Page 8 of Mayhem

I blinked at her. “The who?”

That made all three of them look at me like I’d just announced I didn’t know what a door was.

Devon recovered first. “You really are new.”

Maren adjusted her glasses. “Hunter Hansen, Ronan Vale, and Malakai Thorne. People call them the Kings. Not officially, obviously, but Aldrich runs on things that aren’t official.”

“Especially the things that aren’t official,” Priya added. “Nichlas is in their orbit, or under their protection, or whatever dramatic phrasing people are using this semester. He doesn’t move alone much. If you want access, you ask them.”

I laughed again, softer this time, realizing that Nichlas really did have protection. “Right. Sure. I’ll put that on my orientation checklist.”

Priya’s smile sharpened, but Maren only gave me a thoughtful look before touching Devon’s sleeve. “We should go. Department mixer starts in twenty, and if Professor Hardgrove corners us before coffee, I’m blaming you.”

Devon lifted a hand in goodbye. “Welcome to Aldrich, Echo. Try not to scare anyone important until week two.”

“No promises,” I said.

They left me there with my campus packet, my bag, and the name Kings sitting in the hallway like something I was supposed to respect. I watched them turn the corner, waited until their footsteps faded, then stepped into my room and let the door click shut behind me.

The laugh fell off my face. I dropped the packet on the bed and looked around. Desk. Chair. Closet rod. Lamp. Metal bedframe. Cheap hangers. Window latch. A room full of boring little possibilities if a girl had imagination and no access to knives.

I tugged the bowtie loose, smiled at the lamp, and muttered, “Now, what the fuck can I use for a weapon in here?”

echo

By the third morning, my room had stopped looking like Aldrich housing and started looking like the evidence table Father Three kept telling me not to build in shared spaces.

The desk held my laptop, two campus maps, a half-empty coffee I had stolen from the graduate lounge, and a neat list of every time I had seen Nichlas cross the east walkway. The chair sat under the door handle because the lock was probably fine and I wasn’t. The lamp had been stripped down to see whether the base had enough weight to crack a skull. It did, but only if I swung from the shoulder, which made it less elegant than I preferred.

I was crouched beside the bed, testing whether one of the cheap metal slats could be worked loose without making noise, when someone knocked twice.

The chair jammed beneath the handle shifted under the pressure from the other side but held. I left the slat alone, crossed the room, and dragged the chair back with my foot before opening the door.

Priya stood in the hallway with a shoebox under one arm. Maren was beside her with two more stacked against her chest. Devon leaned against the opposite wall, sleeves rolled up, expression too calm for a man participating in what was clearly an ambush.

I glared at the boxes before shaking my head and returning to the bedframe. “No.”

Priya’s smile widened. “You don’t know what we’re here for.”

“You’re holding shoes, and Devon looks like he’s trying not to laugh. I know enough.”

Maren’s gaze moved from my hand on the bed slat to the chair near the door. She didn’t comment on either. “We have Professor Sterling in fifteen minutes. If you leave in the boots again, Professor Alder from ethics is going to report you to the dress-code office.”

“There’s a dress-code office?” I asked, standing and wiping dust from my fingers onto the school skirt. The skirt was another crime. It sat too high when I moved, too stiff when I sat, and had no useful pockets. I had worn it for three days and still considered it a hostile garment.

“No,” Devon said. “But he’ll find one for you.”

“That sounds like initiative. He should put it on his resume.”

Priya stepped inside without waiting and set the first box on my bed. I respected the audacity more than the invasion. “We’re helping you blend.”

“I don’t blend. I haunt.”

“You attract attention,” Maren said, putting the other boxes beside Priya’s. “Different issue.”

Priya opened the first box. Thin black heels stared up at me, glossy and delicate and absolutely useless in an emergency unless the emergency involved disappointing me. The second pair had little buckles. The third pair made me pause long enough for Devon’s mouth to twitch.

They were still heels, but clunky. Thick soles. Heavy backs. Ugly in a way that almost circled around to useful if everyone involved lowered their standards and lied to God.