Chapter 10 – — A History of the Fissures, Vol. II #3
The voice comes from behind me, and I recognize it before I turn to see Draven standing a few feet away.
All his hair is pulled up into a bun today, and he’s breathing into his hands.
Even doing something so mundane, he looks dangerous.
The beard makes him look older, wilder, less like a student and more like something that wandered out of the frozen woods.
Snowflakes speckle the dark wool of his coat, and I realize I’m studying him for too long and look away.
“I wasn’t—” I start.
“You were heading toward the stables.” He tilts his head toward the opposite end of campus. “Cane’s class is that way.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you know what class I’m going to? Were you eavesdropping on our conversation, or are you my stalker now?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait but watches me with that infuriatingly blank expression.
I brush past him in the direction he suggested. I want to pull the map out again, but he starts to walk with me, ignoring my former statement entirely.
So stalker it is then.
We walk in silence. He doesn’t try to fill it with conversation or even seem to care at all whether I’m there. I don’t know why, but it infuriates me.
And at the same time, it’s a relief. I’m tired of people asking about being human, tired of the stares and the whispers. I’m comfortable in silence. I’m usually too caught up in my own head anyway.
“Two classes together,” I say finally.
“I noticed.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“I talk when there’s something worth saying.”
I huff out a breath that clouds white in the frozen air. “And right now there isn’t?”
He glances at me then, a flicker of those molten honey eyes before he looks ahead again. “You froze yesterday.”
“What?”
“During the autopsy, you had the scalpel in your hand and couldn’t make the cut,” he says. “Your hand trembled.”
My jaw tightens. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
“It wasn’t an opinion. It was an observation. Everyone has something that breaks them. Yours showed up early.”
I want to snap back at him and tell him he doesn’t know anything about me, but something in his tone stops me. He’s not mocking me. He’s not judging. He’s saying it like a fact, like something he’s seen before, like something he’s lived.
“And what breaks you?” I ask.
He doesn’t even acknowledge the question until we reach the far east side of the campus.
“Everyone has walls, Freckles.” He glances sideways at me, and I hold his stare. “Some of us build them higher than others.”
Before I can respond, he looks away and pulls open the heavy door.
“After you,” he says, and I step past him into the warmth of the main hall.
We enter the classroom, and I immediately spot Jace.
The room is shaped like an amphitheater, a dozen rows of curved wooden benches rising in tiers around a central pit.
Short walls separate each row, their flat tops serving as desks.
Jace is seated seven rows up in the middle of the room, and his face lights up when he sees me.
That familiar warmth spreads through my chest at the sight of him, comfortable and steady.
Then his gaze shifts to Draven behind me, and something in his expression changes. Not jealousy exactly. Something more…watchful.
Jace stands as I approach, touching my arm with an easy familiarity that suddenly feels very public. “Mae, I saved you a seat.”
“Thanks.” I slide onto the bench next to him, hyper aware of Draven moving past us to find his own seat somewhere behind me. I don’t turn to look, but I can feel exactly where he is, like a cold spot in a warm room.
“You look tired,” Jace says quietly, leaning closer. His wing brushes against my shoulder, a whisper of warmth. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not really.” I pull out my notebook, trying to focus on something other than the prickling sensation at the back of my neck. “Kept thinking about everything.”
“Me too.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “I meant what I said last night about looking out for you. I know things are complicated right now, but I’m here for whatever you need.”
His hand finds mine under the desk, and he gives it a quick squeeze.
“I know,” I tell him, squeezing back before letting go. “Thank you.”
He smiles and turns to face the front of the room as other students filter in.
I try to focus on the professor’s desk at the front, on the strange instruments across its surface, on the diagrams covering the walls, but my attention keeps slipping.
I glance back once.
Draven is three rows behind me, slouched on his bench with his arms crossed. He’s not looking at the front of the room. He’s not looking at his notebook or the other students settling into their seats.
He’s looking at me.
Our eyes meet for a single, charged second. His expression gives nothing away. No smirk. Just that steady, unblinking gaze, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m made of.
I turn back around, my heart beating a little faster.
Whatever Draven Alucard is hiding behind those walls, I get the feeling it’s darker than anything I’ve seen at Ashwell so far.
And the stupid, reckless part of me wants to break them down.