Corbyn Black: The Demon's Kiss Trilogy by L. J. Hachmeister

Author:L. J. Hachmeister [Hachmeister, L. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Source 7 Productions, LLC
Published: 2022-06-07T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

I linger outside the administrative offices for several minutes, half-heartedly reading all the multicolored posts on the bulletin board until I can build up the nerve to go inside. I skim over calls for homecoming committee members, school clubs and fundraisers, homework help; things that could be posted in any high school across the nation. But knowing what I do now about the town, the bulletin board seem less about school pride than it does creating a slick veneer.

Rough hands slam me up against the board. I yelp, my cheekbone smashing against a push pin.

“Freakshow,” someone shouts.

I reel around, hands up for a subsequent attack. Barely any student pauses as they pass by, some laughing, others whispering as I panic.

“Watch out, Stank Eye!”

I zero in on the culprit as she walks backward and points at me: Stacey Brookes. Other fem bots, the ones originally hanging around Jessa, laugh and follow Stacey’s lead as she flips her hair and swaggers down the hall.

Stunned, I nurse the pain in my cheek as a hot wave of confusion, anger, and embarrassment crashes over me. The old instincts bade me to run and hide, just forget this ever happened, but a burgeoning awareness steals away my flight. As my heart thumps away, the noise of the crowds, the opening and shutting of lockers, and the first bell stretches out into my peripheries. Free of the din, I’m drawn down to the unwatched corners, dusty vents, and cracks in the walls. There a whisper-silent army awaits in the darkness, antennae twitching, ready to devour my enemies. I drop my hand from my stinging cheek, my fingers still. With a single motion, I can command them to pour forth and—

“Corbyn.”

A huge hand encompasses my entire shoulder, rattling me from my trance. “W-what?”

Mr. Oldham, shoulders rounded to appear smaller, still stands over a foot taller than me. He’s wearing his tricorn hat and a flannel; not something I’d ever see combined. “Is this a good time to check in?”

The second bells rings. Crap, I’m gonna be late—

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell your teacher you were seeking guidance.”

“Ok.”

I follow him inside the administrative offices, half-relieved, but also disappointed.

No—unfulfilled.

I shudder, terrified at my own dark hunger.

I wanted to attack Stacey.

And the fem bots. And all the kids that laughed at me.

No, that’s wrong, I correct myself, taking a seat in one of Mr. Oldham’s retro leather chairs.

(Is it?) a dark voice inside me whispers.

I grip the arms of the chair as my vision telescopes and a cacophony of conversations crowd my head until the dark voice, harsh and guttural, arises: “Let me in—and take back what is rightfully yours.”

“Corbyn?”

I finally let out my breath, unaware that I had been holding it in. “Sorry.”

“Quite alright,” Mr. Oldham says, sitting down across from me and folding his arms across his calendar. He leans forward, his right elbow obscuring most of a dark, leather-bound book sitting at the edge of his desk. “Are you okay? I saw Stacey walking away from you and you were holding your cheek.

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