by Nina Walker
In fact, I’m convinced the weird wobble my legs are doing is making it look like I have to pee. In my defense, I’m not used to high heels or the suffocating fit of the dress, even if the bright white fabric looks great against my leftover summer tan. I keep telling myself to suck it up––it’s just for one night. It’s my own fault. I was super nervous about the party so I went against my better judgment and gave into peer-pressure.
“You look hot.” Cora slaps my hand away from where I’m tugging at the short hemline. “Seriously, stop worrying about it, Hazel.”
“You two are bad influences,” I shoot back.
“Oh, you know you love it,” Macy interjects. “Doesn’t it feel a little good? Whenever I’m sad I go shopping and curl my hair and go out on the town. It makes such a difference!”
I raise an eyebrow. “No. I can’t say I’ve ever done that.” My voice is deadpan and something about that makes my friends bust up laughing.
Truth be told, I don’t have anything like this outfit in my closet, and now that I know how impractical it is, I don’t plan to go shopping anytime soon. Doesn’t matter how sad I might get. I just hope Cora is wrong and this isn’t the standard attire at these things, because if that’s the case, then I’m screwed for all future parties.
“Should we establish a code word?” Macy grins, changing the subject. Her curtain of perfect strawberry hair flashes under the street lights. If she wasn’t so freaking nice, I’d hate her. “You know, if one of us needs to get away from a creeper or something.”
Cora laughs, pointing a sharp finger at Macy, her silvery bracelets jingling together. “Just tell the guy to back the hell off, and if he doesn’t then he can deal with me.” She flexes her bicep and waggles her eyebrows in that endearing way she does.
Macy rolls her eyes. “The point of a code word is to get out of a sticky situation without causing a scene.”
“That’s so sad, though, right?” Cora protests. “We shouldn’t have to have a code word. Men should be respectful. And actually, if something does happen, if someone does make a woman uncomfortable, she should cause a scene instead of always trying to be polite.”
I study Cora for a second, taking in her smooth chocolatey eyes and the way she’s narrowing them at Macy. She’s way more passionate about this than I first thought, but why shouldn’t she be? Everything she’s saying makes a lot of sense. “You’re right, Cora.” I nod. “I am going to do a better job at that.”
My thoughts flash to the drowned ghost girl from yesterday. Maybe what happened to her wasn’t an accident. Maybe if she’d made a scene, she’d still be alive. Either way, I haven’t seen her since The Roasted Bean and I hope I don’t have to again, especially now that I’ve been refreshed on her name.
Katherine.
Not Katie. Not Kat. Katherine. I remember her saying it.
Her school I.D. picture appeared all over campus this morning on “missing persons” leaflets. I know better. She may be missing, but she’s more than that. And I’ve been debating all day about going to the police with a tip to go look for her body near open water sources. But I can’t. It would make me a person of interest. They’d never believe the truth. Who would? Even I can’t believe it sometimes.
As if sensing my thoughts about Katherine, Macy speaks up, “I wonder what happened to that girl. I hope she’s okay.”
“She’s probably dead,” Cora says, her voice going dark.
“Don’t say that!” Macy gasps.
“Well, if they don’t find her within seventy-two hours then her chances drop down to like 1% of survival or something crazy like that. It’s already been three days. I’m sorry but that girl is as good as gone. Don’t you watch any cop shows?”
“You’re seriously freaking me out.” Macy squeezes in closer. “None of us go outside at night alone, okay?”
“Deal,” I say. But that’s all I say. I keep my mouth shut about Katherine even though the backs of my arms are stinging with all the little raised hairs, even though my conscious is begging me to do something more, even though I might be able to help her family recover the body.
“This is it.” Cora stops, guiding us toward the white-pillared house looming up ahead. Lanterns light the porch and the front of the house where huge Greek letters are hung. It’s a surreal sight. Even from here, the stench of booze and bad decisions wafts through the night. Going to frat parties is what normal people my age do in the movies. This isn’t what I do.
Well, I guess it is now.
When we walk into the Alpha Sigma fraternity house, the first thing I notice is the awful smell. The second is the noise.
The place reeks of old beer and too many sweaty bodies, and the offensive rap music blasting through the place is worse than nails on a chalkboard. Not my thing. I scrunch up my nose, already eager to leave this party and never look back. I’m sure it’ll be overrated. But from the looks on Macy and Cora’s faces, leaving already is not going to happen. Macy’s blue eyes are wide and glittering with excitement, and Cora’s got a knowing smirk on her face, her gaze fixed on some lucky schmuck across the room.
“I’ll see you two later. It looks like I’ve got myself a date,” she says, her silky voice dripping with confidence.
She pushes her way through the crowd of college kids, taller than most of them, even the guys. Her bare ebony shoulders and head of thin black braids bob above the sea of students. She’s cool in a way that I could only dream of, and I’m suddenly filled with gratitude, and confusion, that of all the people she picked to be her first friend at college, she picked me.
I raise my eyebrows at Macy, curious if she knows where Cora is off to, but Macy only shrugs.
“Let’s get a drink,” she suggests warmly, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the kitchen.
I’ve never drunk any alcohol before and still haven’t decided for sure if I want to when the red cup lands in my hand. It’s not legal. I’m only seventeen so I have years to go. Logically, I should say no. But this is college and it’s not like most of the people here are twenty-one. And this is part of the whole coming-of-age experience, is it not? I eye the foamy substance wearily but the weight of my insecurities hits me hard and before I can make a choice one way or the other, I’m drinking.
The taste is not good. Not even close to good. It warms me right up and before I know it, I’m reaching for the keg and helping myself to more. Macy does the same and then we head toward the dance floor, a tad wobbly, but ten times more courageous than when we first walked in here.
My defenses are down, and the music pulses louder but it’s not so annoying anymore. My body moves with the throng of people, and I’m not the totally awkward dancer I thought I was—I might even be good at this. I find myself laughing and enjoying myself as one song fades into the next and sweat glistens my skin and maybe this dress isn’t such a bad thing after all and where did Macy go? She was just right here. Oh hey, is that Landon? I should go dance with him.
But just as quickly as I see him, Landon disappears into the crowd. I blink, dread prickling through me, as the crowd itself shifts, the college kids overcome by transparent shapes, gray and colorless, ghosts appearing out of thin air, approaching me, surrounding me. I stand frozen in my heels, my knees turning into elastic.
That’s when the spirits attack.
Maybe attack isn’t the right word, but it sure feels that way. They bombard me with images flashing one after the next after the next. People laughing and fighting and tucking their children into bed. A car screeching. Someone lying on a beach, watching the surf as it crashes against the sand. Another running, headphones tucked into his ears, his breath heavy. Someone dropping a dish, the white porcelain splintering and scattering across a wood floor. A woman screams.
They’re all kinds: all ethnicities, all ages, with all manner of death bleeding out on their ethereal forms. I don’t know where to look or how to block them out, even a little bit. They press down on me, their thoughts louder, my heart pounding har
der. Somehow, I’ve opened myself to a flood of these images and they just keep pouring in. They’re from a contemporary time; I’ve never seen a ghost older than a few decades, at least. It’s the one shred of silver lining here. But even then, they won’t stop their attack on my senses. They’re relentless.
The thing about spirits is they don’t care as much about the living world as you’d think. They have no issues walking right through us, squatting in our homes, or scaring the bejesus out of us. And as it seems, they have no problem crashing a college party to get to me. They don’t care that I’m trying to have a good time, trying to be normal, to blend in. In fact, something about the alcohol in my system has made me defenseless.
But they know it. Oh boy, do they know it.
And I can’t seem to get control back. My head is spinning, and their lives are flashing before my eyes in one giant lurch of movement. I push my palms over my ears and squeeze my eyes closed, not that it helps. I need to get out of here. I stumble forward but there are too many people on the dance floor. They’re caging me in, bodies pressing me back. I gasp, tears springing to my eyes. There’s something seriously wrong with me, the alcohol has hit me way harder than I anticipated. Am I drunk? This is not fun. My balance is crap. I’m sinking to my knees, hot tears ruining my mascara, when two male hands steady me.
Landon? I smile weakly, despite the terrible situation I’ve put myself in.
My eyes flutter open, expecting to find my favorite cobalt blue gaze, but what I get are two dark as coal eyes, angry, with a tiny flickering line of orange-red around the pupils. So, not Landon then.
“You! What are you doing here?” I sputter at the Dean Ashton. The words are thick on my tongue, like I’m trying to swallow peanut butter. Something about that image of peanut butter stuck in my mouth is the funniest thing ever and I can’t suppress the giggles. What the heck is wrong with me? How is anything funny right now? I’m a mix of terror and laughter and I don’t even know what to do with myself.
“I should be asking you the same thing,” he growls back, lifting me to my feet. The high heels suddenly feel three times higher than they were earlier tonight and I fall, my ankle twisting, but he catches me in time. “I’m taking you back to the dorm,” he sneers.
I want to snap back, to tell him to leave me alone, but instead I mutter, “They’re everywhere, please make them stop,” and I turn away from the barrage of spirits still throwing their problems at me with such ferocity I can’t tune them out. My head is ringing. The noise of their stories is growing, and I can’t make out what Dean says next over all the racket. My face presses flush against his rock-like chest, and I close my eyes again, trying to ward off a spirit-induced migraine.
He expertly maneuvers me through the crowd and before I know it we’re outside in the cool air, the noise fading away, and he’s plopping me into a shiny black car like I’m a bag of bricks. “If you puke on my leather seats, I swear I’ll make you clean it up yourself. I don’t care how drunk you are.”
Okay, rude much? The door slams and I squeeze my eyes shut.
A few minutes and a gloriously quiet car ride later, I’m blinking them open and we’re parked in front of the freshman dorm. My headache has cleared a little, and the alcohol has worn off enough for me to know I’m in a car with someone who’s not only much bigger than me, but who hates my guts. The feeling is mutual. I almost can’t believe I got myself into this situation but then again, knowing me, nothing is out of the realm of possibility.
“Why did you help me?” I ask, braving a glance at the man who challenged me in class, accosted me in the hallway, and has now saved me from a terrible situation.
His grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles are stark white. His face is forward, the same profile, same chiseled features and clenched jaw. His anger is a pulse, a heart beating so wildly that it circulates the emotion through the car, and I swear I can feel his body heat. But no, that must be the beer playing tricks on me. Never again!
“I’m not helping you,” he says. “I’m helping myself. First of all, I’ve already told you that this is my territory, and whoever you are, you need to leave before I force you to leave. Second of all, what were you thinking, drinking that disgusting human alcohol? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Are you trying to expose yourself? To expose me?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I want to laugh at the way it comes out as an echo to my thought, and I would, except I think he’ll probably kill me if I do. I laugh anyway.
He whips around, his glare deepening into two black coals. The car grows even hotter, prickling against my skin. My mouth slams shut. So, maybe not in my imagination? What is going on? I peel away from his gaze to fumble with the controls on the dash, looking for the AC and the heat button. Both are off.
He slaps my hand away. “I don’t believe you,” he snaps. “Did someone send you to spy on me? Which clan are you?”
My head spins again. A prickling of exhaustion hits me and all I want to do is crawl into my bed and sleep this horrible feeling off. Good heavens. If this is what alcohol does to people, why does anyone drink it?
“Thanks for the ride,” I grumble, wishing I had the energy to deal with whatever this guy is going on about. My words are a bit slurred as I continue, “Seriously, I don’t know what you’re talking about and you’re being a total jerk and I’m just trying to get an education here. I can drink whatever I want. I’m a big girl.”
This time, he laughs. “How old are you? Aren’t you a freshman?”
Yeah right, like I’m about to tell him I’m still seventeen. I point, my index finger jabbing at him with each word, “I’m done with this conversation, Mr. Ashton.”
I wrench open the door, peel myself off the leather seat, and wobble to the entrance of the freshman dorm building. When his fancy-pants car peels out of the parking lot, I don’t look back, and I’m a teeny-bit proud of myself for that. It’s a small consolation. I’m developing a headache, my stomach churns, and worst of all, the spirits are back! They don’t travel with me inside cars, but they aren’t bound by a body the way we are, so it’s easy for them to pop up just about anywhere. The creepers follow me inside, still demanding things of me with all their life stories. I’ve never had so many of them come at once. Ever. There’s got to be at least fifty of them.
I can’t take it––not for another second!
By some miracle, I make it to the second floor and stumble into my small room with enough time to text Cora and Macy that I’m home safe, put on my noise-cancelling headphones with music on, rip off the awful high-heels, and crash into my pile of blankets.
Free at last! Free at last! God Almighty, I’m free at last!
As I’m drifting off to sleep, the annoyingly handsome image of Dean Ashton’s face floats across my mind, taking center stage above all the others. And those startling black eyes, they pin me down––those black, knowing irises with a ring of orangey-red around the pupils. Now that my head is clearing, I have a chance to think about what his eyes remind me of…
Fire.
But no, I must have imagined the fire in his eyes. But I didn’t imagine the heat in the car and he did say something totally weird about drinking “human alcohol”. Like, what other kind could there be? And what’s with all this talk of territories or the accusations about spying and exposing him? Even as I’m drifting into the reprieve of sleep, even as the numbness in my limbs starts to melt into the warmth of blankets, one thought roots itself into my mind.
Dean Ashton has a secret and it has something to do with me.
6
Khali
I eye the bloodred Drakenon wine in my chalice but don’t drink. Nobody pays me any mind. They’ve already filled themselves with several rounds of wine, not to mention the delicious meal of roasted pheasant with its mountain of trimmings. I sigh and try to listen to the inane conversation going on around me, but I’m itch
ing for this evening to end.
Midnight can’t come fast enough.
All week, as I tended to my responsibilities, my skin crawled with the need to escape the castle, to fly into the void and let my dragon breathe free. I rarely get the opportunity to be my best self unless it’s during my weekly secret rendezvous with Owen. Afterall, I wasn’t brought here to fly. That’s a fact King Titus has made clear to me many times over the years.
So it’s every Thursday night after the prominent families of court dine together, gorging on fine food and drinking themselves into oblivion, that Owen and I risk our futures and sneak away using the underground network of tunnels hidden beneath the castle. Tonight should be no different.
The court grows boisterous and sloppy as the hours-long meal nears its completion. Queen Brysta looks as if she’s about ready to fall asleep at the table, but my mother, The Lady Alivia, is sitting next to her and chatting cheerily as if she doesn’t notice the Queen’s boredom. I look just like my mother except for our eyes. Nearly every time we’re together, someone points that out, much to my annoyance.
All the ladies are dressed in elegant gowns of silk and velvet, jewels dripping from their necks, and I’m no exception. Everyone dresses their best for these gatherings, the royal family especially. The Queen’s emerald tiara glitters in the candlelight, weighing her down even further. I see myself in that image and have to look away.
“No,” King Titus grunts, his fist pounding on the table and clattering the dishes. “We have to focus on our borders first, let the other kingdoms fend for themselves. We especially don’t owe the Fae anything.” He says Fae like it’s a dirty word.
“Quite right, Father,” Silas agrees with whoever happens to be the most powerful in the room, as usual.