I’m motionless as I consume them all.

“This is a test,” I say to the man as he stops by my side.

“Yes.”

“And if I fail, I die.”

The man nods in my periphery.

I will not fail.

“May I please have the knife?” I ask, holding out my hand. The man presses the warm wooden handle into my palm.

Zara struggles in the chair. She tries to scream and thrash as I approach the edge of the drop cloth with the blade in my hand. But I don’t go to her. Instead, I bend down and cut a large square from the edge of the thick, clear plastic.

I stand, the sound of Zara’s distressed cries following me as I stop in front of the man, handing him the knife by the handle. “The tape, please,” I say as a brightness infuses his eyes. He nods toward a table to my right.

I pick the tape up from the table and walk over to Zara, the plastic fluttering in my hand. She shakes her head, pleading sounds and cries trapped by the adhesive stuck across her lips, tears sliding across its silver surface.

I lay the plastic over Zara’s head like a shroud. “I should thank you,” I say as I hold it in place on her crown. My teeth grip onto the frayed edge of the tape and I pull a few inches free, sticking it to the bottom of the polyethylene veil. “I’ve had an epiphany out there in the desert. Isn’t that what you were chasing all these years? Lightning strikes from God? Though how Xantheus would be able to interpret them, I have no idea. Did you know that’s not even his real name? His real name is Donald Soversky.”

Sweat and tears streak the dust on Zara’s neck. I can almost hear her pulse flooding her body with adrenaline.

I hold the taped end of the plastic to the back of Zara’s neck, lifting the front over both our faces as though we’re two best friends sharing secrets beneath the sheets. “I’ve discovered what I want to do with my life. I want justice for the scars you’ve given me. I want to kill everyone I can find like you, until I find the biggest. The worst. But I have to start somewhere. For today, the bottom will do.” The scent of fear drifts from Zara’s skin, caught between us. I lean a little closer until there’s nothing for her to see but me. “Tell Donald Soversky Jr. that Ava sent you, when you get to hell.”

Zara tries to scream as I press the plastic to her face and wind the tape around her neck again and again, staring into her eyes as her desperate last breaths mist the surface with condensation. I leave the roll of tape dangling from her throat like a necklace as I press the plastic against her skin, looking into her eyes as she struggles and slowly dies between my hands.

When Zara’s muscles slacken and her heart stills, I climb off her body, the pain of my injuries dulled by the release of a need that’s been sated. After one long, last look at the success of my efforts, I turn toward the man.

His eyes are vibrant. A smile ghosts across his lips.

“Did I pass?” I ask as I stop before him.

“My name is Samuel,” he says. “I will teach. You will learn. How to camouflage. How to hunt and never be caught. And from this day onward, you are not Ava. You are Sombria. My shadow. My legacy.”

Euphoria fills my veins. God might be blind to me, but the Devil isn’t, and now that I’ve embraced my demon, he’s given me a gift. A chance to be who I was always meant to be. “I will not fail.”

I open my eyes to the present, holding onto that moment of a new life beginning. And then I go to my room, burrow under the covers, and fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

OceanofPDF.com

10

OceanofPDF.com

ELI

I fucking hate these things.

Usually.

The annual meet and greet is a department tradition, a chance for grad students to suck up to faculty, and for faculty to strut around with self-importance. Tradition includes canapés that are either too small to be filling or too gross to be edible. Sometimes both. Cheap wine will be almost flowing, but just enough for everyone to have a glass or two without getting a decent buzz. There’s no music or entertainment to fill any awkward silence. The entire event seems carefully calculated to result in a maximum amount of suffering.

I should be dreading every moment leading up to this event. But as much as I want to convince myself otherwise, I’m hoping to see Bria.

It’s been four days since I last saw her. I’ve been dreaming about her, even waking up in a sweat the first night with cum in my boxers like a fucking teenager. I kept an eye out for her that day and the next, scanning the crowds between classes and listening for her voice in the halls. I’ve even made unnecessary stops to all three coffee shops. It wasn’t until yesterday that I found some dumbass excuse to walk past Bria’s office, but her desk was empty. Only Tida and David were there and I didn’t linger, not with Tida scowling at me and David the bearded and burly lumberjack hipster sizing me up like competition.

With every day that’s passed, I’ve grown increasingly concerned. Is Bria sick? Is something wrong? Is she scouting new campuses to transfer to? Is she using espionage-level tactics to skillfully avoid me? These questions bump around in my head like irritating flies, and I have nowhere to direct them for answers. It’s not as though I can ask Fletcher, because she’ll never shut up about it if I do.

I need to see Bria, even though I shouldn’t. I should be trying to avoid her as much as she might be trying to avoid me. But that’s not at all what I want to do.

I run my fingers through my hair, watching my reflection in the mirror by the door as hope and desire twist my guts like rope. Hope that she shows up to the worst event of the academic year.

Fletcher’s Uber driver pulls up to the curb with a honk, setting Duke off on a barking tangent, and I shush him before locking the door behind me to join Fletcher in the back of the vehicle. She passes me a silver flask as I close the door.

“Well, well. I see you’re going for the ‘Kaptain Hot Prof’ look tonight,” she says as she waves a hand at my leather moto jacket and black jeans.

I shrug and take a sip of bourbon from the flask, relishing the burn that I hope will short out the current of electricity humming in my veins. “Maybe I want to start my midlife crisis early.”

Fletcher casts me a devious smile. “Could you be hoping to see my favorite student at this little soiree, I wonder?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have you asked her to dinner yet to smooth things over?”

I drag a hand down my face and take another sip of bourbon. “Fletcher—”

“She’s coming tonight. Sort it the fuck out.”

I glare at Fletch even though a flare of both relief and anticipation burns in my cheeks. Fletch cackles and takes a long pull from her flask. “I love you,” I say, “but I also hate you in the most comprehensive, all-consuming way.”

“Lies. Speaking of sorting it the fuck out, any word from you-know-who on a certain approval for a certain student to accompany you on some interviews?”

My heart lurches. Fletch has been waiting for me to confirm any approval from Agent Espinoza about Bria providing support for the interviews. It just came through this morning, but I haven’t had a chance to tell her. Not that I need to, she can see it in my torn, wary expression. Her smile lights up the space between us as she happy claps.

“Not a word, Fletcher. Not one,” I say. “Let me see if I can smooth things over with her first. Maybe. She gives me murder vibes.”

“It’s your own damn fault, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.” And I’m pretty sure it would be better if I left it that way.

We fall into other topics as we wind through the streets bathed in late afternoon sunlight. Usually, the annual meet and greet is held on campus, but this time Dr. Takahashi arranged to rent Windsor Station, a small bistro-slash-art gallery on the corner of a quaint, tree-lined street that’s home to upscale spas and antique dealers and boutique jewelers. When we arrive, quiet music and voices flow from the open door. A group of several students chatter and laugh on the front patio with plates of food and drinks in tall glasses.