by Nina Walker
That’s exactly what Dean Ashton smells like… and oh my Lord, I’ve totally got a crush on him. Shoot! How did that happen?
A wistful feeling comes over me. I miss that time at camp more than I realized. Those are some of my only memories of being myself and having fun with other kids who didn’t make fun of me. It was easy to fit in at camp because everyone was a little bit different. Maybe that’s what college is like, too? And maybe that’s why I like it here so much.
“Can we talk after class?” Dean asks, his focus still steady and solely on me. One ebony lock of hair curls around his cheek and his eyes narrow into a hooded gaze. “Alone.”
Oh, boy…
I bite my lip, considering if “talking alone” with him is a good idea. But who am I kidding? Of course I’m going to say yes. Hot or not, I have a lot of questions for the man. I need to know if what I saw was real. I need to know what he has to do with it. I need to know who that girl with the heterochromic eyes is and why she matters to him. And I also need to put this ridiculous crush aside because he is so not right for me.
“Please?” His voice drops an octave, and his thick black lashes flutter closed for the briefest of seconds and I can’t seem to pull my gaze away from him and sweet baby Jesus, I’m in trouble...
“Sure.” I swallow hard. He looks at me for a long second, as if sensing the effect he’s having on me, then turns away to talk to “Pretty Girl” again. My heart drops into my butt. Gosh, dang it, why am I so bad at this?!
Doctor Peters clears his throat, starting the lecture and ending the embarrassing moment. Bless him. I do my best to take notes and stay attentive over the next ninety minutes but Dean is too close. I can’t stop thinking about this newfound discovery of my crush, or feeling the heat of his body against my side.
I thought I hated him. I really did. Actually, I’m pretty sure I still do.
But I’m obviously attracted and I can’t help but want to spend time alone with him, to unravel whatever it is between us. Because despite the sheer anger he seems to bring out in me, he also draws me in with the mystery, intensity, and challenge.
How messed up is that? Maybe I should get my head checked.
I don’t know what I expected but this wasn’t it. Naive little ol’ me figured we’d go chat in the hallway or at least somewhere on campus, probably to yell at each other—like usual. But instead of any of that, Dean is leading me across the street to the posh neighborhood adjacent to this part of campus. He doesn’t utter a word as fallen leaves crunch beneath our shoes and the earlier chill is thawed beneath the mid-morning sun.
My limbs grow hot under my cherry-red peacoat, especially with the long sleeved t-shirt I’ve got on underneath. Dean could be one of those aerobics speed-walking ladies at this pace. He’s three steps ahead and being a socially awkward weirdo.
“Could you slow down?” I ask in a huff.
He doesn’t slow down. And this, this kind of thing right here, is indicative of why I should abandon any crush on Dean Ashton. His black suede boots continue forward. I peer down at my white Converse, wondering if the little blue constellations I drew on them are childish.
We turn onto a tree-lined street with houses that are at least a century old, all beautifully refurbished with immaculate curb appeal. There are plenty of rental houses around campus where many of the upperclassmen live, but this area is most definitely not home to college-aged renters. Of course it would be home to Dean.
“I’m right here,” he mutters, turning up the drive of a darling red brick cottage.
Ivy sweeps across one side where it meets with the sloping roof. The house fits right in with its neighbors. It even has a turret. A turret! Once again, Dean has surprised me. This time, I know better than to laugh and piss him off. The guy buys sage and is a frequent visitor to The Flowering Chakra, after all. It’s a sensitive subject.
He leads me to the massive four-car garage and quickly keys in a code before I can catch sight of a number sequence. Not that I was snooping. Okay, I totally was. The garage door opens, revealing his fancy black car in one spot next to a shiny bullet bike. The rest of the garage is a home gym, complete with giant tires and those huge ropes guys like to throw around.
I just learned three things about Dean. Number one, he likes to workout alone. In fact, I rarely see him with anyone, so he must like to do most things alone. Number two, he apparently has a deathwish, because he has a bullet bike and those things are terrifying. And three, he’s much wealthier than I’d originally guessed.
“This is your house?” I ask the stupid question, but seriously, what kind of college kid lives like this? I mean, isn’t living off ramen noodles and five dollar pizzas some kind of right-of-passage? Maybe he lives with his parents. He must.
He doesn’t bother to answer as we walk into his house. I have to consciously keep my jaw from dropping once we get inside. If the outside belongs in Town & Country Magazine, the inside belongs in Modern Home Magazine. It’s all clean lines and chrome, concrete and wood finishes, stark white against caramel brown and slate black. It’s gorgeous in a way that makes me feel separated from it, like I don’t belong. I’m too cozy and relaxed for a place like this.
“So, your parents are loaded, huh?” My mouth gets away with me again and heat spreads across my cheeks. “I’m sorry, that was a rude thing to say.”
He shoots me an unreadable glance, still not saying a word, and goes to the kitchen, pouring us both tall glasses of ice water. I follow his lead and take off my backpack and coat, setting them on the nearest chair.
“I live alone,” he finally says. “I bought it when I moved here for school.”
He bought it? Again, I’m left with more questions than answers when it comes to Dean.
He downs his glass of water in one go and then fills it up again, drinking more. And then he does it again. The guy must be the poster-boy for water or something, either that or the gallon challenge. Mom would love that. She’s always harping on at me to drink more water and ditch the soda, as if that will ever happen. Dr. Pepper for life! I miss her. We talk on the phone almost daily but only for a few minutes each time. There’s not much to say now that our lives are in two separate states.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” I ask. I’m supposed to meet Cora and Macy for lunch in an hour and I have an English Literature class this afternoon that I still haven’t finished the reading for, but I don’t say any of those things. I just wait. Because I’m pretty sure I know exactly what he wants to talk about and it’s exactly what I want to talk about.
The spirit dragon!
He puts both of our empty glasses in the sink and comes to stand across the kitchen island from me. His fingertips press down against the sleek countertop and he gazes at me with a questioning glint. I’m not sure what happened to the air in here but my lungs aren’t cooperating fully. “About Friday… I wanted to apologize for my appalling behavior and running off as I did. I shouldn’t have left you so vulnerable.”
Ummm, what just happened? I never thought I’d see the day. “Why do you suddenly care? I thought you hated me.” I tilt my head at him, looking for a crack in his exterior. I don’t find one.
His jaw tenses as he considers. “I don’t hate you, Hazel. I hate that you’re here. You’re not supposed to be here if I’m here but I don’t want to leave, either.”
Again, what just happened? He doesn’t want to leave either? “We’ve been through this before, Dean. This whole, ‘you’re not making sense’ and this thing is getting old.”
He holds up a hand. “But I’ve come to realize that you aren’t lying and you truly don’t know what you are.”
I know what I am. He knows what I am. I narrow my eyes, trying to figure this out. “Yeah, about that, what on God’s green earth are you even talking about?”
He continues as if I didn’t interrupt with a really important question, “I’ve also accepted that you’re not going to drop out of school on my account. And I’m not goin
g to leave because you’re here. Especially not when you have certain talents that could be useful to me. So I want to call a truce.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “I have certain talents, do I? You’re talking about the whole psychic medium thing, am I correct? So, suddenly, I’m of interest to you and you’re going to be nice to me when you were a total asshat to me before? I don’t think so.”
He lets out a slow breath and walks around the counter, moving toward me with the same kind of intensity as always, like a predator hungry for his next meal. This time, I won’t let him scare me. And he should, I know that. I feel it deep in my bones. He’s the predator. I’m the prey. But maybe I like it. And maybe he does, too. His eyes flicker over my body, over my folded arms and the jut of my hips, before lingering on my lips and then finally resting at my eye level. A shudder runs through me. It’s annoying, what one look can unravel inside.
“You’ve always been of interest to me,” he says. “Since the first moment I saw you and you didn’t see me. Do you know it took you three days to notice me? That doesn’t happen often.”
“Wow, Dean. How fascinating,” I deadpan. “Are you always this arrogant?”
His smile is wicked. “Comes with the territory.”
It sure does.
“So I was wondering if you would help me?” He steps closer. “I need to know more about what you saw the other night. Anything at all.”
I consider it. I actually do. He runs a fingertip along the edge of the counter, coming to a stop when it hits my elbow, but he doesn’t move his hand. “And if possible,” he continues, “I’d like you to do a reading for me. Tell me what spirits you see surrounding me. Try to communicate with them. I’d be happy to pay for your services.”
“A reading here or at the shop?” My breath stalls and my eyes search his, looking for the catch. Because there has to be a catch.
“Here. Not to cut Harmony out or anything, but now that I know what you are capable of, we have to be incredibly discreet.”
“You don’t trust Harmony?”
He tilts his head. “I don’t trust anyone.”
I look around the kitchen some more, taking in how barren it is. It’s perfectly clean, perfectly normal looking, but something tells me he doesn’t have people here often, if ever. So why me? He must trust me to some degree to let me into his home, and yet he’s a closed book.
Part of me wants to give in, to say yes. But the other part can’t ignore the red flags. This guy has been a jerk from day one. He threatened me the first day I met him and has constantly argued with me ever since. And then, after a terrifying ordeal, he convinced me to get in his car, took me out to the middle of nowhere, and left me.
Besides, women have gone missing and a girl was found dead. There is a serial killer still on the loose and here I am, the smart one who decided it was a good idea to come into this house alone with him, without telling anyone where I was even going. What if Dean is the murderer? I don’t want it to be him and I don’t feel like it is, but who really knows. Fact is, I don’t know.
There are too many mysteries when it comes to this man.
“I don’t feel good about it,” I say at last. I press my fingers against the white countertop. It’s ice cold to the touch and just as smooth. “It’s not about the money. I mean, good for you and all, congrats on being rich or whatever, but I don’t want your money.” I’m rambling but I can’t seem to stop. “Truth is, you scare me and this whole situation scares me.”
“And why is that?” he whispers, coming to stand mere inches from me.
I give in. “I know what I saw. I saw you with fire in your eyes, twice. I felt the intense heat when you got angry that night after the party and it wasn’t the alcohol and it wasn’t normal. And what I saw on Friday, the spirit that came to me. I can’t even say it out loud, it’s too crazy.”
“Not crazy,” he mutters, licking his lips.
For a second, I can’t breathe. “If it’s not crazy, then you say it.”
He says nothing.
Silence stretches between us until I speak up again, “Dean, if you want my help, you’d better be willing to shed some light on all of this and answer my questions.”
“I can’t do that.” He steps back, adding to the secrets already between us.
“Are you kidding me?” I scoff, walking around the kitchen island. I need to put some distance between us so I can think clearly. “You want me to help you but you won’t do anything for me in return?”
“I said I would pay you.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “And I said I don’t want your money.”
He glares, his jaw clicking. “But I thought you needed money. Why else would you be working at The Flowering Chakra? You’re a scholarship kid. You don’t have a dad in your life. You must need financial help.”
Outrage grips me, tearing me up from inside out. There is something about his pitying look that makes me want to burn this pretentious house with all it’s glossy, unloved surfaces, to the ground. “Who even says something like that?”
I grab my stuff off the chair and push past him, heading for the front door.
“Wait,” he follows. “That came out wrong. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. Just leave me alone.” I make it to the front door and open it, all in two seconds flat, storming outside. A pattering of booted footsteps follows behind. Dean actually has the audacity to follow me? I shake my head. Unbelievable!
“You don’t understand. I need you to help me. You have to.”
“No,” I shoot back, keeping my eyes straight ahead. “I don’t!”
“You can’t say no to me,” he growls, reaching out and grabbing my arm. Burning heat presses against my long-sleeved shirt and I yelp, jumping back. My eyes don’t want to believe what I’m seeing but there’s no denying it. There’s a hole in my shirt sleeve, singed around the corners. The pungent smell of burned fabric wafts through the air between us.
I whip around. This time it’s my turn to make demands.
“Explain this!” I point to the black mark against the white cotton. He looks, but he doesn’t say anything. “Explain why your eyes have fire in them right now,” I continue. “Explain why your body heat raises when you’re angry, or why you just burned a hole through my shirt. Explain why I saw the spirit of a dragon when I was with you on Friday and why you act like I have something to do with all of this. Tell me everything, Dean, or don’t ask for my help.”
He shakes his head, pained. “I can’t.”
“It’s always been just me and my mom,” I say, my voice cracking. “For me, letting other people in is super hard. And I get that, I get that you don’t want to let me in.”
His eyes search mine, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I get it, because I’m the exact same way.” I pull my arms into my jacket, covering the singed material. “I can’t let you in on my secrets without you returning the favor. I’m sorry, but this is how this works for me.”
He grimaces. “It’s too risky for me to answer your questions.”
Does he think he’s the only one who has risks involved here? The disappointment is heavy, but I know what I have to do. I step back onto the sidewalk, my voice calm and my resolve strong. Maybe I’ll regret this, but right now, I’m fresh out of options.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
14
Khali
I hold my father’s limp hand in mine. He’s no longer feverish. He’s cold. I don’t know which is worse. Mother lays next to him, pressed against this back. She’s asleep and her face is swollen with grief. Her dark hair is a tangle around her head. I’ve never seen her look so unkempt. It’s unnerving. She won’t say it, but I can tell she’s starting to give up hope. How much longer can we go on like this? Someone has to do something.
And yet, nobody seems to be doing much of anything.
After my run in with Silas the other night, I’ve noticed more and more guards following me aroun
d. He must be keeping a closer eye on me. That, or King Titus decided to consider my father’s words before as a real threat.
It all races back to me, the horror of it, the confusion, the terrible moment my father said I was going to die before succumbing to the hex. At first I didn’t want to think on those words, but now that several days have passed, I can think of little else. If my father is right, and I’m in trouble, I need to know why. I want to know what I can do to stop it. But the Brightcaster cage is tightening around me each day, and if I don’t get out soon, I fear I’ll never find the answer.
“Alivia,” I say. She doesn’t stir. I say it again, just to double check that my mother is truly sleeping. There’s no response, not even a flicker. Satisfied, I pull the pack I stashed out from underneath the bed along with the thick velvet cape, slipping them on. I go to the infirmary window and crawl out onto the ledge. If I fall, I’ll shift and fly, so I know not to be afraid. But logic does little to calm my racing heart.
I only need to climb one floor down to get where I’m heading. My fingers grip the stone but it’s harder to hold onto than I’d anticipated. In some places, I’m holding on with the tips of my fingers and the edge of my boots, nothing else. I keep my breath steady and force myself to move, climbing down inch by inch until I find the glass window pane.
I breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s still unlocked, just as I’d left it.
I slowly push it open with my foot and stand on the window’s edge, then slip silently inside. This part of the library is as empty at night as it usually is during the day. Tucked back in the corner with nothing but musty old books, people rarely venture back here. I’m quick to find the passageway hidden behind one of the shelves. I’m betting my life that nobody else knows this is here.
