Isle of Night by Verónica Wolff Page A

waiting, watching in the night.
    It wasn’t the headmaster, either. This one had black hair and black clothing that merged with the shadows. In his pallid skin, I saw that he wasn’t truly alive. But his eyes told me neither was he truly dead.
    Those undead eyes tracked me. They seemed to glimmer into a grin as I neared. I told myself it was my imagination.
    My heart exploded into high gear, but I forced myself to keep my pace. Forced my arms and legs to pump neither faster nor slower.
    He hid in the shadows, but something told me he wouldn’t do anything. Something told me these vampires craved an audience. I assured myself of this as I ran toward him, into the blackness of the hedgerow.
    A whisper echoed in the leaves. The sound didn’t originate in a single spot; rather, it cloaked me from all around, a hiss that felt as ancient as the land. “Run.”
    Adrenaline dumped into my veins. I tasted it, sour on my tongue. But with it came fury. Torture and hazing and monsters lurking in the dark. I’d hoped for some sort of special college for geniuses, but this macabre mockery of a school? This was definitely not what I’d signed up for.
    I relished my anger. Let it bloom into determination.
    Time compressed.
    I didn’t see or hear the vampire again. My thoughts distilled to two single, bright lights. Vengeance. Freedom. I’d make Lilac suffer, and then I’d get out.
    Ronan had said the only way to get off the island was to succeed. I’d wanted to stay under the radar. I’d thought I could quietly do well and then find a way to escape. But Lilac had screwed that up for me. Now all the catsuits knew who I was. I was no longer anonymous—I was the girl who’d fallen in the shower.
    By my third lap, my feet had cut an irregular band of black footprints through the melting snow. The rhythmic thump-thump of my pace mesmerized me. The path was slushy and muddy and squished with each stride. All I knew were these sounds. All I perceived was the up-and-down pounding of my breasts. The up-and-down of my frozen cheeks as each step threatened to jostle the flesh free from my skull. The air still stung my lungs, but I forced my focus instead on the white cloud of each exhale.
    Thump-thump. Vengeance. Thump-thump. Freedom.
    I knew three things: I was cold. This was Lilac’s fault. Lilac would pay.
    When I reached the dorm at the end of my final lap, my Proctor Amanda was standing outside, waiting. She was a vision, standing still and tall in a fitted coat. She’d donned her hood, and it haloed her face with a cloud of fur. Her dark skin was luminous in the watery moonlight.
    I was watching her, not my step, and I slipped, catching myself with a hand to the ground before I toppled all the way.
    â€œCareful.” She chuckled. “The snow’s a bit dodgy.”
    â€œYeah.” I stood and dusted myself off. My hands ached to the bones with cold—I felt they might shatter from it. “I got that.”
    â€œCare for a pointer, dolly, before you head back in?”
    The moment I stopped running, I’d started to tremble. My face was a frozen mask, too cold to speak, so I just nodded jerkily, my curiosity piqued.
    â€œThem’s wolves, not girls. You let this stand, and boo , Lilac’s the boss of your little pack.”
    Lilac had to pay—Amanda didn’t need to tell me twice. But how?
    By now, I was shivering violently, my brain was addled, and I could only stare dumbly in reply.
    â€œAnd he tells me you’re the clever one? Listen,” she said simply, as though she had to explain something to a particularly dim child. “Lilac wins this round, you’re as good as snuffed. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But our girls are wolves, and Acari who smell weak don’t last long.” She kicked at the snow, fighting a smile. “Now, then . . . Your roommate’s like a babe asleep in her bed. And have you felt how cold