Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
“You’re sure this isn’t too much?” I turn in front of the mirror, examining Tia’s handiwork—black jeans, a black tank, the burgundy shirt worn open like a jacket, and black ankle boots.
“It’s perfect,” Tia assures me, applying a final coat of mascara to her already long lashes. “Mysterious yet approachable. Total main character energy.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m not trying to be a main character. I just want answers.”
“So do I,” she says, pointing the mascara wand at me like a weapon. “Are you really not going to tell me what happened next?”
“I touched his hand and woke up.” It’s the truth, but I’ve left out the part where my entire body burned from his touch with a wild, heated energy that spread through every cell and culminated between my thighs. A heat that felt achingly familiar.
“And that’s all?”
“Pretty much.”
“Uh-huh.”
I just tilt my head and stare her down.
“And it wasn’t Chase?”
“We don’t know for sure that Golden Eyes is Chase,” I remind her, but even as I speak, I think about that sizzle. The one I feel with Chase here, in the real world.
She just scoffs. Because, yeah, of course, Golden Eyes and Chase are the same.
“What about your freaky monsters? Were there monsters with him?”
“No. He was in a beautiful throne room, all stained glass and stone.” I wave my hand as if I’m waving away smoke.
“This was probably a real dream. I do have those on occasion. And I’ve been thinking about him ever since that kiss at the cave.
It’s just my subconscious working overtime,” I say, with more certainty than I feel.
“Maybe?” She shrugs, then caps the mascara before leaning against the edge of her desk and facing me. “You need bling.”
“I do not need bling.”
She points to the plastic box that holds my jewelry. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I start to protest, then sigh and give in when Tia crosses her arms and stares me down. “Fine, fine,” I say, picking up the box and plopping it on the foot of my bed.
Tia drops down to sit beside it. I stand, arms crossed.
“Whoa,” she says, opening it to reveal all the rings and bracelets and necklaces. “This stuff is totally cool.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I made them. Well,” I add in response to her impressed reaction, “I made them with my mom.”
“They’re all beautiful,” she says, picking up a lapis lazuli bracelet. “This is amazing.”
“You can have it,” I say.
“Really?”
I nod. The truth is, it’s one of my favorites, but that’s part of why I want to give it to her. Because making that bracelet with my mom—sitting side by side while she made her ring—had been a special day.
And Tia is a special friend.
“Wow. Cora. Thank you.” The genuine gratitude in her voice warms me. “I’m totally wearing it tonight,” she says. “I’ll wear a white shirt so the color really pops.”
“You should wear this too,” I say, bending over to grab my treasure box. I take out my necklace with Mom’s ring, and slide the ring off the chain. “This one’s not for keeps,” I say as I give her the ring, “but it goes with the ensemble.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Mom and I made it together. Well, sort of. She did most of the work, but I helped polish the stone. I spent hours trying to get the white line off before she thought to mention that it was the flaw that made the stone look extra special and totally funky.” I grin. “Funky fits you. For tonight, anyway.”
She slides the bracelet on her arm, then twists it at various angles. “Okay, if you’re sure. The ring will just make the whole look pop more.”
“Exactly,” I say, as she studies the ring I’d seen my mother wear every day since she made it.
It’s by far my favorite piece, with the setting made of some sort of alloy that makes it look like copper or silver, depending on the lighting.
The band is about a centimeter wide, and the main part is engraved with five symbols.
Runes, Mom had told me. And that flawed stone gleams bluer than the sky.
It’s beyond beautiful, and my mother never ever took it off.
“I probably should mention that my mom was wearing it when she died.” I swallow, determined not to cry as I remember that horrible day. “In case that means you’d rather pass. Bad energy or something.”
Tia eyes me, and though she doesn’t say anything, I’m sure she understands. “Sometimes a ring is just a ring.” Her voice is soft. Gentle.
“Yeah,” I say, realizing I’ve never once actually put that ring on my finger. Instead, I’ve always worn it next to my heart.
Now I watch as Tia slides it on. For a moment, the stone seems to glow, but that must be a reflection from her fairy lights. Then Tia yelps, rips it off her hand, and drops it to the floor with a very harsh, “Holy shit!”
“What?”
“That sucker burned me.” She holds out her hand, and I see the line of angry red where the band touched her skin.
“Seriously?” How could a ring have burned her? “Maybe you’re allergic to the metal?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Pass it to me.”
“Um, hell no. You want it, you pick it up.”
Fair enough. I crouch for the ring, hesitating before touching it, then do it quickly. When the tip of my finger doesn’t ignite, I wrap my hand around it and sit back down on the edge of the bed. “Feels fine to me.”
“Me too, until I put it on my finger.”
I shrug, then slide the ring on, wincing a little in anticipation of…nothing. “It’s fine,” I say. “Fits fine, doesn’t burn. Just your average piece of jewelry. Maybe there was some old cleaning product on the inside?”
“Maybe,” she says, clearly not buying it.
“Well, it’s not hot now. You want to try again?”
“Hell, no.”
I laugh, and even though the thing didn’t burn me, I start to pull it off. I’m not a ring person, so Mom’s ring can go back to hanging out around my neck.
Except I can’t get it off.
Tia peers at my finger. “What’s wrong? Is it starting to burn?”
“It’s stuck,” I say, heading to the in-room sink. I soap up my hand, then tug and twist. But the damn thing stays firmly put.
“It’s still not burning you?”
“It feels fine. Except for the not coming off part.”
“We can try coconut oil when we get back.”
“Fine,” I say, less annoyed by the ring than I’d expect. Usually rings bug me—I want to spin them, play with them, and the way they rub between fingers just feels weird to me.
This ring feels right.
And that feels wrong.
“We really should get going,” Tia says, edging toward the door. “You ready to go party at the mysterious frat house that knows your secrets?”
Hell, no. But I don’t say it out loud. Neither do I share my Freaky Ring Thoughts.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say instead, grabbing my phone and room key.
Every instinct is screaming that Whitehall is dangerous.
That I should heed that anonymous message.
Not to mention Uncle Finn and Chase’s warnings.
But I just shove those pesky thoughts aside. I want what the invitation offered—answers about my dreams. And if that means throwing caution to the wind, then so be it.
Besides, I’ve never before received a highly coveted invitation to a party with a mysterious reputation. If I blow it off, I’ll be kicking my ass tomorrow. I’m sure of it.
I aim a firm look at Tia. “We stick together, right? Like glue. And the second anything feels off—”
“We bail. I know, I know.” Tia leans her head back and mock groans. “You’ve only told me fifty times. Total Final Girl vibes.”
“Exactly,” I say.
She links her arm through mine. “We stick together, we stay alert, we leave if things get weird. Promise.” Her expression softens. “I’ve got your back, Cora. Whatever’s going on with these dreams of yours, we’ll figure it out.”
My heart squeezes a little. I haven’t had many friends in my life, especially after Mom died, but somehow Tia slipped past my defenses without even trying.
“Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate for the emotion behind them.
She grins. “Thank me by having actual fun tonight. Even supernatural mystery-solvers need to party occasionally.”
Whitehall House sits just past the edge of campus, nestled between two ancient oaks draped with Spanish moss.
Unlike the weathered stone walls and sweeping arches that dominate the nearby campus, this building is all gables and turrets and ornate trim that looks like petrified lace in the moonlight.
The path to the entrance is lined with paper lanterns, their warm glow threading through the trees and turning the whole approach into something that feels less like a college party and more like a scene from a movie with a much bigger budget than my life usually warrants.
Even from outside, I can feel the bass in my chest. Not the tinny thump of a Bluetooth speaker propped on a keg—this is a full band, and a good one, the music rolling out through the open windows along with glimpses of a light show that belongs in a massive concert venue, not a house. Albeit a huge one.
Tia grabs my arm. “Oh my god. They weren’t exaggerating.”
She’s right. And we haven’t even gotten inside yet.
“Ready for this?” she asks, bouncing a bit. Clearly, she’s completely ready.
I draw a breath. “As I’ll ever be,” I say, though I’m starting to wonder how this rock concert of a party can possibly have any connection to my dreams. Worst case, we’ll forever have the stamp of coolness that comes from having attended a Whitehall party.
Best case, we leave in a few hours with an answer or two—plus full tummies and a buzz.
The massive oak door stands partially open, the entryway manned by a tall girl with porcelain skin and jet-black hair worn in a bob.
She’s more striking than pretty, but what catches my attention is her outfit—a floor-length dress of deep blue velvet that seems more appropriate for a Victorian séance than a college party.
Then again, considering all the warnings and weirdness…
I shake it off, reminding myself that even though this is a mission, it’s also a frat party. So, it’s not like we’re going to end up chained in the basement.
Then again, there was that one episode of—
“Welcome to Whitehall,” the girl says, interrupting my thoughts. “Names?”