Swallowing the breath that hitched in my throat, I approached Harris and his friend quickly before they could storm away, the drawing pin warm against my palm.
‘Harris!’ I called, voice low and clear in the misty dusk.
His jaw clenched when he saw me approaching, but he obviously didn’t want to lose face in front of another guy, so he just said, ‘What do you want?’
‘To apologise.’ I arrived in front of him with a forced smile. There were only the faintest tinges of a yellow bruise remaining around his left eye socket. ‘I’m sorry. I’d had a bad night.’
His hand went to his stomach defensively. ‘Whatever,’ he muttered, glancing up at his friend, who I could tell was trying not to laugh.
‘No, really.’ I spoke quietly, trying to prevent a cluster of passers-by from overhearing. I knew an audience would rile him up and, truth be told, I was a little worried that he’d try to hit me back. ‘It was wrong of me. I should have just rejected you politely.’ God, even when I was trying to be sickly sweet, I was still kind of a bitch. I pressed on. ‘I know I hurt you when –’
‘You didn’t hurt me, you stupid bitch,’ Harris practically spat. The muscles along the ridges of his shoulders raised and tensed, like a dog getting its hackles up. Salem stalked past us, giving the situation a disdainful glare before rounding the corner.
‘Okay,’ I replied, trying to meet vitriol with calm, even though it went against every instinct I had. ‘Well, I embarrassed you then. And I’m sorry.’
This time he actually did spit. A fat glob of saliva landed just to the right of my Doc Martens.
‘Fuck off,’ Harris snarled.
‘Dude . . .’ muttered his friend.
‘What? She’s fuckingpathetic.’
The violent urges rose to the surface again; the need to lash out, to hit, to hurt, to give my pulsing anger an outlet. I forced myself to take a deep breath and focus. There was more at stake here.
Harris went to walk away, by which point his friend was gaping at me. I didn’t recognise him from the Refectory that night, so there was every chance he was confused by the level of tension in the conversation.
‘Okay. I will fuck off.’ Heart pounding in my ribcage, I extended the hand with the spiked-ring contraption, hoping he’d take it. ‘But first . . . truce? I promise I’ll never come within two metres of you again.’
The next few seconds sprawled into eternity. Lip curled in disgust, he looked down at my hand – the way my fingers were cupped disguised the drawing pin nestled between the rings – and back up at me, hatred plain on his face.
Then he rolled his eyes, as if he couldn’t care less about me either way.
‘Fine.’ He reached out and took my hand with more force than was necessary, and I leaned into the extra force to make sure I hit my mark. The pin pierced the pad of his palm, and he yanked his hand back in shock. ‘What thefuck!’
Feigning confusion, I looked down at the drawing pin.
Nothing. Not a drop of blood.
I tried to match his own surprise. ‘I’m sorry! It must have been the engraving on my ring or some—’
Shoving chest first into me in a way that brought bile to my throat, he hissed in my ear, ‘Stay the fuck away from me, psycho.’ His body was hot and big against mine, his breath sour with old coffee as I pressed back into the rough wall.
This time, I didn’t bother trying to tamp down the violent urges coursing through my body. I lifted my palm and slapped him clean across the cheek.
This time, the drawing pin drew a hot red stripe of blood.
This time, at the stunned hatred in his eyes, I really was afraid for my life.
His arm swung out, hand curled in a claw like he was reaching for my throat. I ducked under it and ran faster than I’d ever ran before, nearly tripping over Salem as I rounded the corner.
Voices shouted after me, and there was the clomp of trainers on cobbles, the tenor of male shouts. My briefcase smacked against my thigh as I sprinted for the most densely knotted snarls of poplar trees, then weaved a path through them to the entrance of the convent, heart leaping in my chest. My footsteps were too loud and quick on the chequerboard floor of the entrance hall, booming and echoing around the cavernous space.
I chanced a quick glance back. They didn’t seem to be following me, but that didn’t mean Harris would just leave it be. He seemed the type to hold a grudge.
My pulse pounded a painful tattoo as I finally came to a stop, gasping for breath as I crouched in a stone enclave that obscured me from view. There was a reason I did not participate in sports. My lungs burned, my throat constricted, and I felt for one brief moment like I might be dying. How did Lottie do this every day? Of her own volition? Then again, I suspected she was quite into pain, judging by the piercing on her throat.
Once I had finally caught my breath, I looked down at the drawing pin in my hand.
There was a dark smear of blood on the thin gold tip; not much, but enough.
Smiling to myself, I pulled another glass vial out of my pocket and slipped the pin into it with a satisfying clink.
Now I had everything I needed for the ritual.
In a few hours’ time, I could be a whole different person.