Chapter 6

One week later, the Nevada sun beat down on the manicured lawns of St. Jude's Preparatory Academy. Ayla had kept her promise, returning to the very state where her nightmares began, bringing along the only person who understood the weight of those ashes.

Ayla stood in the Dean of Admissions' office, leaning heavily against the doorframe. Her hands were buried in her pockets. Beside her stood Clotilde, her best friend from the old orphanage days, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

The Dean, a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses, sat behind a massive oak desk. He flipped through their transfer files with a look of profound disgust.

He dropped the files onto the desk.

"Blank academic histories. A gap year with no explanation. Disciplinary records from a public school," the Dean sneered, adjusting his glasses. "St. Jude's prides itself on our Ivy League acceptance rate. Students with your... background... drag our numbers into the dirt."

Clotilde's face flushed red. She opened her mouth to argue.

Ayla reached out and grabbed Clotilde's arm, silencing her.

Ayla looked at the Dean, her eyes half-closed in utter boredom. "Just stamp the paper, old man. We're not here for your speeches."

The Dean's face turned a mottled purple. He snatched his stamp, slammed it onto their forms, and shoved them across the desk.

"Class 15," he spat. "The basement wing. Don't cause trouble, or you're out."

Ayla grabbed the papers and walked out.

As they walked down the pristine hallways, students in expensive uniforms stopped to stare. They whispered behind their hands, their eyes raking over Ayla and Clotilde with blatant hostility and superiority.

Ayla ignored them. Clotilde muttered curses under her breath.

They reached the basement wing. The hallway was dim.

Even from outside the door of Class 15, they could hear the chaos. Heavy metal music blasted from a portable speaker. Desks were scraping against the floor. People were shouting.

Ayla didn't knock.

She lifted her heavy combat boot and kicked the door right near the handle.

The door flew open with a deafening crash, slamming into the wall.

The music cut off abruptly. The shouting stopped.

Twenty pairs of eyes snapped to the doorway. The room was filled with the school's worst-rich kids with drug problems, violent bullies, and untouchable delinquents.

A group of boys sitting on the desks in the back smirked. One of them whistled, a low, sleazy sound.

Ayla stepped into the room.

She didn't say a word. She just swept her gaze across the classroom. Her eyes were dead, carrying the heavy, suffocating weight of someone who had seen actual slaughter.

The boy who whistled suddenly felt his throat close up. The smirk slid off his face. A cold sweat broke out on his back.

The entire room fell into a terrified, suffocating silence.

Ayla walked down the aisle toward the two empty desks by the window.

A massive guy with a neck tattoo had his legs sprawled across the aisle, blocking her path. He glared at her, trying to hold his ground.

Ayla didn't stop. She kicked the leg of his chair with brutal force.

The metal screeched. The chair spun, nearly throwing the guy to the floor. He jumped up, his fists clenched, ready to swing.

Ayla stopped. She slowly turned her head and looked at him.

The guy looked into her eyes and froze. His stomach dropped. His instincts screamed at him to sit down. He slowly backed away and sank back into his seat.

Ayla and Clotilde sat down.

The bell rang.

A woman walked into the classroom. She wore a sharp, tailored suit that screamed high fashion. Her heels clicked against the linoleum.

She walked to the chalkboard and wrote her name in elegant cursive: Serena Vance.

The students ignored her. Some put their heads down to sleep; others pulled out their phones.

Serena didn't yell. She turned around, her calm, calculating eyes scanning the room.

Her gaze stopped on Ayla in the back row.

Across the room, their eyes locked.

Ayla felt a prickle of electricity at the base of her neck. Serena wasn't a normal teacher. The woman carried the same hidden, dangerous scent of the underground that Ayla did.

Serena opened her attendance book. When she read Ayla's name, she paused for a fraction of a second.

When the bell rang for dismissal, Ayla slung her backpack over her shoulder.

"Ayla," Serena called out from the desk.

Ayla stopped.

"Keep your head down in my class," Serena said, her voice smooth but carrying a hidden warning.

Ayla's lips curved into a slow smirk. She didn't reply. She walked out the door.

"What was that about?" Clotilde asked, jogging to keep up.

Ayla looked out the windows at the bright sun. "This school is going to be a lot more entertaining than I thought."