by Tracy Deonn
“Baby…” The tiniest tremor in my father’s voice makes my chest go tight. “You keep saying you’re okay, but this thing that’s happening to us… I feel it too. I know it feels real bad.”
“I’m good, Dad,” I grit out. I stare at the veranda beneath my feet, and my vision tunnels, goes sharp, then blurry.
“Okay,” he says with a sigh. “Well, try and get some food in your stomach before your class, okay, kiddo?”
“Will do.”
A pause. “Where do we begin?”
I clench my phone tight at my ear. It’s what we say when one of us is overwhelmed. “At the beginning.”
“That’s my smart girl. Talk to you later.”
When we hang up, I’m shaking. My breath comes in short pants; heat climbs around my collar. I dig my elbows into my knees and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. This is why I left. I love my father, but his words puncture every single layer of my wall until it may as well not exist. His grief makes my own emotions break across my skin like an earthquake, opening me up to—
“No,” I whisper into my palms. “No, no, no.” But it’s too late; the memories swell and take me.
The sharp smell of hospital disinfectant. Raw bile in the back of my throat. Cheap, soft wood in the cranny beneath my fingernails as I dig them into the armrest.
Details from that night spin like a hurricane, blocking out the world in layers. The flashback pulls me from the now and into the past, one sense at a time, until I’m in both places, both times at once—
A blue jay jeering and whistling overhead in a tree.
The piercing beep from a life support monitor down the hall.
The campus Bell Tower chimes nine a.m.
The police officer’s deep, even voice… “Route 70 around eight… a hit-and-run.”
Familiar, horrifying, all-consuming—once it starts, this memory is a ride I can’t escape. The only thing to do is let it run its course—
The nurse leaves. The officer watches her go. He sighs. “I’m sorry for your loss…”
Almost over.
Next, we’ll stand, he’ll shake my father’s hand, and we’ll go home without her. I whimper and rock and wait for that awful night to let me go—
But it doesn’t.
I gasp as a new image dislodges itself with a violent crack, like an iceberg in an ocean.
A silver badge on a breast pocket flashing. A body, shimmering. The officer’s blue eyes holding my gaze, then my father’s. His thin, drawn mouth muttering words I can’t hear. Words flowing into the room. A cold wind sweeping through my mind…
Just as quickly, the memory ends.
“That’s not what happened—” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they aren’t right.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, my brain wrestles with two conflicting memories of the exact same moment.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The memory of the isel at the Quarry is still there, opaque under a silver smoke blanket of false images. The truth under Selwyn’s lie.
Now the new memories of the hospital wage war against the old ones, until finally, the lies dissolve.
Selwyn and the police officer. Both chanted a spell of some kind. Both bent my mind to their will.
My eyes snap open.
The first time I saw magic was the night my mother died.
* * *
My first class, English in Greenlaw, goes by in a blur. I don’t remember walking there. I sit at the back of the classroom. Questions run through my mind on a loop:
Was the officer at the hospital like Sel? A Merlin? A Kingsmage? How big is the Legendborn network? Why did I remember what Sel wanted me to forget? Why am I only now remembering what happened then? What other memories did that officer take? And why? Was an isel there at the hospital that night too? Did it attack my mother? Is that what killed her? How much do I really know about my mother’s death?
I lose time. The professor talks. I don’t write a thing.
My phone buzzes.
Briana. I got a phone call from the Chens then a phone call from the dean. Going off campus? Trespassing? The police? You need to call me back ASAP.
My father’s anger barely registers, but I force myself to text back.
He gave us a warning. I’m in class right now. Can we talk later?
You hid this from me on the phone. A lie of omission is still a lie.
I know, Dad. I’ll call you after dinner.
Yes, you will!
Two hours later, class is over. I drift through the crowd like a ghost, eyes unfocused and turned inward.
The campus that had seemed large and intimidating now feels tight and claustrophobic. Trees obscure the lawn like curtains hiding secret truths. Towering oaks are sentinels, monitoring our every word. I lose time again while sitting on a bench outside, so far gone that I jump when my phone buzzes.
Hey, Briana! Nick again. Hope your first day is going well! My last class gets out at five thirty. Want to meet up for dinner?
Ignore.
By the time my second class is over, one thought has burrowed in my mind like a splinter:
Someone used magic to hide what really happened the night my mother died, and I’m not going to let them get away with it.
6
WHERE DO WE begin? At the beginning.
Well, by dinner, I have the beginnings of a plan. In the busy dining hall I grab a table and take bites of a sandwich between texting the only person I know who might have answers.
Hey! We didn’t get expelled.
The response is instant. Charlotte’s the type of girl who lives with her phone in her hand, never on silent, never on do-not-disturb.
YEsssss! I’m serious tho i’m really sorry I almost got y’all kicke out!!! I feel like hsit
I should feel ashamed about using her guilt to my advantage, right?
All good. That party was wild. Lots of different kids there.
For REAL! somebody ratted out those football players! They have to ride the bench our first game and it’s against State, too!
That’s bullshit! I don’t keep up with football, but vulgarity seems like the right response. Who was that girl yelling at everyone to leave? Tall blond ponytail
Victoria Morgan. Goes by Tor. A serious legacy. She adds a couple of thumbs-down emojis.
What’s her deal?
Her daddy and granddaddy and whoever else all the way back to whenever went to UNC. Couple years ago, her fam donated so much $ to the B School they renamed a building after them. Old money good ol’ boys. Legacy kids waltz in, get whatever grades, and leave 4 years later with great internships and jobs lined up
Old money and good ol’ boys. Why am I not surprised? This is the South. Tight-knit groups, lots of loyalty, established networks, plenty of resources. Perfect for the Legendborn, I bet.
What about that guy she was with? I pick out the descriptors that sound the most… reasonable. Dark hair. Angry. Yellow eyes.
SELWYN KANE WAS THERE!?!?! AND I MISSED HIM!?? He never parties with ANYONE. Holy Jesus that boy is hottt
A stream of emojis: tongue-out smiley face, both hands up, hunnit, kissy lips.
I shudder. I don’t think Charlotte would add kissy lips if she’d seen Sel snarl like a lion and almost break someone’s kneecaps with one hand. She texts me back before I can respond.
Selwyn doesn’t hang with Tor tho?
He doesn’t? They were both standing right near the fight. All true. All things anyone could have seen.
I’ve never seen them even SPEAK to each other. They don’t run in the same circles, babe. Not even close! He’s an EC junior like me and Tor’s a regular junior.
My wheels spin. So, the Legendborn avoid each other in public, but in private, they’re coordinated. Organized. They mentioned a Gate on campus. Is that where they usually hunt? If Sel is an EC junior, he’s not ageless; he’s eighteen.
Gotta go. Sigma party tonight! Wanna come?
Nope. Already on the
dean’s shitlist.
* * *
By the time I finish dinner, the sun has set and ribbons of deep purple and burnt orange streak through the darkening sky. I push through the doors into the thick soup of a humid evening, lost in thought.
“Briana Irene Matthews!”
I freeze, then pivot slowly to look for the sort of asshole who calls out someone’s full name in public to get their attention.
Leaning against the wall just beside the exit is a tall white boy with tousled straw-blond hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He looks like he belongs on the cover of the university brochure: impossibly bright and cheery, wearing plain jeans and a Carolina blue zipped hoodie. When he laughs, the sound is warm and genuine. “Now, that’s what you call a murderous expression!”
“Want to help me with the follow-through?” I snap.
He smiles, shoves off the wall with one foot, and strolls toward me. “You’re hard to pin down.” He looks up briefly, as if considering. Eyes back on me. “And rude, too, leaving me on read all day.”
My eyes fall shut as I mutter, “You’re the babysitter.”
“Does that mean you’re a baby?” My eyes snap open to find Nick Davis standing right in front of me, eyes twinkling with barely contained mirth. He is at least four inches taller than me, which is saying something, even though as a second-year EC he’s probably only a year older than I am. Definitely not built like any seventeen-year-olds I know. With his broad shoulders and narrow waist, he looks like one of those Olympic gymnasts.
I turn on my heel to leave. This boy is not part of the plan. Not the beginning, middle, or anywhere in between.
“Briana, wait up!” Nick jogs to follow. “I’ll walk you to your dorm.”
“It’s Bree, and no thanks.”
When he catches up, his fresh-laundry-and-cedar scent comes with him. Of course he smells good. “Bree, short for Briana.” His dimple-edged smile is probably on a poster at a dentist’s office somewhere.
“I’d be happy to escort you. Peer mentor and all that,” he says without a stitch of sarcasm. “According to the dean, you have a tendency to get lost at night and accidentally end up in the back of police cruisers?”
I huff and pick up the pace, but he matches mine without missing a beat. “How did you find me?”
He shrugs. “I asked Dean McKinnon for your class schedule and campus ID photo.” He holds up a hand before I protest. “Not personal information typically shared with students, but the EC consent forms we all signed waive that right between mentors, orientation assistants, and other assigned guides. I found out when your last class ended. Made a guess as to when you’d hit dinner, then estimated how long it’d take for you to get through the buffet line in Lenoir, find a table, and eat at that hour of the day. All I had to do was show up and wait outside the exit closest to Old East.”
I stop, my jaw open. He grins, clearly amused and more than a little pleased with himself. “So, you’re a creep?”
He holds a hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him. “Not a creep, just clever! And operating under Dean McKinnon’s explicit orders to make first contact with you today.” Ocean eyes set in a tanned face take me in, and a knowing smile sends a wave of warmth to my ears. “Timed it perfectly too. You walked out five minutes after I arrived.”
“Being clever and being creepy are not mutually exclusive.”
“Oh, I agree.” He scratches at his chin. “There’s probably a Venn Diagram or a graph of direct proportionality in there somewhere—”
I groan. “This is, by definition, using your intelligence for evil.”
Nick tilts his head. “Correct. On two levels, in fact.” He raises a finger. “Using one’s cleverness to creep and”—a second finger—“using one’s cleverness to diagram the cleverness-to-creepiness relationship.”
I open my mouth, close it, turn, and walk away. He follows.
We walk in silence for a few moments, letting the night flow around and between us. I glance back once. Nick’s easy stroll reminds me of a dancer: long strides, straight posture. When my eyes reach his face, there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. I whip around.
After a minute, he speaks up again, his voice curious behind me. “So, did you jump the cliff? The one at the Quarry?”
“No.”
“Well,” he muses, “aside from landing in the dean’s office on your first day of school—a record, I’m guessing, so well done—it’s not the worst thing to do. Cliff’s not that high, and it’s kinda fun.”
I turn back to face him, surprised in spite of myself. “You’ve done it?”
He chuckles. “I have.”
“But aren’t you the dean’s golden boy?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m great on paper.” A few minutes later, we arrive at an intersection where walking paths branch out all around us in a circle like spokes on a wheel. He steps beside me and we walk together down the path on our right toward Old East. Crickets and cicada song drone in the distance.
I wonder if Alice is back in our room. We’ve fought before, plenty of times, but nothing like this. Nothing that left me feeling this cold. I imagine Alice’s eyes in my mind, angry and scornful. The last person who’d yelled at me like that had been my mom. How am I so good at hurting the people I love? Hurting them so badly that they scream and cry in my face?
“So, Dean McKinnon said you enrolled with a friend?”
This boy is intuitive. Unnervingly so. “Alice. She’s always wanted to come here.”
He eyes me. “And you didn’t?” I blink, unsure how to respond, and he takes my silence as an answer. “Then why did you come?”
“I’m a smarty-pants.”
His scan of my face is quick, appraising. “Obviously,” he murmurs, “but that’s how you got here, not why. Nobody comes to EC just for the classes.”
I snort. “Tell that to Alice. She’ll be crushed.”
“Not answering the question. I see.” His attentive eyes pass over me like he’s found my insides and wants to idly peruse them. No rush. Don’t mind me. Just digging out your guts.
“Dean McKinnon asked me to talk to you about your student activity requirement since some campus groups begin recruiting members the first week of school. See any you like?” I’d completely forgotten about that part of the program. Nick spots the look on my face and hides a smirk behind his palm. “Do you even know what a student group is?”
“I can guess,” I growl. “Clubs. Professional degree orgs for pre-med kids or pre-law kids. I dunno… fraternities and sororities?”
“Mostly right,” he says, “except EC kids can’t join frats or sororities. Minors in environments notorious for partying and drinking? That’s a no-go. What parent would send their precious underage baby to UNC if they thought we were studying organic chem during the day and doing keg stands at night?”
“Well, which one did you join? So I know which one to avoid.”
“A second sidestepped question. Cricket Club.”
“Cricket. Club. In basketball and football country?”
He shrugs. “I knew it would piss my dad off.”
Something twists in my heart, tight and sharp. “Oh?”
“My dad’s an alum. A psychology professor here.”
“And he wants you to do something other than cricket?”
“Yep.” Nick tips his head backward and watches the tree limbs as we pass under them. “Follow in his footsteps.”
“But you’re not going to do that something else?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
He drops his gaze to mine. “Because I don’t do things just because my father wants me to.”
Suddenly, irrationally, the twist in my chest transforms into something more aggressive. “He just wants a connection.”
Nick scoffs. “I’m sure he does, but I don’t care.”
I stop on the pathway and turn to him. “You should care.”
Nick stops walking. Uses my ear
lier response against me. “Oh?”
“Yes,” I challenge.
We lock eyes, brown to blue, and something unexpected passes between us. A tug of friendship, a dropper full of humor.
“You’re pushy,” he observes, and smiles.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I start walking again.
Old East appears ahead of us, beige-yellow brick and unremarkable identical windows running in rows down its sides. You’d never guess it had been standing for almost two hundred and thirty years—the oldest state university building in the country.
I don’t know why it bugs me that Nick doesn’t want to connect with his father. We’ve only just met, we barely know each other, and he doesn’t owe me any details about his life. It shouldn’t irritate me.
But it does.
Contempt and jealousy intertwine and slice through my stomach like jagged claws. I want to aim them at this Nick so that he can feel what I think of his wasted luxury: a parent who’s still alive for reconciliation. I turn to him, the words on my tongue, when I catch a flash of unearthly light in the distance, just over his shoulder.
Selwyn’s magic had been smoke and swirling silver. These flames, pulsing in the sky above the trees, burn a rotting neon green.
“Oh my God…,” I whisper, my heart suddenly racing.
“What?” Nick asks.
I’m running past him before any other thoughts fully form. I hear him yelling behind me, asking me what’s wrong, but I don’t care. I can’t care.
This time of day on a college campus makes a straight path impossible. Strolling students, sitting couples, and a Frisbee game send me zigzagging. Last night I ran away from magic. Tonight, I have to run toward it. For my mom, for my dad, for me. I have to know the truth. I have to know if not getting a chance to talk to her again was my fault, or if—
I round a hedge, and the world drops out from underneath me.
Crouched between two science buildings is something I’d never imagined could exist.
