Chapter 4: Three

Simone Allard || After

Simone has never been one for running.

They come to this realization as they gasp in the courtyard, their heart a pinned butterfly in their chest. As they fight to catch their breath, a cluster of third-years give a wary eye and scrub their index fingers together. While the gesture is likely an insult, Simone can’t find it in them to care. They need as much bad luck as possible carved from them.

When they can breathe again, they resume their harried sprint.

Glints of the world below flash by as they race through the main courtyard. In the distance, the trams make their rounds, picking up or dropping off prospective casters at the edge of the mesa. Red lights flash off the cabs, coming from the medical ward. Simone finds themself making their own ward against bad luck until the joints in their fingers refuse to cooperate.

The medical ward attaches to the administrative offices like an unwanted growth. It juts out on its own at an awkward angle, an amalgamation of crooked shingles and rotting wood and sickness. Twice the building has burned down in the college’s recent history. Each time, it returns with a vengeance.

Even as Simone approaches, their stomach twists at the red magelights flashing over the entrance doors. They mean one thing: Emergency in progress.

White walls form a dizzying maw around them as the medic ward swallows them whole. Buoyant in their own skin, they are barely aware when a nurse takes their hands and says, “Are you hurt?”

Simone looks her up and down, taking in the bloodstained smock and the grey ring in her eyes. Gods-touched—so the rumors say of anyone with such a feature. They try to catch their breath. A nurse like this, Gods-touched or not, means they’re in good hands.

“Why don’t we sit down?” she says. She must have picked up on the panicked flicking of their eyes and unstable breathing. Or perhaps she can see the waves of pain radiating from them.

“Etienne.” The word comes out in a froggish croak. “I’m here for Etienne LaChance.”

Her gaze is quizzical, then serious. She pulls back, mouth twisted in a poorly-repressed grimace, before exhaling. “Come with me.”

They look for Nadia in the crowd outside of Etienne’s room, but she isn’t there. The rest of her friends are, some sobbing, some clustered in tight circles and wringing each other’s hands. None give Simone any mind as they approach.

“You’ll have to wait out here,” the nurse says, as if it wasn’t obvious. How is he, Simone wants to ask, but she’s gone by the time they’ve turned.

They strain to see through the thin window of Etienne’s room, unable to get a good view over everyone else’s heads. Instead, half-aware, they plunge into the crowd of students.

Chantal is the closest, her hair pulled back in a tight puff. She’s chewing on the nails on one hand and pacing as best as the friends cloistered around her will allow. After a beat, she must catch sight of Simone, because she stops pacing and darts over.

“Still no sign of Nadia?” she asks in way of greeting.

Simone’s stomach sinks. “No. Have you heard anything?”

“No.”

Before Simone can ask more, someone claps Chantal’s shoulder and pulls her away. They lose themself to the dull hum of voices.

“Monsters? On campus?” says a trembling girl nearby. A man holds her like a hand of cards to his chest. With wide eyes and pupils the size of tea saucers, she trembles, reminding Simone of the small hunter dogs of Hadorae.

Simone’s breath catches. “Monsters?” they ask.

The dull hum dissipates. Every head turns their way. They shrink against the onslaught of attention.

“You didn’t hear?” asks Luc, now visible over Chantal’s head.

Chantal covers their hand with her own. “I… didn’t have time to tell them.”

“Tell me what?”

“Etienne… he…” At once, Chantal’s composure shatters. She turns into Luc’s chest, whole body heaving as she sobs. Hers have been the driest eyes in the room—until now.

Luc rubs circles into her back as they meet Simone’s stare. “Etienne was attacked,” they say, wincing at their own words.

“By a monster? On campus?”

No one says a word.

Simone’s fist clenches. “How did this happen?”

“We don’t know.” Luc’s voice is a broken whisper.

“And where did it go?”

Holding tight to Chantal, Luc doesn’t respond. Simone closes the distance and helps guide her to a chair.

“W-we’re taking watch i-in shifts,” she says between harsh hiccups. “When they let us, anyway. Oh, gods. What if he—“

“He won’t.” Simone represses a wince as they speak. They can’t remember the last time they’ve heard of a monster attack with survivors, but if Etienne is still alive, that’s as good a sign as any. “Most attacks,” they continue, voice soft, “end before they even get this far. He’ll be okay. He has to be.”

As they wordlessly smooth back Chantal’s hair, they wonder if they are trying to convince her or themself. At the end of the day, they suppose it doesn’t matter. As they said, the odds are in Etienne’s favor.

Or, at least, Simone hopes they are.

#

Hours pass. Some of the clustered students get tired of waiting and return to their dorms, mumbling to each other as they leave. Simone sits in the same chair they’ve been in since their arrival, rear end numb and spine tingling. Across the waiting room, Chantal and Luc lean into each other with matching tear-tracked faces, hands tangled together.

Nadia still isn’t here.

Simone has asked for every time a member of faculty passes by. Each one gives a sad shake of their head, nose buried in their clipboards, before walking away. It’s enough to make Simone spit.

Where the fuck is she?

Their emotions are an hourglass in their chest. Deep concern sits in the bottom half. Grains of anger dribble down through the warped glass and settle. Etienne is supposed to be Nadia’s best friend, but she can’t be bothered to be here?

Simone chews on their bottom lip, relishing the taste of their own blood and how it distracts them. “Still no word?” they ask in Chantal’s direction.

She gives them a glassy stare, brown eyes rimmed with red, and shakes her head.

She could be strung out somewhere, a faint voice goads. You’ve seen her that way, more than once.

But wouldn’t Etienne have been with her, in that case?

The thought gives them pause. Etienne and Nadia have done most things together since Simone has known them. Perhaps they’d been together during the attack. Perhaps what got to him had—

Simone grinds their palms into their eyes and groans. It’s not worth thinking about. It’s bad enough Etienne is so badly hurt. If Nadia had been with them—if Simone was losing them both…

Lost in their thoughts, Simone almost misses the distinct sound of a door sliding open. Numb, they lift their head and look towards the source. A nurse steps out of Etienne’s room—the same nurse who escorted them hours ago, they realize—clipboard pressed to her chest as she clears her throat.

“He’s stable,” she says. “Badly wounded, but stable.”

The relief that fills the waiting room is thick enough to choke on. Simone slumps forward with a sigh. Finally, some good news.

“You’ll have to go one at a time, but you’re allowed to see him if you would like.”

Simone and Chantal meet eyes. She starts to open her mouth, but Simone is quicker. “You should go.”

Chantal’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t argue. Nudging Luc, she settles their hands in their lap and follows the nurse inside. Seconds later, her sudden sobs are cut off as the door slides shut.

Any news is good news, they tell themself as their stomach drops. He’ll live. The nurse suggested as much. He’ll live, he’ll live, he’ll live.

“It was kind of you to come,” Luc says in the silence that follows.

Simone takes in their unruly pompadour and stained lapels. The hems of their sleeves have been worried to an unironable wrinkle. Etienne’s state has worsened them, too, it seems.

“It was the least I can do. I just… wish Nadia was here.”

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“I’m surprised you haven’t seen her. After her and Etienne, the two of you are near-inseparable.”

“I suppose we are.”

Simone counts along to the ticking of the clock over their head. Several minutes pass. The hourglass in their chest flips over once again. Worry comes to feast on their innards. Could Nadia have been attacked, too?

#

Chantal leaves the room an hour later, knees knocking together, and gestures for Luc to go. As they leave, she takes their hand and holds it tight enough her brown hands pale.

“Be prepared,” she says in a choked whisper. “He’s… he’s really bad.”

As they depart, Chantal gestures to the seat beside Simone. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. Then, eyes wet with tears, she sits down.

“He’s…” she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Oh, gods.”

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

“Thank you.” Then, sniffling, “I can’t believe Nadia isn’t here.”

“Neither can I.”

“You haven’t been with her?”

Simone shakes their head.

Chantal picks up a pamphlet from the table and thumbs through before setting it back down. “To be honest with you, I’m starting to think she was involved.”

They manage a dry swallow, heart skipping. “Oh?”

“Doesn’t it make sense?”

It does. Simone bites the words back, hesitant to add to Chantal’s raving. Though her words have the jilted cadence of fear, they can’t decide if she’s declaring Nadia the monster or a fellow victim.

“Etienne is found almost fucking dead. Nadia is nowhere to be seen. You don’t think the two are related?”

“They… could be,” they say after a long pause. Their palms bead with sweat. Chest tight, they take the pamphlet Chantal glanced at, Learn the signs and symptoms of Sanguina Malefica, and pray it’s enough to end the conversation.

“They’re going to find her body next, you know.”

Simone winces mid-word. Apparently, it’s not. “Don’t say that.”

“My apologies. I forgot—“ Chantal sighs before trying again. “I should have thought more.”

Their attention returns to the pamphlet—barely. Her words are needles in their side. As much as Simone is loathe to admit it, there’s a strong chance she’s right. With a stiff lip, they stare at the pamphlet until the words swim and force themself to focus.

Sanguina Malifica’s cause and cure are currently unknown. Ask your physician if you experience the following symptoms: lethargy, nausea, joint pain, chest pains, unsteady pulse, headaches, change in blood color or texture (especially in menstruating folk), and disorientation.

Nadia had a lot of these. Simone wraps a braid around their finger. Almost all of them, actually. But all of their work has so far led to the same dead ends. All solutions Simone has crafted have been of minimal success. Where did Sanguina Malefica come from? Why can’t they cure Nadia of it?

With a heavy sigh, they set the pamphlet down once again. “I’ll come back.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I left my coursework at Nadia’s. It’s possible she’s come back by now and isn’t aware of what happened. She could have not heard the news, or… and, besides, I need to make sure her cat is fed.”

Chantal lunges for their hand, brown cheeks dusted with pink. Her voice is faint as she says, “You will return, though?”

It would be divine timing for Nadia to come through the doors now, they think, frozen as they are in Chantal’s grip. Their gaze flicks towards the hallway, disappointment all-consuming when they realize no one is there.

“Of course I will.” Their lip stiffens as they swallow the urge to cry. “I wouldn’t let you and Luc watch him alone.”

“I appreciate that.” Though hesitant, she releases them. “Try to return soon.”

The lump in their throat thickens. They don’t trust themself to talk, so they nod instead.

On their way out, they pass the front desk. Simone recognizes the woman from earlier, the one who had mentioned Etienne’s attack to begin with. Her pale skin borders on translucent under the harsh lights. Her blonde hair is a cruel halo. The variety of flower arrangements on the desk and in her hands are enough to dwarf her. The moment she sees Simone, her panicked expression dissipates.

“You’re one of Etienne’s friends, right?”

They pause to read the card on the nearest arrangement. The paper is wrinkled, the handwriting reminiscent of a child’s. Simone is unable to tell who it is from.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman continues. The dark green cape over her shoulders advertises her introduction to the realm of Enchantment. Perhaps Etienne was a tutor to her?

“I’m a friend of his, yes.” Not an entire lie. Him and Nadia were thick as thieves, after all… but he had never taken a liking to them for reasons they still don’t understand.

“How is he?”

Her doe-brown eyes glimmer with hope, and Simone almost wants to lie to preserve it. The moment their expression falters, however, she seems to catch on. Tears spill freely down her cheeks.

“He won’t survive,” she says in a voice like broken glass, “will he?”

“Nothing is certain yet.” Over and over, they repeat in their mind their own words to Chantal earlier. He’ll be okay. He has to be.

“But monster attacks are…”

“He’s beaten the odds thus far. Most victims don’t make it to the hospital, after all.”

As if someone had shut off the faucet behind her eyes, the woman stops crying. “You’re right. He’ll be okay.” She stops to fumble through her bag. “He has to be.”

Poor thing. She wouldn’t last a day on the battle field. The thought passes through them before they have a chance to catch it.

“Here.”

When they look up, she’s offered them a wrapped package. The bow on top is lopsided, one side twice the size of the other.

“I made this for him. I’m still so new to magic, but it might help. I would bring it myself, but…” Red washes over her face and she looks away. “I don’t… do good with gore.”

Simone takes the package from her with a sad smile. “I understand. I went into Abjuration for similar reasons.”

“I thought about that, but—it doesn’t matter. Please send him my regards. If he wakes up, that is.”

With this, the girl spins on her heel and is gone. From behind the desk, a nurse with black-rimmed glasses pokes her head over the cluster of flowers.

“Comin’ or goin’?”

“I’m leaving for now.” Then, as they start to leave, they reconsider. “Have any third-year Diviners come through here?”

The nurse disappears behind the flowers once more, humming with thought. “I’ve seen a couple, but not recently. My apologies.”

“Thank you, regardless.”

Simone clutches the package tight as they emerge onto the courtyard once more. Cold night air kisses their cheek, freezing the tears that well to the surface. A single lamp flickers over their head. They stare into the dark for wayward students and, finding none, sinks to their knees. A maelstrom of questions rise to the surface.

With a noticeable pop, the lamp overhead flickers a final time and is dead. Simone’s sobs bounce off the bricks and are lost in the darkness beyond.

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