Midnight Frost

hurting.
     
    Thankfully, Oliver decided not to follow me. I went back to a remote part of the stacks, the spot where Vic’s case had once been. I stood there, eyes closed, books clutched to my chest, trying to breathe. In and out, in and out, in and out, like my mom had taught me to do whenever I was worried, nervous, scared, or upset.
    Worried? Check. Upset? Definitely. And once again, I felt that spurt of anger at Logan for not being here, for leaving me behind to deal with everything.
    It took a few minutes, but my heart stopped aching, and the pressure in my lungs slowly eased. I still felt cold inside, though—cold, dull, and empty. My anger was gone, or at least iced over for the moment, and I couldn’t even cry. My tears seemed to be as frozen as the rest of me felt deep down inside.
    Once again, I went through the motions, shelving the books I’d grabbed. When that was done, I wandered up the stairs to the second floor. It was quieter here, and the only sound was the faint scuffle of my sneakers on the marble. Oliver would probably get worried and come looking for me at some point, but for now, I enjoyed the silence—and the solitude.
    Eventually, I wound up in a familiar spot in the circular pantheon—in front of Nike’s statue.
    The Greek goddess of victory looked the same in her marble form as when she appeared to me in real life. Her hair twisted into ringlets and falling down past her slim shoulders. A white, toga-like gown wrapped around her slender, muscled body. Wings arching up over her back. A crown of laurels resting on top of her head. Features that were somehow strong, cold, terrible, and beautiful all at the same time.
    Normally, I said a few words to the goddess whenever I came up here to her statue, but I didn’t feel like it tonight. Instead, I curled up into a ball at the base of the statue and leaned my head back against the cool, smooth marble.
    After a while, I felt calmer, like I had the strength to go downstairs and face the rest of the night, but I stayed where I was. Since I was on the second floor, I had a bird’s-eye view of all the students studying below—including the guy standing by the checkout counter.
    I wasn’t sure what drew my attention to him. Maybe it was the way he just stood there, as though he were waiting for someone to come and help him. Maybe it was the furtive looks he kept giving Oliver, who was still sitting behind the counter and texting on his phone again, oblivious to everything else. Or maybe it was the fact that he didn’t have anything in his hands. No textbooks, no notepads, no pens, not even a tablet that he was using to idly surf the web instead of doing his homework like he should have been. But something about the guy just seemed . . . wrong.
    I scooted over to the edge of the balcony so I could get a better look at him. Jeans, green sweater, brown boots, brown leather jacket. He had on the same clothes as everyone else, right down to the designer logos that covered the expensive fabrics. So I studied his face. Brown hair, dark eyes, tan skin.
    Wait a second. I knew him. Jason Anderson. A Viking and a second-year student like me. He sat two desks over from me in English-lit. I’d never paid much attention to Jason before, except to say hello or ask him to pass me a book or a copy of the latest pop quiz we were taking. But something about him made me keep watching him now.
    Jason tentatively put one hand on the counter, then another one—and then he reached out and grabbed my water bottle.
    I frowned. What was he doing messing with my drink? As I watched, Jason slid a small white pouch out of his jeans pocket. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching him, then dropped the bottle down by his side and held the pouch up over it. Some sort of white powder dropped into the water. Jason quickly swirled around the liquid inside so the powder dissolved in it.
    I sucked in a breath. Was he—could he be—was he poisoning my water?
    Jason put the bottle back on the counter where it had been. He started to turn around, but then he spotted the second bottle—the one that belonged to Nickamedes. Jason must not have been sure which water was mine because he glanced around again, then did the same thing to that bottle. White powder, shake the water around until the poison dissolved, then set it down like he’d never even picked it up to start with.
    “Reaper,” I muttered.
    Jason glanced around a final time, making sure no one had seen