Page 7 of Wicked Vile King
He opens the one closest to us, swiping a keycard and pulling on a large black iron handle. He holds the door open for me, and I step inside. A brief waft of heat quickly warms my skin as we enter a massive foyer. Staircases line either side of the room, climbing up and disappearing into the shadows above, but we don't walk toward them. We continue straight ahead beneath ribbed archways that stretch into the shadows and down an empty hall.
"Built in 1874," he says, his tone affable but monotone, as though he's recited this speech a hundred times before, "the Academy originally served as a hospital for typhus patients. It now operates as a reformatory school to 113 students from all across the continental United States. Boasting a graduation rate of nearly one hundred percent, it is considered one of the best in the nation."
He looks over at me, his gaze hooded, but I feel it more than I see it. I'm distracted. I study the clean gray walls, the aged stone floor, and the closed wooden doors that we pass. It feels like a prison, yet it looks like a castle.
He clucks his tongue at my side.
"Where are you from, darlin'?" he asks a moment later.
"Charleston, South Carolina," I reply as we pass across an intersecting hallway and keep going straight ahead.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen," I answer automatically.
"Any siblings?"
"No."
I'm not even sure if he's paying attention to my answers because when I look over at him, he's staring straight ahead, his jaw tight and his lips pursed, as we descend further into the cold heart of the building.
"Kicked out of your old school?" he asks.
"What? No."
"Suspended?"
"No."
"Expelled?"
"No."
Why is this starting to feel like an interrogation? And why are his words coming faster with each question, like he's losing his patience?
"Mhmm," his lips curl with the ghost of a sneer, "then what got you sent here?"
"Um."Shouldn't he already know that?I blink at him. "I'm not sure."
He continues forward, walking faster this time, and I skip to catch up to him.
"Depression?" he asks.
"What?"
"Are. You. Depressed?"
"Uh," I shake my head, "no, I don't think so."
"Delusions?"
"No."
"Fighting?"
"No."
"Sexual promiscuity? An eating disorder?" He rolls his eyes. "God, how banal."
