Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
GWENNA
Later that day, I watch as Morgan sits cross-legged on her bed and rips open a bag of Funyuns.
“I hate Lent,” she announces, through a mouthful of fried dried onion flakes, or whatever’s actually in there. She swallows, then shakes the bag in my direction. “You want?”
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
I’m curled up in the loveseat in her room, allegedly studying for my Art History midterm, but mostly taking the excuse to not be loomed over by Callahan at the start of his night shift.
Not that he does loom, exactly. But more…
He likes you likes you.
…it just feels a little awkward now.
Stupid Lanz. Where does he get off telling me things like that? Let alone showing up basically drunk to his shift with me. Drunk or…something.
He didn’t look well, that’s for sure.
I don’t want to be worried about him. Or Callahan. Or Kai, Kai and those ugly, vicious bruises.
Welts, really. Like he’d been beaten.
I really don’t want to worry about that.
But I’m not sure how to stop.
Morgan’s room is one of the few places that feels normal on campus, which is ironic considering how deeply eccentric her decorating choice are.
Freed from the restraints of having a killjoy roommate to share a bedroom with, she’s has gone all-out: a canopy of scarves over her bed, strings of lights looping around every surface, and clothes flung anywhere they’ll stay.
It’s dark, but cozy, thanks to the several dozen candles she has lit, and I’m more than content burrowing under one of her chunky blankets against the cushions.
Pretending, for a moment, that we’re just two normal suitemates, doing normal homework, living normal lives.
For a moment, the only sound is Morgan crunching. Then a thought occurs to me, and I look up from my notes.
“Hang on. Do you even celebrate Lent?”
Morgan shakes her head. “Me? No. But the dining hall does.” She makes a face. “Fish. Forty days of fish. You aren’t missing out, trust me. There’s only so many days I can tolerate maple-roasted salmon before I turn into a maple-roasted salmon.”
“Ooh, is that something you can actually do?” I ask, cocking my head. “Shapeshift?”
Morgan wipes her hand on her bedspread—ew—and laughs.
“Ha. I wish. Shifters are like Lady Gaga: they’re born that way.
Something to do with ley lines, moon phases…
” She spins a hand in the airy. “Anyway, I don’t think they ever turn into fish.
Never met one myself. Oh! But…” She straightens up.
“Check it. I just figured out a new trick.”
She reaches over to her desk and picks up a lit candle, a big fat red one whose flame dances as she holds it in front of her. In spite of myself, my heart pulses a bit in my throat.
“Nothing up my sleeve…” She waves her hand to punctuate, sending her loose sweater sleeve down to her elbow, then picks up one of the many textbooks lying around her like a fairy circle. “And…”
Carefully, she dips the corner of Women Who Run With Wolves into the golden blade of flame.
I brace myself. But nothing happens.
“Isn’t that neat?” Morgan says, tilting the book—unburnt—back up. “No harm, no foul.” She demonstrates a few more times—in, out, in, out. Not a single flicker or scorch mark.
It’s a little surreal to watch, like an optical illusion come to life. “Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “How’s that…work?”
“Sigil.” Morgan sets down the book and rotates the candle around to show.
On its side is a kind of…glyph, I guess, a bunch of spiky lines that almost call to mind a Viking rune, carved into the waxy surface.
“Done properly, at the proper time, and the candle gives only light—no heat. See?” She sticks her manicured fingertip right into the heart of the flame, and holds it there.
“Not a thing.” She withdraws, and holds the candle a bit more towards me. “Wanna try?”
I shake my head. “I trust you.”
Sigils. Scapulars. Everyone’s got their own version of lucky charm, I guess. Everyone just trying to keep the good things here and the bad things at bay.
Morgan, for her part. shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She sets the candle back on her desk and goes back for another handful of Funyuns as she looks around her circle of books. “Where was I?”
I bend my head and scratch down a few more notes about bronzesmithing in the Hibernian mountains.
“Do you have anything for bruises? Or…” I frown, trying to think of how to describe what I saw on Kai’s back. “Worse?”
Morgan looks alarmed. “Excuse me?”
“Like a…potion or something?” I wring my hands. “I don’t know the right word.”
The alarm on Morgan’s face hasn’t faded. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I just, um…” I glance at the door. Callahan’s out there, but probably can’t hear us.
Probably.
She relaxes a little, recognition dawning. “Oh. Wait. Is this for Kingston?”
I frown and shake my head. “No.” I pause. “Why?”
“Oh, because…” She shrugs. “I make him tonics from time to time. Real delicate flower, that one. Always has been. Bumps and bruises and whatnot. And my stuff doesn’t show up in a piss test, which was handy for him back in the junior circuit.”
A memory sparks in my mind. My first day on campus—the first time I met Morgan, and the second time I met Kingston.
To my own surprise, I laugh.
Morgan gives her head a little shake. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, “just…when I first met you, and Kingston came to our room?” Morgan nods. “I thought you were, like, his dealer or something.”
“Oh my God.” Morgan cackles, throwing her head back. “That’s perfect. Goddess, I’d make a pretty slick drug kingpin, right?” She ruffles her hair. “Anyway, nah. It’s just a healing tonic, nothing scandalous. Just trying to take care of stepbrother dear.” She makes a face.
“Right.” I press my lips together.
Morgan doesn’t go back to her reading. “And?” she prompts. “What are you asking me to brew up, exactly?”
I breathe in.
“It’s…Kai,” I explain, lowering my voice. “He…I was in the salle with him the other day and I saw he was pretty beat up.”
“Ah.” Morgan relaxes a bit. “Well, it’s a contact sport.”
So I’ve heard, I think. For a moment, I consider telling her what I really saw.
But for whatever reason, I decide not to.
“You ever have someone ram a saber into your shoulder?” Morgan goes on. “Because I have—Kai, shockingly—and that shit hurts.” She winces, rubbing her arm as if the injury is fresh. “They should get used to it.”
“Yeah,” is all I say. “But you know him. He’s not going to ask for help, and…”
And I guess it’s my job to give it to him?
I don’t know what I’m thinking. This was a stupid thing to ask.
But Morgan purses her lips. “This is not my problem,” she declares, getting to her feet. “Or yours.” She picks her way to her dresser and starts rummaging through the heap of stuff on top, shoving little vials and boxes and drawstring bags this way and that, muttering under her breath.
“Salve,” she says at last, holding out a small tin. No label. “The nine herbs charm. Mugwort, lamb’s cress, betony, fennel…I forget what else. Nine of them.” She waves a hand. “It smells like the mouth of hell, but it’ll work.”
“Thanks.” I spin it around slowly in my fingers.
“Mhm.” Morgan nods, eyeing me. “It’s nice of you to look out for them, Gwenna.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Not sure what she means by it, exactly.
“But?” I prompt.
“But nothing.” Morgan tips her head. “I just hope they earned it, is all.”
Midnight, and I can’t sleep. Of course.
But now I’m not alone.
I lie, stiff as a board, covers pulled to my chin, and stare out into the blue-black darkness of my room.
Callahan looks…ridiculous. The loveseat is maybe two-thirds as long as it needs to be for him to curl up in a proper fetal position
His eyes open.
And meet mine.
Oh.
I’m not sure if I say the word out loud or just think it. Either way, an impulse overtakes my body, and I sit up for some reason.
So does Callahan.
“I…um.” I clear my throat. “Are you…”
Callahan blinks behind his glasses, not saying anything. Waiting for me.
“You don’t look comfortable,” I finish.
I look down at the mattress.
“You can…” I move over, towards the wall. Smooth out the covers in my wake. “Here.”
Callahan’s eyes go very wide. “You…”
“It’s a big bed,” I say quickly. “I promise you, I have no intention of…violating your honor, or anything. I just don’t like anyone being forcibly sleep deprived on my behalf.”
Callahan opens his mouth. Closes it. “I shouldn’t.”
Now I’m almost fed up. “Cal,” I say, scooping my bedhead out of my eyes. “Get in the bed.”
His eyes widen yet more.
But he does.
He sits on the edge of the mattress first, the whole bed rolling towards him as he bends over to…
take off his shoes, I realize, and the small gesture of it feels weirdly intimate, like a real part of a bedtime routine, to the point where I look away, kind of embarrassed.
I stare at the juncture between the wall and the ceiling as he swings his legs up and lies down—like a tin soldier, on his back, hands folded on his stomach.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
I shift around a little under the covers, gently punching my pillow to ball it up under my head. I’m tired now, I realize. And Callahan is like a solid wall between me and the outside world. It’s…surprisingly cozy.
“Better?” I ask
“Yes.”
He rolls forward a little, and to the side, and I hear the light tink of something on the nightstand.
His glasses.
A warmth blooms in my chest. I don’t know why. That little gesture. That tiny sound.
It’s just…normal. Nice. Good.
So good that, the next time I open my eyes, it’s morning.
Callahan is still in my bed. Eyebrows furrowed. Eyes still closed.
Shit. I don’t want to move, don’t want to disturb him, even though we’re in my bed.
“Cal?” I whisper.
And Cal…groans.
Growls. Low, rumbling, almost needy.
I jerk away, heart rattling, mouth dry, pulse suddenly throbbing below my waist…
And that wakes him up.
Callahan’s eyes blink open—slowly, at first, sleepily, and then fully, in an urgent panic.
“Gwenna?”
His voice sounds craggy, and that’s somehow even worse.
“I…” I squeak. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t…I thought…”
Callahan’s pale behind his freckles. Callahan has freckles. How have I never noticed that before?
He likes you likes you.
He goes very stiff and still. “I…”
Then his face goes pink. His eyes dart down his body, and back. Then he shifts uncomfortably.
Oh. Oh.
I shake my head vigorously. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay. I’m just going to…” Awkwardly, so awkwardly, I push up to sitting and sort of…roll over the foot of the bed, over his long legs and to the floor, averting my gaze the entire time until I can get my bearings and run for the bathroom.
Once I’m in there, I slam the door and lean against it, breathing hard, my reflection staring back at me in the mirror.
Bedhead. Eye bags. An oversized Caliburn University T-shirt and plain black sleep shorts. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe the absurdity of the whole moment, but I almost have to laugh.
This? I want to say. Me?
Outside, in the living room, I can hear scuffling, thumps, footsteps. I take a deep breath—in, out—and decide I’m calm enough to emerge.
“Cal?”
The door bangs and he’s gone.