Page 17 of Wicked Vile King
"Isolation, newbie," she manages before she sways a little, turns the color of watered-down pea soup, and swallows hard. I grimace for her before she looks over at me again. "Hurry! Are you deaf? Roll call's already begun."
I hear it suddenly, beyond my worries and thoughts and the noise that crowds my brain. In the distance, there are clicks of the unlocking doors and muffled voices. It spurs me into action. I don't have any desire to go to isolation after the pep-talk Headmistress Graves gave me less than half an hour ago.
I search the empty windowsill, the cluttered desks on either side of it, and the stone floor for the missing bolts. My gaze wanders as my hands skim every crack and crevice. I search the smooth stone floor, kneeling for a better look, and catch sight of two bolts, long and thin and rusting on the ends. I snatch them quickly from the floor and shove them into the two empty open holes on the edge of the window.
When my new roommate doesn't say anything further, I walk over to my bed, push the Academy handbook, the map of the school grounds, and my uniform—complete with nondescript white undergarments—to the side of the bed against the wall before I sit down. I sink into the mattress, and the whole bed groans.
"I hate that creep," the girl mutters, angrily rubbing her temples again before she stops to glare at me down the line of her nose. "Next time, if you want alone time, can you at least warn me? That way your boyfriend won't go all Boston Strangler on me again?"
"What?" I meet her gaze as the voices outside grow closer.
"The Boston Strangler." She rolls her eyes. "Albert DeSalvo, a serial killer known for choking his victims."
She says his name like I should know who she's talking about.
I don't.
"That . . ." I point at the window, "that freak is not my boyfriend."
She shoots me a funny look, her thin black brows pinched together, as the people in the hall come closer.
"You serious?" she asks me a moment later.
I nod. "I have no idea who that guy is, except he's a liar and a thief and apparently, a psychopath too."
"Oh shit," she says, adjusting on her bed before she swings her feet over the side, her toes hitting the floor. "You're telling the truth, aren't you?"
"I'm not a liar."
She nods and looks at me again. "Then I feel sorry for the both of us, roomie. What'd you do to earn the attention of his holiness?"
I shrug. "I have no idea. I just got here this morning."
"Well," she sighs, gazing longingly at the window, "dude just fucked up my escape plan. I'm going to have to figure out how to fix the window, unless you want your stalker paying us another visit."
"Absolutely not." I shake my head quickly. "Please fix the window."
She nods and starts rubbing her temples again, but her eyes are open this time as she peers past the space between our beds and straight at me.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Willow," I answer. "Willow Cadelle."
"I'm Bellatrix, Bellatrix Moreaue, but you can call me Trixie."
"Hi, Trixie," I say with a weak wave. "Nice to meet you."
"No, it's not."She's right. This sucks."But hey, you're not going to try to kill me in my sleep, right? I can't do that again."
Again?
"Not planning on it."
"Good." She nods. Apparently, not being an attempted murderer means you're good roommate material around here. "You a senior too?"
"Yeah," I say. "I mean I guess. I would've been a senior back home. How'd you know?"
"They try to keep the same grades together."
