Thankfully, the cut along Scott’s cheekbone wasn’t deep. He had one or two micro cuts around his neck and jaw, and I picked some glass fragments out of his hair, but he was fine.

By the time I was done, the other boys had finished bracing a cardboard box up against the hole using—what else?—potted plants.

They were debating what to do about the homeless plants on the table when I called Wes over so I could look at his arm.

The largest cut was deep enough the blood had soaked through his shirt.

“She’s checking out your arm, Wes!” Scott said. “Flex for her.”

The other boys snickered or scoffed. All I got out was “Wai—!” before Wes grinned and flexed.

Part of the clot opened, and a dribble of blood welled out.

I sighed as I pulled his tattered shirt sleeve down over the cut and applied pressure. “That was impressive. A real barbarian, that’s what you are.”

From behind him, Dustin said, “She means you’re all brawn and no brains.”

Wes gave me a hapless smile.

I didn’t smile back. I was too busy scowling at the blood.

He leaned over and said, “Don’t worry. The shirt was already a loss.”

“You have a nurse, don’t you?” I said. “We should go see them. Get both of you patched up.”

All five boys immediately and loudly said, “No!”

“But thank you,” Scott added.

“It’s only a couple of cuts,” Eric said. “We’ve got it.”

I filed that under “deeply suspicious” but didn’t press the issue. Instead, I turned to Evans. He was inspecting their makeshift repairs. He still looked nervous.

“It’ll be fine,” I assured him. “I don’t think Wuller will mind replacing the glass when he hears it was blown out by your powers.” I lowered my voice to better imitate the headmaster. “It’s all a part of the process.”

Evans tried to smile. “Yeah. I know.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

“Not like that.” A shiver ran through his whole body.

“Come on,” Wes said. He put one hand on Evans’ shoulder while using the other to maintain pressure on the cut. “We have to start heading back or we’ll be late.”

As we walked through the halls of the main wing, I stayed beside Evans. He kicked along, barely lifting his feet.

“Hey,” I said.

He glanced at me. “Yeah?”

“What was the favor Ivers wanted?”

Without a word being spoken or any noticeable cue, the four other boys slowed down and went quiet.

Evans scowled. “It’s nothing. It’s…stupid.”

He noticed the polite silence, looked up, and saw the crowd around him. When even Scott shuts up, you know it’s serious.

Evans let out a loud sigh. “Ivers wanted me to do his homework, all right? Like I said, it’s stupid.”

The other four boys relaxed.

“That’s all?” Scott said.

“Good,” Eric said.

My eyes moved around the group, looking for any clues to explain their reactions. “Is it usually worse?” I asked.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“No. At least, not yet,” Wes said. “Ivers is a low-level bully. He usually harasses and embarrasses people, but he’s gotten worse recently.”

“Worse how?”

“He’s meaner,” Evans muttered. “He won’t stop when he used to.”

“He’ll do it when the teachers are around too,” Scott said.

“Has it ever gotten physical?” I asked.

Eric said, “There’s nothing we can prove.”

“But you suspect?” A quiet, angry horror seeped through my body.

“It wasn’t anything serious enough to leave obvious marks,” Wes said, “and the boys aren’t going to tell anyone.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

“What would be the point?” Evans grumbled.

“I don’t know what it’s like over here, but where I come from, bullying was punished.”

“Well, a punishment, sure.” Scott shrugged. “But what’s the point of that?”

“What do you mean?”

“It won’t stop him.”

“I thought he was a last-chance boy. Isn’t that what you said? Won’t he be expelled?”

“Ivers is a psychic, Emerra,” Wes said.

That’s why I knew the name. Ivers was on the list of psychics the school had sent to us.

Wes continued, “Do you really think Wooly would ever expel a psychic? We can get away with just about anything we want.”

There was nothing quiet about my horror now. I looked from face to face and read in each of them a confirmation. When I turned to look at Dustin, the smart one grimaced and jerked his head in a nod.

Since it was almost lights-out, we split up when we got to the great hall. I’d have to find my way back to the guest rooms alone that night.

I got there. Eventually.

Still grumbling about malicious architects who thought a good house needed to be a maze, I walked in to find the front room empty. The loneliness made my already dour mood worse. If only there had been some life there—a smile! a greeting!—but all I got was an ugly mirror of silence and stillness, reflecting my gloomy frustration.

I peeked in the bedroom. There was a distinct lack of wolfman. Conrad was probably still out inspecting the school.

I tried to use his dedication to shame myself into doing some work, but my heart wasn’t in it. It was too busy moping around in the corner of my ribcage.

I didn’t like being alone. Having Conrad around would have been a big comfort, even if I did have to tamp myself down into a less obnoxious version of myself.

A shower, my brain said. Get a shower. You’ll feel better.

It was a good idea. Maybe Darius or Conrad would be back by the time I got out.

I grabbed my pajamas and a towel, and claimed the shared bathroom.

When I was done, I knocked before coming out, in case one of them was changing. There was no answer.

I was still alone, but I was determined not to let it get me down again. If they were both out being useful, then there had to be something that I could do. To be useful. In my pajamas.

I remembered the file of information Iset had sent. I could work my way through some more of that.

I went over to the desk in the front room. The file was still in the corner, but Darius had straightened out my dog-ear bookmark and replaced it with a post-it note bearing my name.

An image of the vampire’s disapproving frown popped into my head, and I smiled. He was always neatening, always straightening. The fact that he tidied around me, but rarely commented on my messes, was one of the many reasons I liked him.

He'd told me once that he only held himself to his high standards, not anyone else.

As I reached out for the file, my eyes fell on the edge of a sketch, protruding from a dark green file. All our files were a pale buff color. This one must have belonged to the school. Since that one paper was sticking out by exactly an inch along the entire side, while the rest of the stack was perfectly aligned, I assumed that was how Darius was marking his place.

But why was he looking at a bunch of sketches? The pile was at least two inches high.

I opened the file and stared at the first sketch for a long time. I lifted it to see the next one. By the third, I realized—these were the automatic drawings.

There were sticker labels on the back of them, giving the name of the boy who drew it, the date it was drawn, and a few notes for each sketch. I didn’t bother reading them.

I picked up the part of the stack that Darius had already gone through and flipped through them, one by one.

The styles varied from sketch to sketch, but the brutal lines were eerily similar. There were no hesitation marks, no soft outlines—only the smash of ink or graphite dragged along their sure path.

I put one aside. Then another. They looked…wrong.

My mind molded itself around the drawings, trying to make sense of the disjointed story told by the stark images. I shifted each one a little faster. Then faster.

A stone wall. Two people looming. A table in an empty room. An arm with a hole in it. A pile of cloth and buckles. A room. Another room. Another. A single face that was nothing more than an oval with eyes bashed out in heavy pencil.

I went through them all, laying some aside, collecting the rest in my hand. When I finished going through the ones I was holding, I picked up the rest and started flipping through them. I only stopped when I uncovered the picture of the bars set in a window.

It was done in perspective, as if the viewer was looking up. Beyond the bars was a black background scribbled in hard enough to dent the paper.

I dimly heard a voice beside me.

“Emerra?”

It was Darius. When had he come in? My fingers hurt from gripping the pile of papers. How long had I been holding them?

The count didn’t look upset by the fact I’d disarranged everything. He looked worried.

All right. Fair. I’d be worried too if someone I was working with suddenly started acting like a wackadoodle.

I made a bid for normalcy: “They…uh—the students—they drew these while they were in a trance?”

“Supposedly.”

I looked back down at the sketch.

“What is it?” Darius asked.

I swallowed. “I just found out I have hackles.”