Shades of Darkness

by A. R. Kahler

There was no way I was going to tell him about the dreams or events that actually inspired the paintings. No way in hell.

  “I don’t know if you remember my mentioning the tutorial group,” he said. “Especially with everything else, I can’t imagine it would be foremost on your mind. But they meet every other week. I’d love for you to join—I think you’d find it highly educational.”

  Right. The stupid study group. And I didn’t have the excuse of being busy with my thesis anymore, either.

  “What’s it for?”

  “Independent study, mostly. It’s not a lot of extra work, but we explore many of the topics we only brush over in class. The relationships between cross-cultural deities, the origin of rituals, that sort of thing. I wanted to give students a safe place to explore the more esoteric aspects of what I can cover in the curriculum. Even Islington has its limits to what I can teach.” He grinned, as if confiding a secret. “I figured you might be interested, what with your own ties to the occult.

  “You don’t have to say yes right now. Just know the offer’s on the table. I think you’d find it very helpful for your future work, especially if you continue that Tarot project.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t know if I’ll have the time.”

  “No pressure. We’re meeting again tomorrow afternoon. I was thinking of canceling, in light of things, but then figured that work is a decent enough distraction in and of itself. Might help get your mind off things and—how did you phrase it?—put your life into a bigger picture.”

  “Thanks,” I said. He had a point. The only way I was going to get through this was by distracting myself, and a new workload would do just that. Especially one that didn’t involve art. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to spend any more time in the painting studio than absolutely necessary. “I’ll see if I can make it. Was there anything else?”

  He shook his head. “Nope, just wanted to check in.”

  “Okay. See you later then.”

  He nodded. “Have a good night.”

  I left and closed the door behind me, hurrying out into the cold. A raven sat on the fence outside, head cocked and waiting.

  “What are you staring at?” I whispered. The bird shuffled its wings and took off. “Fat lot of help you are,” I muttered, and made my way back to the Writers’ House to work until pizza came.

  • • •

  The five of us lounged in the main foyer of the building. The gas fireplace was lit and fending off the snow buzzing about outside, and the House was pretty much empty. No one wanted to brave the weather to be out here, and I didn’t blame them. If I hadn’t gotten here before true dark hit, even pizza would have been a tough draw.

  Oliver and Ethan sat on one of the faux leather sofas, Elisa and me on the opposite. Chris was on the floor, cross-legged, right by the pizza box. There was a warmth here that I hadn’t expected to feel, not after all the shit of the last few days. But maybe that was what cemented this together—all that loss made us grip what we did have even tighter. Especially since it wasn’t going to last.

  Still, I couldn’t help but feel like there was an empty space, a seat at the dinner table left empty. Jane wasn’t here. And neither was her ghost.

  “Have any of you guys gone to the painting studio?” Elisa asked. It felt like the first time she’d spoken all night.

  If not for the pizza already stuffed in my mouth, I might have lost my appetite. I glanced to the boys. Their faces all showed the exact same blank stare.

  “Nope,” Ethan said first. The rest of us shook our heads.

  “Why?” I asked. This felt like dangerous territory. Less walking on eggshells and more dodging landmines. Elisa and Jane were besties—anything related to Jane’s suicide couldn’t be good.

  “Because it’s locked up,” she said. She was staring out the large picture windows flanking the fireplace while she spoke, her voice quiet, almost entranced.

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Chris ventured. “I mean, it’s still kind of a crime scene, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. I had no idea how things like this normally went down.

  “I heard they don’t think it was suicide,” she said after a moment. This made everyone go still.

  “What do you mean?” Oliver asked.

  “I mean she didn’t leave a note. Just like Mandy. And like Mandy, she had no reason to kill herself. She was just . . . dead. Right before her thesis went up.”

  “So, what, natural causes?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But none of it makes any sense. It doesn’t feel right.”

  I didn’t want her words to creep down my spine, but they did. They lodged against my ribs and bored through my heart and made it impossible to breathe. It was one thing for me to think there was something strange going on. It was another for my best friend to voice it.

  “Maybe it was a condition?” Chris asked quietly. “Like a heart problem. The rest could be coincidence.”

  Elisa went back to eating, staring into the fire with a detached look to her, like she was staring far away, at something no one else could see.

  “I think she was murdered,” Elisa said after a few moments of silence. “I think they both were.”

  I woke up cold, and it didn’t take long to realize why. I’d kicked my sheets off some time in the night—not that it was morning by any stretch of the imagination. It was still pitch black outside, the light from the streetlamp making everything muted and dreamlike. Whatever dream was filtering in my mind vanished as my heart tilted. It felt like my bed was filled with sand. What the hell?

  I pushed myself to sitting. Only then did I realize I was leaving dark stains in the trail of my fingerprints. Charcoal. I held my hands up to the filtered light.

  “What . . . ?”

  Then I leaned over the edge of my bed. The ice that ran through me at that moment made frostbite seem like a sunburn.

  My sketchbook was open in a pool of lamplight, a new drawing facing me like a curse. I must have done it in my sleep; that was the only way to explain it. Jane lay sprawled on the stark white paper, her black-inked body face-up, staring at me. Her hands stretched above her head and her legs were straight out under her hips. And around her, in a thick line, was a black circle. Just like . . .

  No no no.

  Words were scrawled between her hands, in a handwriting that wasn’t mine:

  The Tree Will Burn

  I wanted to scream.

  She was coming back.

  I couldn’t sleep after that. Of course I couldn’t. I sat there in bed and fought the two wolves inside of me—one that wanted to destroy the sketch, the other that wanted to preserve it. For what? Evidence? Proof that I was or was not crazy? I had drawn Jane in my sleep, had written words in someone else’s handwriting. How was that anything beyond insane? Especially since the circle . . .

  But no. It was just stress. Stress and tragedy and not enough sleep and probably too much sugar. This had nothing to do with Brad. There was no way in hell they were related.

  The painting studio is locked up, Elisa had said. There was something someone wanted to hide.

  Which meant there was probably still some sort of evidence there, not that I was comfortable calling anything related to the death of my friend “evidence.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered. But I couldn’t help it. Every time I blinked I saw Brad’s eyes. Saw the feathers in the darkness. So I kept my eyes open. If you think of it, you give it power.

  There were many reasons I sent myself to Islington. The distraction of constant work was definitely one of them. In this moment, however, I wished I wasn’t here. I wished I was anywhere else, really. Somewhere I could run around and force the memories from my head. I wanted to go out and run to the forest and scream the frustration away. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t call or talk to anyone and I couldn’t leave the fucking dorm room, which meant I was trapped with my thoughts and three hours to kill until sunrise.

  Maybe I sho
uld delete any reference to death from my vocabulary, metaphorical or no.

  I was going to drive myself insane, and if I did anything on the computer I’d wake Elisa up. I didn’t want to have to explain my insomnia to her—not because she’d pry, but because I knew she wouldn’t, and I wanted so badly for someone to root just a little deeper. I wanted to have to share these secrets. If I kept them all in, I was going to explode.

  Don’t think about it. You’re stressed and it’s making you crack and that’s it. That’s it. This has nothing to do with you and nothing to do with Brad. Mandy and Jane were suicides. Brad was just an accident.

  But I couldn’t convince myself of that. Munin was back. People were dying. And my dreams . . .

  I didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want to explore it. I couldn’t change anything—I couldn’t bring anyone back. All I could do was keep my head down and try to stay calm, to keep myself out of it. Soon I would graduate and this would all be behind me and I could—what?—run somewhere else?

  You can’t run forever, a voice whispered in the shadows of my mind. It has already begun.

  I wanted to scream back that nothing had begun. I was stressed. That was it. I was stressed and other people were stressed and that caused bad things to happen. That was it. I wasn’t going to open the door looming in front of me. I wasn’t going to invite Munin back in.

  Not when I knew what that would entail.

  As a last resort, I opened a book and took out my tiny flashlight. American Civ. Nothing put me to sleep faster than American history. And I had an essay due Friday.

  • • •

  My next moment of consciousness was Elisa throwing a pillow at my face.

  “Rise and shine, pooper,” she said. Not nearly with her usual conviction though. She sounded as tired as I felt. “How’d you sleep?”

  I grumbled and kept my eyes closed. She sat down beside me.

  “I’ll take that as insomnia,” she said, tapping on the book. “Unless you’re looking for a new pillow.”

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Are you turning your bed into a work of art now too?”

  I opened one eye. Charcoal was smeared into my sheets (which were normally a very cute toy cowboy print) and probably blurred my face like some garish mascara. At least I’d hidden the sketchbook back in the drawer where it belonged. Elisa would have freaked if she saw it.

  “Late-night inspiration,” I lied, and pushed myself to sitting. Now that it was light, I was able to see just how much charcoal I’d gotten everywhere. My bed looked like a firepit. Only slight exaggeration.

  “Well, maybe make that your last. Unless you want to get vinyl sheets, which I think would require special explaining to the RA.”

  I tried to smile. The fact that she was attempting a sense of humor after everything was heartening.

  Technically speaking, we should have been in class today, but we’d been given another day to mourn, which meant another day of finishing homework and trying to do everything but think about what had happened.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Seven thirty. Breakfast.”

  I groaned. I wasn’t hungry in the slightest. My stomach roiled from leftover dreams and my mouth tasted like charcoal—probably because I accidentally ate some in my sleep. Elisa seemed to catch my train of thought, or maybe my expression when I licked my lips, because she grinned and rustled my hair.

  “You should probably rinse off first. You look like a panda.”

  “Thanks friend,” I said as sarcastically as I could.

  I stood and started toward the bathroom, but her next words stopped me.

  “Hey, Kaira?”

  I turned. “Yeah?”

  “Do you remember anything about last night?”

  “Besides the part where I didn’t sleep?”

  She nodded.

  “No,” I said slowly. “Why?”

  “Because you woke me up. Maybe around three. You were thrashing and screaming.”

  My skin went cold. Was that before or after the ghost sketching?

  “Yeah?”

  She nodded. Her face looked paler than usual. Scared. Her black dress and leggings didn’t help.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You kept saying it’s dying.”

  “I . . .” But I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t remember screaming that. The image from my sketch burned into my brain: “The Tree Will Burn.” But what the hell did that even mean? And how were my friends involved in all of this? That was the world of gods and demons, and that world didn’t blend with mine. Not any longer. “I’m sorry. Bad dreams I guess. Sorry if it woke you up.”

  She shrugged and looked out the window. As usual, the windowsill outside was a churned mess of snow and bird prints.

  “It’s okay. Nightmares are to be expected. I haven’t slept well either.” When she looked back to me, her face was carefully composed, a smile that was only believable because she was an actor. And only unbelievable to me because I was her roommate. “It’s just a sign of the times.”

  • • •

  Although Elisa and I walked through the snow to breakfast together, she didn’t join us at the table.

  “I gotta go console Cassie,” she said as she hugged me good-bye. Cassie and Jane had been roommates, along with being best friends. I couldn’t imagine what the girl was going through. I didn’t want to imagine it.

  I went to the table where Ethan and Oliver already sat and felt something inside of me shatter at the sight. The big round table looked so . . . empty. The boys must have noticed it too. Ethan gave me a sad eyebrow raise and gestured to the seat beside him. I took it. From here, I was facing one of the windows overlooking Islington. Normally, it was a gorgeous view—the snow-covered trees, the rolling lawn. Today it just felt stark. It was better than facing the cold of the cafeteria, though.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “As expected,” Ethan replied. Oliver yawned.

  “Haven’t slept for shit,” Oliver said. He took a long drink of coffee. “What about you?”

  His yawn made me yawn, and it took a moment for me to answer. “Roughly the same.” I sighed and picked up a piece of bacon. I’d been mulling this next snippet of conversation for most of the shower and walk over. I still wasn’t certain how it would sound. “Have you guys thought any more about what Elisa said?”

  “Clarify,” Ethan said.

  “You know what I mean. About it not being suicide.”

  They exchanged a glance.

  “Yeah, we’ve thought about it,” Oliver said. He was using his I’m trying to be soothing without being a dick voice, which was really only a tiny amount less annoying. He dropped his voice to a whisper, barely loud enough for me to hear. “It doesn’t make any sense though. If Jane was killed, why aren’t there any cops on patrol?”

  “Then why is the studio locked?”

  Ethan looked at me like I was incredibly stupid.

  “Suicide isn’t always clean,” he replied flatly.

  I looked back to my tray. I suppose that wasn’t something I’d considered. But I wasn’t giving up this train of thought. Something was off—very off—and if there was a link between these deaths and Brad, if there was something supernatural going on . . . I pushed the thought down. I wasn’t playing with those powers.

  “I want to see it,” I whispered. “I want to see the studio.”

  “It’s still locked,” Ethan replied. “Or didn’t you get the message? The studio will be closed for the rest of the week. They’re having class in the spare crit room now.”

  “There are other ways,” I replied. I gave Ethan my most conspiratorial, knowing look. “Maybe we should go stargazing.”

  “What’s stargazing?” But it wasn’t Oliver or Ethan who asked. It was Chris.

  He stood beside me with a tray in his hands and a tired look on his face.

  Gods damnit.

  I was about to lie when Ethan continued for me.

&nb
sp; “It’s when Kaira and I slip up to the roof of the arts building to smoke and people watch,” Ethan said. He turned his gaze to me. I couldn’t read his expression, but I knew he was saying this in an attempt to divert my plan. “Which she thinks we should do to see inside the painting studio.”

  Chris sat down beside me. Hard.

  “Why would you want to do that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ethan said. “Kaira hasn’t illuminated us on that part yet.”

  I gave him my best burst into flames glare and then turned to Chris. Obviously I couldn’t tell them that I wanted to see if the crime scene matched up with what I’d sketched. They’d think I was insane. Worse, I didn’t know what I’d say if they actually did match up—that was a box even Pandora wouldn’t want to open.

  “Because,” I said carefully, “I think they’re hiding something. And I don’t like having information withheld.”

  “Count me in,” Chris said, popping a tater tot into his mouth.

  “Wait, what? Who said you were invited?” The questions left my lips before I could catch them.

  “Jane was my friend too,” he said. He glanced around and lowered his voice before continuing. “Besides, I was the last person to see her, apparently. I’ve already been questioned by the cops and security and even my parents. I think I deserve to know what actually happened and why I’m a suspect.”

  His statement sent every red flag in my arsenal high into the air.

  “Excuse me?” I don’t know why his comment hurt me as much as it made me question his trustworthiness. “You were the last person to see her? And what do you mean, suspect?”

  “Hell if I know,” he said. “And yes, we hung out for a bit after brunch. That’s why I didn’t go straight to the studio. She reminded me that I needed to call home.” He pointed a piece of bacon at me. His normally elfish smile vanished. “Stop looking at me like that. I had nothing to do with it, no matter what the cause of her death was. I have five different alibis and a phone log to prove I was in my room at the time of her death.”

  I deflated back into my chair.

  “You don’t need to be roped into this,” I said.