Page 42 of Bound By Fury

“That’s weird,” I murmur, thinking about what Missy said in the cafeteria versus all the articles I found online. Everyone but her seems to think Fiona ran away. I glance up at Lucas. His expression is uncharacteristically grave, and I wonder if he knew the girl.

As Ms. Laughlin continues her spiel, two single-file rows of students dressed in robes of all white emerge from the dark on either side of her. The crowd is silent as we watch them line up along the edges of the fountain, a few clearing their throats in preparation.

Headmaster Matsoukas slinks in from the shadows. “Please welcome the Black Mountain Academy Choir, here to perform a BMA classic as we remember Fiona and hope for her safe return.”

A melody, soft and haunting, drifts through the air.

The tune is familiar, though I can’t immediately remember why. There are no lyrics in this song, just lilting tones undulating in a discordant, uncomfortable way.

And then, layering on top of them, the shouting begins.

“NO JUSTICE! NO PEACE! NO JUSTICE! NO PEACE!” I lift onto my tiptoes in search of the disturbance.

Missy and a handful of cheerleaders have swapped their uniforms for black tracksuits with reflective stripes down the sides that glow despite the minimal lighting. They push past the choir and walk through the water of the fountain until they’re lit up, and the headmaster’s face is beet red as he sputters into the mic.

“What is going on here?” he nearly shouts, his hand running anxiously down his shirt.

Quietly, Ms. Laughlin whispers something in his ear and steps back, but not before his eyes cut in our direction. At first my heart jumps into my throat when I think he’s staring straight at me, but I quickly realize that he’s not. Instead, his eyes are fixed on Malachi. Confused, I angle myself to try to get a better look at the expression on his face, but Lucas leans forward to whisper something to the guy in front of us and blocks my view. When he returns to his spot, Malachi is gone.

I twist my neck, scanning the top of the crowd, but I don’t find him.

For some reason, my palms start to sweat.

Back at the front, the cheerleaders hold large posters with Fiona’s face plastered on them. It’s eerie, seeing her blown up like that in black and white. Like me and Daisy and Sam, Fiona doesn’t look like the sea of students around us. Somewhere in the back of my mind, alarm bells ring. In the middle Missy raises her hands, palms out. They’re painted red like they’ve been dipped in blood.

“WHERE IS FIONA?” she shouts, her voice shaking. “BRING HER HOME! BRING HER HOME! BRING HER HOME!” My heart slams against my ribs, my chest pumping up and down as Missy’s words fight against the growing thunder of the choir.

I can still hear their song beneath the screams, the familiarity prickling at my skin. When it dawns on me where I’ve heard it before, black dots my vision, and my head swims as I blink it all away.

The school choir is humming the same song that terrorized my dream, the same song those hooded men sang as they approached the chanting witches.

How do they know that song? How is it possible that the melody is real and not something my mind conjured? Until now I’ve secretly hoped that it was just a dream. Some lame attempt at processing my grief. But it seems clearer than ever that it was so much more than that. It was a message. Not only from Gigi, but from the witches themselves. Guiding me to the answers I desperately need.

The choir is getting louder and louder, their music reverberating off the surrounding trees and nearly drowning out Missy and her friends entirely. The once sweet and melodic tune has taken on a life of its own. Some of the students in the crowd join in, the music sharpening as the notes elongate and bend into something that feels more like a warning, the tones skating up the mountain and back down again, and again and again, layering until the dissonance is slithering between my ears and settling into my core. And in opposition, students join Missy. They chant for Fiona, an anger bleeding against the night.

Suddenly Missy and the two girls on either side of her swing something barrel shaped from around their backs and point them at the crowd.

Icy terror paralyzes me for a moment before the T-shirt cannons erupt. The students around me scream at the sound, the papers releasing with a loud pop before raining down on us, thousands and thousands of pages all plastered with her face.

MISSING.

FIONA BEAUMONT, 17.

WHERE WERE YOU THE NIGHT OF NOVEMBER 3, 2025?

SOMEONE KNOWS SOMETHING.

CALL 555-567-9213 TO REPORT ANY TIPS.

NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

I grab hold of the paper and fold it, willing the panic away as I focus on blocking out the song that has continued through all this. It’s reaching its crescendo. Wind whips my hair, groaning and weaving through the nightmarish tune as the papers drift past my head. My shirt ripples against my chest.

At the fountain, teachers have confiscated the cannons and are escorting a still-screaming Missy and crew into Biltmore.

Thunder booms in the distance, and seemingly out of nowhere, rain begins to fall in dense sheets.

“My hair!” Daisy shouts beside me, angling her body like she’s getting ready to run.