RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,63

unsettling certainty that they’re all depictions of raging storms, brought to life in swirling blacks, and blues, white and greys. They feel angry. “Wren’s,” Carina murmurs. “He might be the biggest shithead to walk the Earth, but the bastard can paint.”

I reel in my surprise, storing that information away for later.

The house has a unique, dizzying smell to it. Far from the sweaty socks and unwashed teenaged boy odor I was expecting, the air’s colored with notes of bergamot, black pepper and rosewood.

There are knick-knacks and small keepsakes everywhere I look, placed with thought and care on the exorbitantly expensive-looking sideboards, tables and the bookcase that runs along the back wall, by a door that leads off into the unknown.

I gasp when I look up. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Carina agrees, matching my stance as she cranes her head back, staring up through the winding staircases that wrap around what can only be described as the inner courtyard of the house. From where we stand, you can see all the way up to the top floor of the house, and beyond that, in the roof high over our heads, a vast skylight gives access to a view of the night sky that takes my breath away. Scores of brilliant pinpricks of light, burning away in the heavens, form the roof that Wren Jacobi sleeps under, and it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

“Come on.” Carina takes me by the arm, pulling me toward the stairs. “No time to admire the architecture. We need to grab the phone and get back to the academy. I have an awful feeling about this.”

“Where’s his room? Tell me and I’ll go find it myself.”

Carina shakes her head. “We’ll go together. It’s easier to get lost in here than you’d think.”

I squeeze her hand, giving her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. Stay here and keep watch. If you see lights headed up the road, shout and we’ll get the fuck out of here. One of us needs to be on guard.”

Uncertainty shines in her eyes, but there’s relief in them, too. She’s glad of the excuse to stay downstairs, within sprinting distance of the exit. “All right. Go, and be quick about it. The top floor. When you get to the top of the stairs, turn right on the landing. Wren’s room is the door right in front of you. There’s a black feather nailed into the door frame. I haven’t been in there. I can’t tell you where his desk is, but—”

“Don’t worry, shh, it’s okay. It’s a desk. It’s not like I’m looking for a hidden trapdoor or anything. Give me one minute and we’ll be out of here.”

Shaking ever so slightly, Carina nods. Jesus, she looks like she’s on the verge of tears. I don’t know what she’s so terrified of here, but her emotions are proving to be contagious. My heart thumps aggressively in my chest as I jog up the first flight of steps, where I take the next flight on the right. My lungs are burning like crazy by the time I hit the third floor, and by the time I reach the fourth all I can hear is my blood charging behind my eardrums.

Gulping down breath after breath, I don’t waste a second. I head straight for the door on the right, curiosity eating at me like nobody’s business when I see the lush black feather my friend told me would be nailed into the wood. It’s right where Carina said it would be.

Now.

Will his door be locked?

A part of me thinks, yes, absolutely, Wren’s a private creature and he likely guards his personal space fiercely.

But then, he’s also arrogant. Would Pax or Dash dare enter his inner sanctum without his permission? Highly improbable. And in what kind of world would Wren ever imagine an outsider having the gall to break into his home and then breach the privacy of his bedroom? Certainly not this world—the one in which everybody he comes into contact, students and teachers alike, are afraid of him.

When I place my hand on the brass doorknob, a quiver of strange energy ripples up my back. How many times has Wren placed his hand here, on this same polished, cool brass? A thousand times. More. Hundreds of thousands of times. He touches this door knob more frequently than he touches almost any other thing in this house, and that knowledge makes a bolt of color creep into my cheeks; it feels like he