Chapter 7
SEVEN
GWENNA
Two minutes into the party and I think I’d rather be anywhere than here.
Morgan outfitted me in a long, purple blouse with sleeves that cover my arms and even the tops of my hands (which I changed into in the bathroom, and she didn’t seem to think was odd) along with a pair of pants that are dark, shiny, and almost squeak when I walk—leather, or faux.
I didn’t go so far as to put on a full face of makeup, but accepted her offer of some dark red lip stain and even ran a comb through my hair.
Gwenna, party-ready.
Porter’s is the campus bar, but that title makes it sound sticky and damp when the opposite is true.
It’s in the basement of the dining hall building, almost cavern-like, and now filled with bodies and soft colorful lighting and the pulsing music of a DJ stand and surround-sound speakers.
Beneath the arched openings to the bar, a bartender pours beers on tap and serves bottled cocktails offered on a hand-chalked menu—botanical gin and tonics, smoked old-fashioneds, hardly college jungle juice—and a table offering snacks that no one seems to be touching on various layered stands stands waiting to the right .
As soon as we walk in, Morgan seems to be vibing—nodding her head to the music, swaying her hips, and casting her eyes around the room.
I get the sense that she’s eager to mingle, and probably desperate to be with anyone but me, her charity-chase instincts having run out somewhere on the walk across campus, so I mumble something about getting a drink and I take my leave of her with a big-pasted on smile.
She hums something in parting that I can’t quite hear and weaves her way to the center of the dance floor, the lights above us drifting green to blue to purple and back, cutting through the fog of an unseen smoke machine.
Well, here we go. What would a normal person do?
I clench my hand around my phone in my pocket.
A post, obviously. A cute, “look at my fabulous life” selfie that shows me happy, healthy, letting my hair down but not too much.
A quippy caption that’s just a tad humble-braggy.
college life, all lower case, followed by a string of…
cloud emoji or whatever happy people use.
And…boom. Picture perfect, literally. And then I can get out of here.
Problem is, Porter’s is dark as a cavern. Because it…basically is. And the last thing I want to do is attract attention with a photo flash.
I shoulder my way through dark bodies and the relative light of the bar, digging out my phone and sliding open the camera as I do.
I hold it aloft, the front camera straining to reflect anything but grainy darkness back at me.
I’m experimenting with distance and angle, trying to get more light on my face without straight-up staring into the bar like a lunatic, when?—
“Cheese,” says a deep voice.
Someone grabs my shoulder and leans in, pressing the side of their head to mine and staring up at my phone. I jump back, startled.
“What the fuck? ”
The phone jostles from my hand and tumbles to the floor—but doesn’t hit.
Because he catches it.
Whoever he is.
I blink, dumbfounded, as this…person straightens and holds out my phone to me. Tall. Messy hair. Leather jacket. A goddamn lip ring. And a grin.
“Careful,” he says, leaning in through the noise, smelling like citrus and smoke. “Don’t want to break anything.”
I snatch the phone away and glare at him, embarrassment flaming my cheeks. It’s bad enough that I’m all but obligated to be here, do this, play pretend, and now this…whoever he is has to barge in.
No, not whoever. The puzzle pieces click.
“You’re the proctor,” I say—aloud, by accident. Shit. I want this interaction concluded and here I am prolonging the damn thing.
He blinks, running a hand through his hair and studying me. I don’t like it. Too close. Instinctively, I pull my sleeves down further.
“I am,” he says slowly. “Which makes you…” He squints. “Gwenna.”
I give the briefest, tiniest nod. I don’t like the sound of my name in his voice.
Then, all at once—those reflexes—he sticks out a hand. “Kai. A pleasure.” Again, the grin flashes. “So, are we taking a selfie, or…”
“No,” I say firmly. I clench my phone in my fingers. This was a stupid idea. I could have easily faked a photo without actually going to the cap. And now I’m all but pinned against the bar with the press of bodies and pulse of karaoke backing tracks crowding in on all sides .
Kai stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Suit yourself. Buy you a drink?”
Without waiting for an answer, he signals for the bartender. Goddammit.
“Whatever the lady wants,” he says, nodding in my direction. “On me.”
The bartender, an older gentleman with a mustache and waistcoat who looks like he should be riding a giant old-fashioned bicycle, just raises an eyebrow. “Porter’s is included in your meal plan.” He looks at me. “Yours too. What’ll it be?”
“Ah…” There are too many things happening at once. A pull of tension tightens behind my eyes. “I…”
“Is he bothering you?”
I whirl around to see…him. The guy from French class.
Lanz.
God, it’s a regular who’s who of people I’ve had run ins with so far on campus , I think. I can’t tell, genuinely, whether I’m glad to see him or annoyed. Maybe neither.
“Relax, pretty boy,” says Kai, the slightest edge to his voice. “I’m just chatting with her.” He puts his palms in the air. “See? Room for the holy spirit.”
Lanz darts a glance at me.
“I’m fine,” I say.
The bartender coughs.
“I was just getting Gwenna here a drink,” Kai says, nodding. He points to his chest. “Paloma. Easy on the grapefruit.” Then points to me.
“Does she even want a drink?” rumbles a third voice.
Oh, great, gang’s all here. This one—appearing from nowhere at Lanz’s shoulder—is new. Broad and tall and strong looking in a way that even Lanz and Kai can’t compete with. Handsome, too, although his expression is also decidedly blank.
I half-wonder what these guys are even doing here if they don’t seem to be interested in the, well, partying aspects of the party, but my curiosity is cut short when the bartender hands over a frosted glass, accented with a spring of dusty purple blossoms.
To me.
“Lavender gin and tonic,” he says, and gives me a wink. “I think you’ll like it.”
“Thank you,” I say dumbly, and accept it. I don’t not drink, but it’s also—how would Dr. Riggs put it?—not recommended for someone in my condition.
But Dr. Riggs isn’t here. And I am—for the foreseeable future, it seems.
As the caterwauling strains of a funk duet strike up behind us, I take a sip—it’s not bad.
Herbal, but astringent from the gin, with the sweetness of tonic to balance it all out—and, worst of all, barely any burn of alcohol.
The kind of girly drink that’ll put you under the table without you even realizing.
The four of us just…stand there.
“Oh,” Lanz says, suddenly remembering his companion. “This is Callahan. Cal, this is?—”
“ This ,” Kai interrupts, “is Gwenna. Hotshot polyglot and Caliburn’s newest student.”
“She can introduce herself,” Lanz retorts.
I suck another sip of my drink—better with every sip—and roll my eyes. I can defend myself too, but whatever.
Callahan—Cal—nods. “Polyglot?”
“High marks in French and Latin,” Kai confirms, accepting his cocktail from the bartender. “Thank you, my good man.” He gulps half of it. “Not that I peeked at the results, or anything.”
Weird, but okay. I take another sip of my drink, and I’m suddenly, acutely aware that people are looking at us.
Not just people passing by and trying to get to the bar.
People in a general two-foot radius.
No, not at us. At them .
“You all right?” Lanz asks. Asks me. I all but jump.
“Yes,” I say. “No. I mean…do you guys owe everyone money, or something?”
Kai guffaws. Callahan’s jaw works. Lanz’s cheeks tinge pink.
“No, no, it’s just, ah?—”
“We don’t go out much,” Callahan rumbles. He rubs his hands together, fiddling with two rings on his right hand, thumb and forefinger.
Kai nods. “Seems like our appearance at a cap is something of…a novelty.” He sips his second. “Since we so rarely leave the confines of Camlann House.”
The sensation of being watched, observed , is getting to me.
Prickling up my neck with animal anxiety, the instinct to flee.
I dart a glance around the room, taking in everyone taking them in.
Callahan follows with a deep stare, more like he’s sizing everyone up as a threat than seeing who’s out there.
“So you guys are…roommates?” I ask, in spite of myself.
“Teammates,” Callahan corrects.
“Fencing,” Lanz says.
Oh, right. “Swords.”
Lanz laughs a little. It’s not a bad laugh, lighting up those blue eyes of his. He’s had his hands in his pockets this whole time, I realize. Like he’s keeping himself on lock.
And I’m not the only one who notices. Because now I can see two eyes in particular burning a hole in my skin. Elena and Claire, both decked out in glittery party gear and both staring absolute daggers at me.
I don’t like where this is going. Not at all. The familiar prickle of anxiety at the back of my neck is swiftly turning into a full-body burn of panic.
And just as I feel a pang of gratitude for the wall of male that’s keeping me from sight?—
“We should be going,” Callahan says .
“Right.” Lanz nods. “We’re sorry to have bothered you. Aren’t we, Kai?”
Kai cuts a look at Lanz that says he’s anything but. But he nods and takes a step back.
Something lurches in my chest.
Don’t go.
I don’t know where that comes from. A foolish little yelp of impulse, my mental framework going haywire. Like the panic of being seen can be blotted out, shielded, by three broad-shouldered boys.
And yet?—
“Wait,” I rasp. “Wait, you…”