Page 20 of The October Trials

Dimitri’s face contorts. “Shit, that’s warm.” He shakes it off.

“Elio,” Archon calls, clapping his hands together.

The kid with the wire-rimmed glasses, who hasn’t said a word all night, follows. His voice is barely more than a whisper. “The… temperature,” he manages. “Why is it like that?”

The pattern clicks into place. Whatever is in the dummy syringes makes you feel warm. That’s how you know you’re safe.

“Blair,” Archon calls, and I gulp. A big fucking gulp.

Please make me warm, please make me warm, please make me warm.

I can feel my pulse in my fingertips as I pick up the syringe, too fast, my hand moving before my brain can catch up.

The needle pierces my skin, and the liquid enters my bloodstream. I wait for the warmth, for some kind of spreading sensation that means I’m safe, that means I’m—

Nothing.

“Wait.” My voice sounds far away, distant. “It’s still cold in here. Why is it still cold?!”

Sloane turns to me, her face pale, mouth opening to say something.

“Sloane,” Archon all but growls. “Take your turn.”

My best friend’s eyes are wide with fear. For me, because of me. But she tears her gaze away and reaches for her syringe, plunging it in.

It’s still fucking cold.

“Warm,” she hums.

“No… Please no,” I whisper.

Sloane grabs my hand under the table and squeezes. The pressure grounds me for half a second before the terror swallows me again.

I’m going to die.

Christian goes next. He barely reacts after injecting himself. “Hm, no change at all. Are you guys all fucking with me?”

There are no more syringes left on the table now. We’ve all gone. Which means—

Oh my God.

It was mine. It had to be mine. Death is already inside me, spreading its way through my bloodstream, reaching for my heart with its skeletal fingers.

I close my eyes, and for the first time since my father’s funeral, I pray.

Please don’t let me die. I did not worship that demon with them, I swear it, I swear it. Please, God, Please.

A thud echoes through the room.

My eyes snap open. One of them twitches as I witness the nerdy kid with glasses, his face planted on the table, his arms spread haphazardly about.

Foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth. Then his body convulses, his chair scraping against the floor before he tumbles out of it.

He’s no longer in view while on the floor, but I know the second he’s dead. All the noises stop. The gurgling, the thumping, the gasping.

It hits me then. “The… temperature.”

He never said it was warm, he just said the temperature had changed.