Chapter 20
Istand in the mirror, smoothing the skirt of the black dress that Max had agreed to let me borrow.
It’s simple but elegant, with a fitted top that flares out at the waist, long sleeves, and a knee-length hem.
The bottom of the skirt is beaded with small, ruby red stones that glint when I turn, and I’ve paired it with short black heels to match.
It’s nicer than pretty much anything I own, but Callista had informed me that the party would be a classier affair.
Just how much classier than last week’s—which resembled more of a frat party—I’m not sure, but I’d rather be overdressed than underdressed.
Appearances are vital here at Arcadia, and I can’t afford to sink lower on the totem pole than I already am.
I’ve twisted my long hair into a classy updo and applied a rosy tint to my lips, and I even managed to do a presentable smoky eye for my makeup.
Max sits at her desk, looking into the small desktop mirror and applying eyeliner in sharp strokes.
Her short black hair swishes across her shoulders, the movement amplified by the distinctive white streak of hair that frames one side of her face.
She wears a black velvet top with long sleeves that drape like wings and fitted slacks coupled with black ballet flats.
“You look nice,” I tell her.
She caps the eyeliner with a click. “Thanks. Figured I’d go for soft and subtle tonight,” she quips in her usual deadpan tone.
It’s a joke, clearly, but the tension in her shoulders tells me she’s not as unbothered as she appears.
It had taken me an hour to convince her to come to the party, with me assuring her that it’d be a smaller gathering.
I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t actually sure what that meant since the last one was probably near 100 attendees.
I’m certain that large groups are a particular sort of torment for an empath, but a small part of me wonders if the collective euphoria of a college party might have the opposite effect and drown out her unease.
Max and I descend the spiral staircase, and the residence hall thrums with the excitement of the weekend. The common room is brimming with students, and I catch sight of two people hunched over a chess board on the coffee table near the fireplace.
Outside, the slate-colored clouds are thick and heavy, threatening rain at any second, and I pull my jacket tighter around my chest. Max and I stride with purpose down the winding pathway toward the freshman dormitories.
“So, what kind of classes are you taking this semester?” I ask, wanting to fill the silence that’s intensified by Max’s palpable anxiety. “You’re a psychology major, right? That must be really interesting with the whole empath thing involved.”
“I am, and it is. I’m really enjoying my psychopathology and neuropsychology classes.
I also have a therapeutic magic practicum, which is interesting enough.
Lots of stuff about how the brain responds to magical interventions and where the intersections between emotion, perception, and logical thinking lie. ”
“That sounds fascinating.”
“It is. My professor for neuropsych, Dr. Aldrich, is absolutely brilliant. She’s the Chancellor’s daughter,” she adds.
“But she’s a Mentalist who’s won awards for her research, and not only is she insanely intelligent, but she looks like a damn model.
Tall, blonde hair, high heels, and outfits that make her look like a badass lawyer or something.
She takes absolutely no shit from anyone. ”
“She sounds awesome, and slightly terrifying.”
Max laughs. “She’s definitely intimidating, but I like it.”
Max tells me more about her classes as we walk, and fifteen minutes later we approach the undergrad dormitories towering against the dark sky.
The four buildings are the tallest on campus aside from the castle, and most of the windows glow with warm light from within, obscured only by the thin curtains draped over the windows.
Finding our way to building three, we ascend the stone steps to the entrance and make our way into the lobby.
The student worker at the front desk barely looks up when we walk in, probably used to partiers coming and going at all hours of the night.
One of the few pieces of modern technology on this campus is, thankfully, a set of elevators in these tall buildings.
It carries us up to the top level, where Callista had told me the party would take place.
Beside me, Max clutches at the chain strap of her purse, twisting it nervously between her hands.
The music reaches us before we find the correct door, which lies at the very end of the hall, but it’s not the heavy, thumping bass of the party I attended last week; it’s the low, sonorous tone of a piano.
There are fewer doors in this hallway, indicating the rooms are much larger than the typical student dorm rooms, but I’m still not prepared for the sight I’m greeted with when the door opens moments after I knock.
I don’t recognize the man who opens the door, but he invites us in, and the opulent atmosphere immediately washes over us.
The room is a lavish space that’s less of a dorm room and more of a high-end suite.
A plush crimson rug blankets the center of the room atop the hardwood floors, and the dark stone walls are draped in elegant tapestries.
In the corner of the main room, a man plays piano, the sound resonant over the hum of conversation.
The room smells faintly of smoky incense, and the flames of black pillar candles flicker throughout the room, placed atop every available coffee table and end table.
I survey the space, noting the students clustered on the black velvet furniture in the center, all leaning forward and deep in conversation. Others stand in groups, sipping their drinks and chatting casually.
However, I realize I don’t know anyone here. I glance over at Max and shrug, and she returns the gesture.
The tightness in my chest loosens when Callista enters the room.
She scans the party slowly before her gaze lands on me, and her eyes light up as she smiles and makes her way toward us.
She’s wearing a floor-length maroon dress that covers every inch of her skin below the neck, but the form-fitting fabric causes it to border the line between elegant and suggestive.
The outfit is accentuated by gold jewelry—teardrop earrings, a long, layered necklace, and a thin bracelet.
“Vivian! I’m so glad you came. And you must be Max,” she says, turning toward her. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you.”
“You too,” Max says. “Thanks for the invite.”
“Of course, of course.” She waves her hands dismissively, as if the thought of not inviting her is absolutely preposterous.
Callista loops her arm through mine and guides us deeper into the suite, introducing us to various students and gracefully navigating the party with effortless ease.
I tune in to the conversations around us, fascinated by the variety of topics and the deep intellectualism that the atmosphere seems to encourage.
One group examines a floating orb of light that someone has produced via magic, discussing how long the light will last if the spell uses the ablative versus durative case.
There’s another group engaged in spirited debate about the ethical implications of consensually wiping one’s memory in circumstances related to traumatic experiences.
One thing is for certain: this is nothing like last weekend’s party. While last Saturday was what I assume to be a fairly standard college rager, tonight’s party carries an exclusive, upscale, intellectual appeal.
When a server passes by offering a tray of drinks, I reach for one then ask, “What is it?”
“The closest thing you’ll ever get to ambrosia,” he says with a mischievous smile.
Max rolls her eyes as she snatches one. “It’s Fae wine.”
I tentatively accept a glass, the liquid inside such a deep crimson that it’s almost purple. Callista takes one as well, then raises her glass to the two of us. “Cheers! To friendship.”
We clink glasses and all take a sip. The wine is rich and sweet and tastes of blackberries, and I even catch a hint of a smile on Max’s face just before she raises it to her lips.
Max looks over at me. “Have you ever had Fae wine before?”
I shake my head.
“Be very careful, then. It’s incredibly strong to humans, especially if you’ve never had it before. Callista—” she turns “—how much are you usually able to have before it becomes a problem?”
“Depends on what you consider a problem,” Callista says with a wink, then answers honestly.
“I usually have three or four glasses on a party night. It’s enough to get me feeling good, but not so much that I black out.
I’m a siren, though, so my tolerance is already higher than normal,” she adds, as if that’s totally normal information.
To Max, it apparently is, because she simply nods. “Got it.” Then, turning to face me, adds, “I also don’t normally have more than two or three glasses, so use that information how you will.”
Two sips in, there’s already a pleasant warmth blooming in my chest. Max and Callista are making friendly conversation about their favorite magical drink infusions, and I sit back, content to listen.
Watching Callista, I find myself drawn in by her magnetic energy, and it suddenly makes sense that she’s a siren.
It’s another thing I’ve only heard about in human folklore, but from what I remember, sirens were temptresses, mesmerizing men with their beautiful song.
I vaguely recall that Greek mythology had described them as half-bird, but with Callista, the whole beauty-and-temptation thing seems to be more on par.
It explains her allure, her beauty, and her ability to be so persuasive.
We move deeper into one of the rooms to take some seats that have just opened up on the far wall. They sit directly beside the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the churning sea, and the glass panes rattle gently from the wind.