Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
Idream of the sea. I follow my feet to the edge of the shore, where a full moon hangs ominous in the night sky, reflecting on the still, black water.
I am completely nude, unabashed as I step into the ocean, sinking deeper with each step.
The shift, when it comes, is excruciating, but I don’t wake up this time.
Instead, I blink my eyes open underwater, and everything is clear. Fish dart around me, their silver scales glinting in the distant moonlight. I move fluidly, easily, as if I am one with the current. There’s no panic, no flailing, only a deep sense of contentment.
Along the cliff, I spot a haze of wreckage among the rocks. A wooden beam encased in barnacles, something else that looks like a picture frame, a life preserver.
Something prickles along the back of my neck. A warning. Don’t go in there.
But there’s something shiny and red as a ruby buried in that rubble, and I am desperate to see it.
A mistake.
As I approach, a cloud begins to take shape. Pale, almost dusty, it gathers into a form that is nearly human, turning bloody red eyes on me—
I wake up gasping, scuttling backward across the mattress until my spine smashes against the headboard. For a split second, I am convinced those eyes have followed me, that the creature in my dream can see me even now, all the way in my bedroom.
But it’s just me, a snoring, content Aleo, and the ever-oppressive darkness.
It takes me a long time to fall back asleep.
In Prophecy and Prediction, we talk about ghosts. Who’s seen one, who can talk to them (three women raise their hands, all looking embarrassed), who has doubts, who’s just plain terrified, and why.
“The dead choose who can see them,” says Professor Almara. “Who they interact with, and why. If you don’t want to talk to them, you can tell them to leave, and they will.”
She grins at us. Snaps her fingers.
The lights dim. A single candle puffs to life in the middle of the room.
“And now, it’s time to summon a ghost.”
We work in pairs. I lament that this isn’t a class I share with Jane or Duncan.
Instead, I’m stuck with Jordan, who has already witnessed me hurl a flowerpot at a wall with entirely too much force today, and laughed when Professor Elarion pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, “You were supposed to levitate it, not launch it into another dimension.”
I nearly died on the spot.
“Remember,” says Jordan, smirking at me. “We’re summoning a ghost, not a leviathan.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
When he grins, he shows too many teeth.
The spell is easy. We draw a circle in salt, place a chunk of quartz between us (I’m convinced it’s glowing slightly, but Jordan doesn’t notice, so I don’t say anything), and stare into a black, handheld mirror as we recite the incantation written on the chalkboard, which is illuminated by a tiny floating light.
The spell should draw in any nearby ghosts, of which we are assured there are plenty.
I hate this. This feels like a violation of privacy. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a real ghost before, but I can’t imagine they want to be summoned.
Around the room, squeals and shrieks erupt alongside groans of frustration and impatience. I don’t look at anyone else’s mirror. After my nightmare, I don’t want to see any more ghosts.
Jordan goes first. I brace for chaos, but nothing happens. He shakes the mirror. Scowls. Pokes at the smooth surface. Recites the spell again. After ten minutes, he begrudgingly passes it to me.
I try to speak clearly, but my voice shakes. What if it’s my mom? What if she doesn’t understand what’s happened? What if she’s afraid?
Something changes in the surface of the mirror. A faint, rolling fog appears. Then a pair of red eyes, wide and unseeing and horribly, horribly familiar. I shriek. The mirror goes flying.
Glass shatters, spraying across the floor.
“Holy shit,” says Jordan, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “What the fuck was that?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
We spend the rest of class repairing the mirror.
An overly-excited Professor Almara explains that a broken and mended mirror can be more powerful than a whole one, which I assume is a good thing until I learn that I’m now the mirror’s owner.
“Treat it as good luck,” she exclaims, bouncing up and down on her toes.
I deflate a little bit. I don’t want a scrying mirror, let alone a powerful one. I’ve just gotten used to my crystal marble and now I have to carry a haunted mirror to class every day.
Nobody asks what I saw. They just congratulate me on my success like I won the lottery.
Jeremy tries to call me twice during class. I swipe away the notifications and text Duncan instead.
Had something really weird happen. Meet me at the library?
When he arrives, he’s wearing the green coat again.
His jeans fit like a glove, tucked neatly into black leather boots.
It’s raining outside, but he doesn’t carry an umbrella or cast a shield, so his hair is wet.
I wave, and he looks relieved to see me.
Like he thought maybe I’d jumped into the sea, never to be seen again, chased into the depths by my own nightmares.
Honestly, it’s not a farfetched assumption.
“I don’t know anything about anything,” I tell him, and have the weird urge to bury my entire face in his shoulder. “I had the weirdest fucking day.”
His face is always so serious. Like he’s considering every word that comes out of my mouth. “Tell me about it.”
So I tell him over a cup of coffee in the crowded library cafe. About the dream, the broken mirror. I know there’s nothing he can do for me, but I feel a little better now that someone else knows. If anything happens to me, Duncan will know why.
For some reason, that’s reassuring.
“That’s creepy,” he says, when I’m finished explaining. “And you don’t know who it is?”
“No idea.” I stir the dregs of my coffee with a tiny plastic straw.
He sips his matcha latte. “Is anyone in your family a Seer?”
“A what?” I ask automatically, not expecting him to say anything that resonates with me. When I realize what he said, I blurt, “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
Luckily, he doesn’t take this personally and only nods. His brow furrows, like he’s deep in thought. “It’s a definitely a weird coincidence.” He frowns, then says, “Hey, about your sigil?”
I straighten my spine, abruptly alert. “Yeah?”
“You should maybe try drawing it somewhere,” he says. “I was thinking about it last night. If your mom was obsessed with it, there’s probably a good reason."
In theory, I should be safe at Halea, right? But if shifters are banned, then there probably aren’t any protections in place for us, if they even existed in the first place. “I could give myself a stick and poke tattoo,” I suggest, only half-kidding.
Duncan rolls his eyes. “For the love of god, if you’re going to do that, pay a real tattoo artist.”
I have exactly zero tattoos on my body, and no plans to acquire any, but he doesn’t know that. “Do you have any? Tattoos, I mean.”
As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any, either. Then again, it was dark the only time I ever saw him naked.
He crosses his arms, gives me an infuriating smirk. “I’m not telling.”
There’s an implication there. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to find out.
The problem is that pretty sure isn’t good enough when it comes to potentially ruining my friendships, fragile as they are.
My phone buzzes. It’s Aleo, demanding that I participate in tonight’s dramatic reading of Wicked Wanda and the Ways. I sigh. “I think I accidentally joined a theatre troupe.”
Duncan’s eyebrows come together. “Is that what happened?” He says it like our productions are some kind of neighborhood drama that he’s witnessed through a hole in the fence. I know he’s stopped to watch us a few times, which is horrifying, because none of us can act.
Honestly, we probably shouldn’t be allowed to do this in public. For our sakes as well as everyone else’s.
“My roommate is really into it,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “He won’t take no for an answer.”
“Do you like it?”
“I think I just like having friends,” I say into my hands. “I like watching other people.”
“Maybe he should make you a stagehand, then.”
I lower my hands. “Is that an option?”
He laughs. “Ask your roommate.”
When we finally part ways, I feel a little lighter, a little more seen.
I’m not sure if we’re friends yet, but I like hanging out with him, and by the time I leave the library, I think maybe he likes hanging out with me, too.
His smile is easy and his eyes are soft in a way that makes me kinda warm and nervous at the same time.
I grin the whole way home.
We finally get kicked out of the dining hall.
I’m drunk and playing the part of Sultry Way Two, who I have deduced is some kind of portal-guarding gnome desperate to participate in an orgy with Wicked Wanda and four other gnomes. Aleo is Wanda, so April, Collin, Jane and I play horny gnomes eager to follow through portals.
Obviously, we get shut down right when Wicked Wanda has cursed us all to spend the rest of our days lost in the Forest of Portals, which is arguably the best part.
I’m both embarrassed and relieved when I stumble outside along with everyone else, a laughing, drunken entourage trailing behind us. “I’m not even disappointed,” I tell Jane. “Wicked Wanda wasn’t one of better productions.”
“Fuck, no,” Jane slurs. Tonight, she’s broken her own rule and downed several glasses of wine. “Who picked this one?”
If she’s drunk, I’m drunker. We lean against each other, stumbling, laughing. Outside, it’s raining. “Collin, I think.”
“Ugh. He’s got no taste.”
“This isn’t dinner and a show!” shouts a dining hall employee, leaning out the door after us. “Find somewhere else to do this!”
“Fine,” Aleo grumbles. He turns, raises his fist. “We will!”
“And you’re not invited,” someone from the crowd adds. A couple of people cheer.
We aren’t good at this. We aren’t even funny. We should not have a crowd around us.
Jane and I slip away before Aleo can decide where we’re relocating. We flop onto a bench on the other side of campus, soaked from the rain, triumphant in our escape.
And then I remember something very important.
“Hey,” I say. “Can you draw?”
Jane blinks big green eyes at me. “Why?”
“‘Cause Duncan says I should hide that symbol on me in case people are hunting me,” I say, fishing my flask from my pocket. Jane snatches it from me, takes a gulp of tequila, gags. “He made me promise not to do my own stick and poke tattoo.” I sulk.
“Ew,” says Jane, returning my flask. It’s substantially lighter than it was a few minutes ago. “Why do you sound disappointed?”
“You never wanted to stab yourself repeatedly?”
She sighs, rolls her eyes, and produces a ballpoint pen. When she uncaps it, the lid goes flying. “Oops.”
And that’s how I end up with a terrible ballpoint rendition of the symbol on my hip.
“Why are you so muscle-y?” she complains, dragging the tip of the pen over my skin. Admittedly, we’re drunk and it’s kind of a bumpy area.
“I work hard for these,” I say, offended.
“Yeah, but why?”
“I can’t stop now,” I insist. “I worked way too hard for these abs. I have to maintain them.”
“Is this because your ex told you that you were fat?” The tip of the pen presses into my skin. It tickles.
“I told you that in confidence! And I was, kind of. I definitely had a little roll.” I squirm.
“OK, well, I stalked him online and I saw the pictures of you. If you had a roll, it was microscopic. You don’t need to be this insecure,” she slurs, poking me in the stomach.
“Jane, I’m way too drunk for therapy.”
“Well, fuck you, too.”
“You would be a great bartender.”
“They won’t let me drink on the job,” she grumbles. “Now hold still so I can finish this.”
It turns out that Jane can’t draw, but I shamble my way back to my dorm feeling safe as fuck, because my best friend loved me enough to try, anyway.