forehead in the palm of his hand.

"No." Lucas's words startled Rayne. He shook his head. "For all I know this curse could follow me wherever I go, and I won't put her at risk. Besides, I can't leave you here to deal with this all alone."

"What are you talking about?" Rayne couldn't contain her rage anymore. "Of course, you can! You have to! This is life or death, Lucas! Don't you get that?"

"You don't understand." He met her eyes, his own pooling with regret. "I've already tried. Four times freshman year, twice after Olivia . . . They just upped my dosage and called it a day. There's no getting out of this place without a court order, Rayne."

"Then get a medical leave of absence or something! Bypass the court order."

"To what end? Say I take a few weeks off, and then what? They'll just send me right back here anyway. And there's no way of knowing that getting off campus will even protect me at this point. I will have died for nothing, and we would have learned nothing to protect whoever it is they're going after next—and there will be a next, very soon."

"Why?" Rayne asked exasperatedly. "Why will there be another one soon?"

"Because the numbers are increasing," Pierce responded flatly. "There used to be a death on campus every year or so. But now, in the span of two days, there's Hillary, Dr. Shaw, and now . . ."

"I'm next." Lucas swallowed.

"This is our one shot in the dark," said Pierce, nodding. "We have to find out what we're dealing with. It's a damn shame they took the shack away from us, because I don't think any of us should be alone anymore. If we're onto them, then we've all got targets on our backs."

Spencer's lips lifted his sweet, freckled cheeks. "But we've got ourselves a superhero now," he said, looking at Rayne. "I have a good feeling about this. You're going to find out if the shadows have memories, Rayne. Memories that can help us. And we're all going to be okay."

Rayne tried to return his smile, but her cheeks were too heavy now.

Lucas's hand flexed over the small of her back. "I don't like it," he said, his voice tinged with concern. Rayne turned to meet his gaze, and he whispered, "I could be wrong about them. When I looked into their eyes . . . it felt like I was losing pieces of my soul. I'm not sure this is a good idea."

She ran her fingers through his curls and pulled him in, planting a kiss on his forehead. "I'm doing it. We're going to find out what they are, what they want," she said, determined. Lucas relaxed into her as she perched on the arm of his chair, his head resting against her chest. She cupped the front of his neck with her hand, gently guiding his gaze up to meet hers. "You're not getting away from me that easily. Got it?"

He closed his eyes.

Rayne turned to Pierce and Spencer. "If they are lost souls, then they might be looking for something. Maybe that's the key to stopping . . ." she trailed off.

Lucas's hand reached up to hold hers at his neck. "What if I'm right? What if what we're dealing with is so much worse? Something we can't fight?"

Rayne's eyes stirred, terrified of the answer.

Pierce broke the tension by standing up. "We'll cross that bridge if we ever get to it. For now, we need answers. And fast."