Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
The next few days fly by in a flurry of exploring the campus with Tia. The streets and sidewalks twist and turn rather than intersect at right angles, making it that much more challenging to find a classroom. Honestly, they need a class on how to get to class.
I walk my schedule at least a dozen times until I can do it in my sleep—assuming that’s a sleep with no monsters.
Tia and I explore the town too, even going to the beach to hang out and drink the wine coolers I swiped from Uncle Finn’s fridge.
I’ve had only one more nightmare during this gap between real life and school life, and even though Tia spent two hours holding my hand and talking me down, neither one of us brings it up on our excursions.
Yet another reason she’s fast becoming my bestie—she gets me. And that’s something I’ve never had before.
“I was starting to think you fell back asleep,” Tia says Wednesday morning as I slide into the squeaky wooden seat next to her for our first lecture in Intro to World Literature.
“Just moving slow. How was Renaissance Art?”
“So cool. Did you know that Renaissance beds had special symbols to prevent demons from entering dreams?”
“Yeah?” I didn’t know that—and now I’m wondering if I can track down one of those beds on eBay.
“Yup. And they believed the veil between worlds was thinnest during sleep,” she adds, giving me a nudge. “But we already knew that.”
I laugh. A real, genuine laugh about something scary related to a dream. How freaking amazing is that?
Then I settle back into my seat, a little smug, and even more glad that I made the jump and told her everything.
Well, everything except my suspicions about Chase. That, I’m still holding back.
I’m about to ask if she wants to order pizza tonight when the professor arrives and class begins…and three minutes later, it’s over.
At least, that’s how it seems to me. In reality, class took the full fifty minutes. I just slept through them. And, thankfully, I didn’t dream.
“Did I drool?” I ask Tia once we’re safely back in the commons. “Did the professor notice?”
“Nobody noticed, you didn’t drool, and I took amazing notes for you.” She hooks her arm around my shoulder, even though she has to rise up on her toes to do it. “Also, you didn’t call out last night, or if you did, it didn’t wake me. Was it rough?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t want to risk a dream, so I didn’t really sleep. Thus the unplanned class nap.”
She scowls but doesn’t lecture. All she says is, “Well, it’s the first week, and we’re freshmen. The professors don’t expect much from us yet.”
It’s the only class we have together today, so we part ways, the promise of pizza lingering between us. I check the time, curse, then force my still-groggy, sleep-deprived body to haul itself off to Abnormal Psych.
The walk across campus wakes me up, and I soak in the way the sunlight turns the Spanish moss into curtains of gold.
All around, students bustle about with a first-day-of-school energy.
I watch them go by, scanning faces, then realize I’m looking for golden eyes and a face I could spend hours studying.
I shake my head, telling myself I’m being foolish. But at the same time, a voice inside me tells me it’s not foolish at all. It may even be important.
I press my fingers to my temples as I hurry on, certain that if I weren’t so tired, I could wrestle my wild thoughts into control. Maybe tonight, I think. Maybe tonight I’ll sleep all the way through.
Except I don’t believe that at all.
When I reach the Science Center, my steps slow.
Having access to this class is amazing, so much so that I don’t even care that Uncle Finn used his pull with Professor Valdez to get me in. But it’s also a little bit terrifying. What if she asks if any of the students have sleep disorders? What if Finn already told her all of it?
The thought stops me, and I’m standing frozen in the middle of the Science Center hallway, students streaming around me, when someone bumps my shoulder. I turn automatically, an apology ready—and the words die on my lips.
Chase.
He’s wearing a dark green hoodie that accentuates the gold of his eyes. He looks exhausted too, his dark circles matching my own.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other, and in that moment, I realize I’m searching his right cheek for a scar that isn’t there. Then something flickers across his face—something that seems like a bizarre combination of pleasure and irritation.
Before I can ponder that, his expression closes off, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s great to see you,” he says, his voice flat. “How are your classes going?”
“Good,” I say, cringing at how incredibly mundane we sound. Then again, what am I supposed to say? I’m just wondering if you popped into my dream the other night and saved me from some freakish monsters on a beach. That doesn’t sound nutso at all.
Besides, now that I’m standing in front of him, I realize just how crazy it all really is. He’s a hot guy who—okay, yes—I might be more than a little attracted to. He showed up at a party. We flirted. Sort of. And that night he appeared in a dream.
I don’t really need Freud to tell me that’s about sex. Not about my dreams or my mother.
Although the mom part would really give Freud a thrill.
“Um, so, listen,” I begin, my stomach twisting with nerves. “I should probably apologize.”
“Really? What for?”
I wipe my palms on my jeans. “I—well, you know. You asked me out. And I didn’t take you up on it. But I wanted to. I just, you know.” I shove my hands into my pockets as my cheeks flame. “I just didn’t have the nerve. And then later I didn’t have your phone number, either.”
“Oh.” For a moment, he simply looks at me, as if he’s trying to decide if I’m bullshitting him or not. I’m not. I really would like him to show me around. And not just because of my dream and the irrational-but-unable-to-entirely-ignore possibility that he was truly there on that beach with me.
I mean, I know it’s a billion times more likely that I’ve put the face of my hero onto the protector in my dream. But I’m the kind of girl that those billion-in-one-chances could happen to. A dream killed my mom, after all. And I’m certain the things in my dreams are trying to kill me too.
And not to sound elitist, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t happen to most college freshmen. Or most of the earth’s population.
“I really do have to get to class,” he says, but his tone’s no longer sharp.
“Here.” He reaches out, and I take his hand without thinking, then I shiver from that tantalizing zing of electricity.
I am so crushing on this guy. With his free hand, he pulls a pen out of his pocket.
He uncaps it with his teeth, then scribbles a phone number on my palm.
“What if I wash my hands?”
“I used a Sharpie,” he says. “It’ll survive a wash or two. But Cora,” he adds, taking a step closer, the air now seeming thick with possibility. “I hope you put it in your phone soon. I’d hate to lose track of you.”
My stomach flutters. “Oh.”
He starts to step back, and I tug on his hoodie. He raises a brow, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth tells me he’s more amused than annoyed.
“Cora?”
I straighten. “What?”
He dips his eyes to where I’ve got a hold of his jacket. “Oh.” I clear my throat. “Right.”
The intensity of his gaze makes my pulse quicken, and I know I should just back away slowly. Instead, I say, “This is either going to sound crazy or slutty, but after the mixer at my dorm, I had this dream. And you were in it.”
“Oh, really?” His voice rises with a mixture of amusement and what might be heat. “Sounds to me like your subconscious was smacking you down for blowing off my very generous offer to show you around.”
“Could be,” I say seriously, even though I know he’s teasing. “You were pretty cool, though. In the dream, I mean.” I take a step closer, so that I have to tilt my head back to see those eyes. “I was seriously impressed with your fighting skills.”
He crosses his arms, nodding a little, his attitude totally chill. “I always knew I was a bad ass.” He reaches out, then takes my hand, his thumb rubbing softly in a way that sends those ever-present sparks zinging all through me.
“Admit it,” he whispers, “you did regret turning me down.”
“Sure,” I say. “Especially when I saw that you’re the kind of guy who can pull a blade right out of the sky.” I keep my voice as flirty as I can manage while I search his face for any sign that he really was in my dream.
“I’m a badass that way,” he says, totally deadpan. “Always popping into dreams and rescuing damsels in distress.” His lips curve into a grin. “Sounds a hell of a lot more fun than grad school.”
For a moment, we both just stand there, me tense and antsy.
Him as cool as can be. It seems like an hour goes by, but I doubt it’s even been a minute when he finally says, “Listen, Cora, that knife trick must’ve been cool, but I’ve got to get across campus.
If you want to grab a coffee sometime, I’ll jump all over that.
Of course, I can’t promise any swordplay, but you never know… ”
“Right,” I say, firmly telling myself that of course, he’s not the same guy. He’s just locked in my dreams as Protector Dude because of the way he saved me from Wolf Boy. Mom had died only a month before and I’d been a wreck. So, yeah, can you say hero worship?
I tell myself all of that, but I don’t really believe it. I know what I know, and while it might sound crazy to a normal girl with normal dreams, this girl knows the truth.
But I’ll let him keep his little secret for now. And instead of calling him out, I smile and nod. “Yeah. Coffee would be great sometime.”
“It’s a date,” he says, and I grin in response, feeling both weirdly shy and a little giddy. And wishing he’d actually pick a day but feeling too girlie and nervous to jump into that gap myself.
“Great,” I finally say. “Until then, I guess I’ll be seeing you in dreamland.”
I don’t know what little demon made me say the last part, but he stiffens. Then, with nothing more than a nod, he walks away, shoulders rigid beneath his hoodie.
And even though it’s ridiculous, as I watch him disappear into the throng of students, I’m more certain than ever that he knows about the dream. That he was there. Really there. And that I’ve just brushed against something important—something dangerous. But I still don’t understand what.
And if this conversation was any indication, Chase isn’t going to be any help at all.
I glance at my phone, then curse when I realize I’m now almost late for Professor Valdez’s class. Perfect.
Pushing thoughts of Chase aside, I sprint to the classroom, then slip into an empty seat in the back row just as the professor begins.
“Welcome to Abnormal Psychology.” She’s petite with a no-nonsense posture and an updo of brown hair streaked with gray.
“I’m Professor Valdez,” she continues, her eyes drifting over the class in a way that suggests she misses nothing.
“Before we dive into the syllabus, I want to talk about why this subject matters.”
She paces in front of the whiteboard, her movements energetic. “Psychology gives us a framework for understanding the human mind. Abnormal psychology helps us understand what happens when the mind operates outside expected parameters.”
My pen moves automatically, taking notes even as my thoughts drift to Chase. He either really is the guy in my dreams—which sounds utterly insane—or he knows something about why I see him in my dreams. Which, to me, sounds even weirder.
“This semester, we’ll cover everything from anxiety and depression to sleep disorders.”
My pen stills on the page as a little flutter of hope spins inside me. Between Chase and my classes, maybe, just maybe, college will be the place where I finally find some answers.
By the time class ends, my head is pounding from lack of sleep and information overload, and once I’m out of the classroom, I take a moment to lean against the wall as I try to soak in this new reality of being in college.
Between my nightmares and freshman basics—like, oh, getting to class on time—I haven’t had time to simply be.
A text notification buzzes my phone, and I pull it out of my pocket, expecting a message from Tia about grabbing some food. Instead, it’s from an unknown number:
Avoid Whitehall House. It’s no place for you.
I stare at the screen, my heart racing.
Who the hell sent this?
For that matter, who sent the invitation in the first place?
I’m debating answering or deleting when another text comes through, this one from Tia:
Where are you? Dying of hunger. Meet me at the food court?
I reply with a Y, then glance once more at the mysterious message before pocketing my phone. Surely it’s from Chase—who else could it possibly be? Other than Tia and Finn and—sort of—Riley, he’s the only person I know here, albeit vaguely.
Except the text doesn’t match the number he wrote on my palm. And while he gave me his cell number, I didn’t share mine with him. And I didn’t mention Whitehall at all.
Still, he’s all tall, dark, and mysterious. And I’m more than willing to believe that a guy who can sneak into my nightmares can manage to find my phone number.
I take a deep breath, then push off from the wall and head toward the dining hall, all the while trying to ignore the new and persistent feeling that someone—or something—is watching me.