Wicked Games Read online

  Wicked Games

  Vivian Wood

  Amelia Wilde

  Contents

  Author’s Copyright

  Prologue

  Fall

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Winter

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Spring

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Want More of the Skulls?

  About Vivian Wood

  Also by Amelia Wilde

  Connect with Amelia

  An excerpt from Vivian Wood’s His Virgin…

  Author’s Copyright

  Cover: Opulent Swag & Designs

  Editor: Kathleen Payne

  Copyright Vivian Wood and Amelia Wilde 2019

  May not be replicated or reproduced in any manner without express and written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  Wolf

  I’m too late.

  The wind whips through the drapes of my robe, sharp and clear with a last hint of winter. It might as well be fingernails on the flesh of my neck. Something otherworldly and awful from another plane.

  Nothing is as otherworldly or awful as the sight of two of my friends hauling the body of a third up the stairs to Rose House, their breath frosty in the moonlight.

  The robes they’re wearing—that we’re all wearing—make Carter and Ellis look like two of the four horsemen, and they make Ash, or what used to be Ash, look like a human sacrifice. Only the Mayans used to throw the bodies down the stairs of the temples, and Carter and Ellis are hauling Ash up, up, up.

  I only know them by the way they move and the glint of Carter’s reddish hair and Ellis’s dark. If either of them bothered to look up, they’d see me.

  I take another half-step, putting more of my body behind the oak tree.

  Two hours ago, we were all celebrating. It’s the early hours of April 12, but our version of Lemuria started at sundown yesterday. The sweetness of the wine is still thick on my tongue. Cloying. Last night we performed the rites to banish the spirits of the dead from Rose House with masks and robes, with chants and ceremonies, and it was done. It was done.

  Ash wasn’t supposed to be a sacrifice.

  My heart beats in a jagged rhythm, out of sync with the ragged breath I’m trying and failing to control. The earth beneath my feet feels tilted, like having sea-legs on land. I should go to my friends. What’s happening here, as they wrestle Ash’s sickeningly limp body in the front door of Rose House, should bind us all together in brotherhood, just like the ceremony was supposed to.

  But maybe they are not my brothers.

  Maybe they’re the ones who did this—the ones who left Ash a broken, bloody husk on the sidewalk not fifty feet from here.

  So I can’t move from concealment behind the oak tree. I can’t call their names. I can only stand here in the night wind.

  What happens now that they’ve taken Ash inside? The waiting is painful, each passing moment a stab to the heart.

  Whatever happens, I can’t be lurking out here, a shadow by the tree.

  The door of Rose House slams shut with all the finality of the gates of hell slamming behind a newly departed soul. The moment breaks open. If I am not inside before one of them knocks on my door…

  Quickly, quickly. The grass crunches under my feet as I skirt the side of the old stone building. It was sunny earlier and now all the warmth has been leached from the earth.

  Blood pulses in my ears. If anyone is lying in wait they’ll catch me flat-footed. I can’t hear a fucking thing over the beat of my own heart.

  It’s a mockery, when Ash’s heart is cold and dead inside his chest.

  Fuck.

  One of my friends is dead.

  The rest might have murdered him.

  I can’t be late again.

  Fall

  1

  Emily

  Big, leafy green trees. A tall gray stone building, splayed out like a regal king assessing his people. A well-manicured lawn. And me in the middle of it all, clutching all my worldly belongings.

  It is a Monday, as blustery and gray as any other fall day in New England might be. The day is unexceptional but for one thing; it is my very first day of college.

  I am standing on the cobblestone sidewalk staring at my new Ivy league campus, giddy and not quite believing that I’m really here. There are so many hurdles I had to jump to be here, right here. I’m not the traditional type of girl that you would think would try to get into an Ivy. My short dark hair, secondhand clothes, and dirty pink Converse scream outsider.

  And that’s not even getting into the fact that I am a product of the Oregon foster care system, that I’m here despite years and years of people letting me down. I’m determined to forget all of the stuff that has held me back in my life up until now.

  At this moment, this is my new beginning.

  That’s why I’m so thrilled that I’m really here. I look at the old gabled gray stone buildings around me, at the green of the trees and the carefully manicured beds of flowers. Pulling out my map of the campus, I unfold it and try to pinpoint where exactly the grumpy taxi driver dropped me off.

  Frowning, I glance up at the building whose yard I’m standing in front of. It is magnificent, standing three stories tall. The gray stone walls and thin white trimmed windows are something out of a storybook; the whole building looks as if it wouldn’t have been out of place two centuries ago, back when Campbell College was first founded. Rose House is carved in elegant lettering on a wrought iron sign planted in the yard.

  I scan the map for Rose House, finally finding it on the very edge, all the way across from Rebekah Scott Hall. Realizing that the angry old man just dropped me off wherever he felt like rather than where I needed to be, my cheeks burn. It’s not a very good start to my Ivy league education but I refuse to let it get me down.

  I’m in a new place. This is my fresh start. This is my chance to leave my foster care days and my careworn appearance far behind. Let them die in Oregon, back where they belong.

  It takes me a minute to identify where I need to g
o from here. There isn’t a clear path to my dormitory, but that’s okay. Tracing the route I need to take with my finger a few times, I do my best to memorize the street names.

  Trying to carefully carry two suitcases, my purse, and two boxes of books, I struggle toward my dorm.

  I only make it a few steps before my foot finds a tree root. Lurching forward, I spill everything I’m holding and topple over. The wind is no friend of mine today either. Pieces of paper escape the boxes of books, forcing me to chase them down.

  My purse spews a few items all over in a messy trail, ending in the bushes. I pick myself up and then spend a minute tracking down a tube of lip gloss, a compass, and a few pens. Something glints dully from the bushes.

  Making a sound of exasperation, I drop to my knees and bend over, putting my face right into a bush. Blinded by the leaves in my face, I grope blindly around the bush’s roots. My fingers close around something cold and hard.

  Bringing my hand out, I am expecting maybe another pen or something. But when I open my fingers, it isn’t that at all. Covered in dirt and something brown that sticks to my hand, it is a skeleton key. The key is long and wrought iron, black with a distinct pattern stamped into the end. It’s also obviously very old.

  Who would leave a skeleton key here in the bushes?

  I hear the sound of giggles. Turning my head, I see two young women in low slung jeans walking by, snickering behind their hands at me. They are stunningly beautiful in the way that models often are, hungry-looking and gaunt but still hauntingly pretty.

  I don’t realize for the longest moment that I am gawping at them. They roll their eyes and flick their long hair over their shoulders as they pass.

  My cheeks redden as I realize that I probably look pretty foolish, down here on my hands and knees. My luggage and my books are still strewn everywhere too.

  Shoving the key in my pocket, I hustle to gather my things.

  It’s a new beginning. A fresh start, I remind myself. No one knows you here. Use that to your advantage.

  Bolstered and determined, I start down the street toward Rebekah Scott Hall once more.

  2

  Emily

  Entering Rebekah Scott Hall for the very first time is a bit like taking a trip backwards in a time machine. Walking up to the four storied, warm-colored brick building, my eyes widen a bit. There is a beautiful white wrap around porch on the bottom floor, gently inviting me to move closer. I do, drawn towards the elegant glass doors at the center of the building.

  Focusing just on the building, it’s easy to imagine myself in a different century.

  There are a lot of other young people moving in. They are dressed in jeans and oversized tees, leggings and cute dresses. If I wanted to though, I could imagine that they were dressed in the pinstriped suits and pretty day dresses of the late nineteenth century.

  There are also a lot of older people, parents concerned enough to move their kids into their dorms. They are all business, holding doors with their elbows and trudging up the stairs carrying giant stacks of boxes.

  Biting my lip, I allow myself one brief moment of sadness. I’ll never have that bonding experience with anyone. Today I am all by myself.

  It’s not that I don’t have parents. I do, they just aren’t around. They haven’t been in my life since I was three. Instead, I just have Ella Gould, my ancient foster mom. Ella cares, but she’s back in Oregon. She wasn’t afforded the time off from her job as a cashier at Target. Plus she has other kids to worry about.

  New kids. A new challenge. I’ve moved on too. Or I’m trying to, anyway.

  Taking a deep breath and hitching all my worldly goods in my arms, I struggle up the ancient steps. I can repeat the informational brochure about my dorm almost from memory. Rebekah Scott Hall, founded well over a hundred years ago, was one of the first women’s dormitories. Built when Campbell College began accepting women in 1899, it originally included servants quarters on the fourth floor.

  I flush when I remember that Rebekah is a unisex dorm. My roommate will be a girl, but otherwise there is no guarantee of privacy from boys outside of my room. That fact is immediately reinforced when a tall, gawky boy with a mop of dark curls holds the door open for me.

  “Thank you,” I say, shuffling in the door sideways to accommodate my boxes.

  The boy doesn’t say anything in return. He just turns red as a beet and pulls at the hem of his gray Anderson Paak tee shirt.

  Inside of Rebekah Scott Hall is charming, the walls painted pastel pink and the floors done in light wood. Two staircases gently curve to greet me. There’s a sign that directs students upstairs to their dorms. I double check my paperwork.

  Rebekah Scott Hall Dormitory, Room 202.

  That’s where I’m heading. Most kids that are moving in today have already been to campus a few times, but all of this is new to me. I couldn’t afford to fly out here to visit. I applied to Campbell College sight unseen, unless of course you count memorizing every scrap of the admissions booklet and spending countless hours on Google Earth.

  Let’s just say that though this is my first time actually seeing Rebekah with my own eyes, I’ve looked at it from Google’s street view so much that it’s impressive.

  Trudging up the stairs, I find myself in the middle of a long hallway stretching in both directions. Here, the floors are wood and the walls all painted off white. The ceilings are high and the walls are studded here and there with decorative sconces.

  A helpful sign it posted that indicates rooms 200-214 are to the left, 214-230 to the right. More rooms are upstairs but I’m not concerned with that.

  I start down the hallway to my left, ducking to avoid an older man leaving one of the rooms with a tower of boxes. I pass the ladies bathroom and shower area, the door firmly closed. As I progress, it is a frenzy of people unpacking and moving things into rooms. I peer into one of the rooms as I pass and get a quick glance of a dark-haired girl holding a bundle of smoking incense as she walks around the room.

  Whoa. I am not in Prineville anymore, that’s for sure.

  I rush the last few steps to my door. Thankfully it is already open, so I go in. This is momentous for me as I look around, taking it all in.

  High ceilings, beautiful old windows, that same off-white color of paint as the hallway. Two beds, two desks, two closets. Blinking, I realize that not only is my roommate already here, she has already almost completely unpacked. There is a rich-looking white lady standing on a step ladder hanging up one end of a gold brocade tapestry. It matches the aesthetic of my roommate’s side of the room: gold and pink linens on the bed, gold accessories on the desk, two cute pale pink paper lanterns hanging by the window, pink and green origami flowers strung along the wall above the brocade.

  I’m immediately embarrassed that I didn’t bring much decorative stuff for my side of the bedroom. Will my roommate’s mother think poorly of me?

  She doesn’t even look at me though. So I just hurry over to the unchosen bed and fling my boxes down. Setting my beat-up old suitcases on the floor, I turn to the woman in the room. Clearing my throat, I try to make my presence known.

  “Hi?” I say. When she sends a frown over her shoulder, I falter a little bit, my momentary confidence fading.

  She climbs down from the ladder with a sigh.

  “Miss Mizundo has gone to check in. I am almost done here.” She arches a brow, casting a glance over my short pink dress, black stockings, and tattered Converse. My chin-length dark hair doesn’t meet her approval either, apparently. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be in here?”

  My hand goes to my throat. The breath rushes out of my lungs. All at once, my old fears come rushing back.

  I won’t fit in at Campbell. I’m an imposter who made it into this school through some type of error. I’ll be found out. Now everyone will know that I’m just a poor kid that doesn’t belong at this school.

  Suddenly, I find myself on the verge of tears. Swallowing against the lump of emotions in m
y throat, I am without words. When I don’t speak up immediately, the woman dismisses me. “I have to finish my work.”

  Licking my lips, I turn, trying to discreetly blot at my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I silently blow it out.

  Focus. You’re supposed to be a new person, remember? No tears today! I admonish myself.

  Taking stock for a second, I reach into my purse to grab my phone. The skeleton key is still there so I take a moment to draw it out and place it gingerly on the desk. I’ll wash it off and find somewhere to put it later, but for now it is just in my way.

  Moving slowly, I take a few minutes to decide where everything will go for now. My suitcases can go in the closet. My two boxes of books and papers can go under the desk, on each side of the chair legs. I have a brand new sheet set with its wacky neon pink triangles and gray stripes; grabbing it from my luggage, I put it on.

  It seems like someone has been here, at least. Glancing over my shoulder as the woman lays down a huge pink shag rug, I am ashamed of my new sheets. Ella bought them for me as part of a dorm essentials collection. She busted her ass to buy the thing for me.