Chapter Two
Ding.
The elevator door rolls open, and I’m greeted by the sight of a tall door, its dark red wood nearly obscured beneath the collage of photos plastered atop it. That can’t be good for the varnish—but the girls featured in most of the pictures don’t exactly look like the type to care. A large piece of baby blue construction paper sits in the middle of the clutter of photographs, with two names scrawled across it in purple glitter pen: Shivani Angelica!
They sure didn’t take long to make themselves at home.
The door’s number, just barely peeking out above the topmost row of polaroids, reads 1202. A glance to the left and right reveals that there are only two other doors in the whole hallway, each of them at the very end. Fifty-fifty chance. I do a mental coin-flip, take a right, and make my way past walls heavy with framed landscape paintings until I’m close enough to read the number.
1203. Nice!
My door isn’t decorated in the same way as that of the other girls—not even close—but it does have matching blue paper at eye level. A quick, eager shock throbs through me at the sight of my name, then crumples into a shrill of unease as I process the rest of the paper’s contents.
Lia.
And Harper.
And Aimee.
And Sage.
I’m supposed to live with three other girls?
I knew about roommates. Didn’t love the idea, but if that’s what it takes to get me out of my father’s house and into a dormitory, I’d find a way to deal with it.
At least I thought I would.
Okay. This is fine. Maybe they’re nice. Maybe they’ll be friends—are people normally friends with their roommates? Seems like that would either be awkward or a total blast. On the one hand, sleepovers every night. On the other hand… sleepovers every night.
Well, standing out here won’t do any good. Do I just let myself in? Should I knock? Maybe?—
The door swings open before I can make up my mind.
“Oh, Har-per! Fresh meat delivery!”
The words trill past the bright purple-painted lips of a girl a bit taller than me, dressed head to toe in some of the most outrageous clothing I’ve ever seen—a black T-shirt emblazoned with a magenta logo I don’t recognize, dark gray jeans with chains hooked through their belt loops, and some strange, chunky imitation of combat boots that wouldn’t last ten seconds in, well, combat. Her hair, tied up in two knots, is such a shiny mahogany that it almost hurts to look at.
Bass music pumps from somewhere behind her.
Oh boy.
“You’re Lia,” she tells me, lounging against the door frame—I’d appreciate being able to get past her and actually see the space where I’m going to live, but she doesn’t seem interested in enabling that. “You’re new.”
“Those are… both true things, yeah.”
“And you’re pretty.”
“Oh—” I scramble through my backlog of planned-out responses. How was I supposed to prep for a situation like this? Aren’t I supposed to object or something? Or is that rude? “Thank you. That’s… really nice.”
“That your natural hair?”
“…What do you mean?”
“So it is. God damn, that’s nice. Totally looks like a bleach job. A good bleach job. Nobody ever believes me when I say mine is natural. Probably because I’m a bad liar.” She holds out a hand. Her nails are painted in five different shades of purple. “I’m Sage.”
I know this one—a high five. Girls do it in the movies all the time.
My palm smacks hers. She looks down at her hand, up to me, and back down again.
“O-kay! Cool. How about you come in and get settled with your other little friend, won’t you?”
I don’t get the chance to ask who my other little friend might be before Sage steps back and ushers me inside.
Now I get why there are only three doors on the floor.
The room is huge. Nearly the size of the lounge downstairs, and fashioned similarly with two sleek black couches, a round white coffee table, a bay window with its deep red curtains drawn back. No paintings on the walls, though a pile of frames sits in one corner next to a massive stereo.
Sage follows my gaze. “Oh. Yeah, the decor in here was nasty. So Aimee and I put an end to it. We’ll put something better up eventually.” She answers my unspoken question by jabbing her thumb over her shoulder. “That’s Aimee.”
“I’m Aimee,” another girl assents from across the room, lifting a hand but not looking up from her phone. She’s as tiny as Sage is tall, with dark ringlets and circular glasses perched atop a freckled, slightly upturned nose.
“I like your glasses.”
“Thanks.” She still doesn’t look up.
“Har-per!” Sage calls, startling me—when I flinch, she snickers. “Aw, did I scare you?”
“No, I just?—”
“Okay, okay, I’m here!”
One of two doors on the leftmost side of the room flies open, and out dashes a cute, curvy girl in pink pajamas with a towel knotted on top of her head.
“Hi,” she says, half-breathless. “Sorry. I was showering.”
“Clearly,” Sage snorts. “Are those PJs?”
“I needed something to throw on super quick!”
“Right. Okay. Shrimp one, meet shrimp two. You’re gonna have to be besties, because Aimee and I don’t have any plans to buddy up with freshmen. No offense. Right, Aimee?”
“Right.” Aimee keeps scrolling.
Well. Okay, then.
“She’s kind of intense,” the towel-topped girl says with an apologetic smile as Sage strolls over to another door, this one on the right, and slips inside.
Sage’s shout comes immediately: “Damn right I am!”
“Anyway, I’m Harper.” Her voice has a sweet tang to it—Southern, I think. “The other freshman. Sorry about the getup—I’ve been, like, so excited to meet you, I didn’t want to waste any time getting dressed.”
She laughs—a light, easy sound—and I find myself smiling as well.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”
“You’re sweet! This is so exciting—oh, your luggage is already here, by the way. You probably want to see your room, right?”
“That’d be great.”
“Yay, then I get to show you! You’re the first door on the left—that one. The other two are on the right. The rooms are so nice, you’re gonna love them—I mean, isn’t this whole place so nice—? Sorry, sorry, I know I talk too much.”
“Seriously. You don’t need to apologize.”
Harper leads me to the nearest door, painted creamy off-white to match the others, and twists the delicate golden knob. “Ready! Here we go!”
She opens the door, darts inside, and turns around to beam at me. “Ta-da!”
A painting is the first thing to catch my eye. For a moment, my mind can’t make sense of the abstract strokes, deep blue and gold-flecked, with brighter haloes of yellow dotted here and there—then something clicks, and I realize that I’m looking at the night sky, embellished by the artist’s imagination, intricately spun to the point where I feel as though I can pick out each individual galaxy.
“That’s gorgeous,” I say softly.
“I know, right? I, like, love Starry Night. But I love The Girl With the Pearl Earring even more. We all have different ones—isn’t that cute? I haven’t gotten a look inside Sage’s room yet, but I think Aimee has a Klimt.”
The picture on my wall isn’t Starry Night, but I don’t have the heart to tell her. I can see the inspiration in the brush strokes, though. This was made with love and respect for Van Gogh’s craft. If they really worked at it, the artist may even be able to pull off a decent forgery.
Instead of trying to cobble together a response, I take a moment to absorb the rest of the room. A desk, a dresser, an empty bookshelf—all of them simple and modern, fashioned of blonde wood. The bed is small, but I’m relieved to see that the duvet is a pleasant charcoal gray—the blood-red motif has been starting to get to me a little bit. And there, set neatly atop it, are my bags.
“Well? What do you think?”
“I think… I can see this being my home.”
It’s like no definition of home that I’ve ever known. My loose affiliation with the word is cold and sterile, but this place is smaller. Softer. Warm in a way that I never could have imagined.
“Yay!” She claps in delight. “I’d show you mine, but—well, you probably want to unpack, right? But then maybe we can get dinner afterwards? You got here pretty late.”
“Dinner sounds nice.” Especially because, I’m just now realizing, I have no idea where I’m supposed to go to get food. My stomach’s been in knots ever since I woke up this morning, but now, settling into something akin to stability, it’s eager to let me know just how hungry it is.
“Okay, okay. I’ll leave you alone. Just knock on my door when you’re ready. Oh, and also—door on the left goes to the closet, door on the right goes to the bathroom, which we share, by the way. Don’t worry, I’m super clean.”
“Got it.”
“We don’t even have to go out to the main area to visit each other. It’s like we have our own secret passage! Here, look—” She trots to the end of the room and through the white-painted door that waits there. I can’t see much inside from this angle—a mirror, a double sink—and yet anotherdoor, which she opens to reveal a room more or less identical to my own, save for the clothes scattered on every visible surface. “Ta-da!”
“That’s really cool.”
“Isn’t it?” She’s about to say something else when she pauses to cast a guilty glance at her surroundings. “Um, I mean it when I said I’m clean. Clean, just not super neat. That’s embarrassing. Okay, I’m going to get dressed, bye!”
The door swings shut.
In the sudden absence of her chipper voice, my ears are practically ringing. Her tendency to babble doesn’t bother me, though. It’s fascinating how easy she seems to find it—and a relief that I get to keep my own mouth shut for the most part after the bevy of awkward interactions I’ve fumbled my way through today.
It doesn’t take long to unpack. I don’t have all that much—my clothes only fill half the dresser. Probably not going to be wearing my own stuff too often, anyway—a quick glance in the closet reveals a row of freshly ironed school uniforms, identical to the ones in Crimson Elite’s promotional photos. Deep red blouses, black-and-white plaid skirts… cute, in a snobby sort of way. The tablet goes on my desk, next to the shiny laptop waiting there. Technology, ugh—maybe Harper can help me sort all that out later. Ella, my stuffed lamb whose wool has yellowed with age and wear, gets the place of honor in front of my pillow.
That’s everything—except for the duffel bag. I shove it under the bed—nothing in there has any reason to be on display.
Except—
Cursing myself internally, knowing that I should be more careful than this, I dial in the code for the outside lock. To the oblivious eye, the first layer of stuff in the bag is nothing worth noting—some tightly wadded black clothes, pepper spray, a Swiss army knife, and the journal.
I still haven’t had time to read through it all—not even close. I’m almost afraid to know what they contain. The first—at least, I think it’s the first, judging by the date scribbled above the first entry—contained enough detail to overwhelm my dreams with strange images. Vivid descriptions of black robes and red masks, of oaths and chants, an underworld to Crimson Elite that extended far beyond the campus limits…
I zip the duffel bag shut again, spin the lock, and shake myself internally. No use in thinking about all that right now. Tuesday night—the new moon. When the night is at its darkest. That’s when I need to be on my guard.
That’s when—if the Order described by my mother truly exists—the invitations will be delivered.
For now, I’m just like any other college freshman on her way to get some much-needed dinner.
Aimee and Sage are gone when I reenter the sitting area, maybe already at dinner, and the boombox has been turned off. The sunlight slanting through the window gleams with the buttery gold of early evening. Good to know this place isn’t always covered in mist.
Harper opens her door at the first knock. I almost don’t recognize her—with the towel gone, the girl in front of me is about forty percent hair, thick dark blonde locks that fall all the way down to her waist. She’s dressed in a yellow crop top and off-white bell bottoms—a bold choice, but one that works on her.
“Ready to go?” she asks.
I want to tell her how pretty her outfit is, but Aimee’s coldness is too fresh in my mind. Instead, I just nod.
“Hell yes.” She grins. “I’m famished.”