by Angel Lawson
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1
“Morgan!” I hear my name called from a voice at the front desk the instant I walk in the dormitory. “You’ve got mail.”
I freeze and stare at my best friend, who’s on desk duty. There’s only one reason for her to stop me like this and for the barely contained smile she’s fighting. I’ve been harassing her for weeks, asking daily if a package had arrived. According to the wide grin on her face, it’s here.
“Hand it over.” I rush to the desk, drop my satchel, and grab it with both hands. My name is handwritten, as is the return address. New York University Graduate Department.
“It feels heavy,” she says. “That’s good right?”
A sudden queasiness rolls in my belly. “I don’t know.”
“Well, open it, silly.”
I nod, but just stare at the package. The contents determine the next two years of my life—no, it will determine the rest of my life. Where I live, my career, my associations….I take a deep breath.
“Do you want me to do it?” Shannon asks. While I consider that, two other residents walk up to the counter and she hurriedly assists them with their mail.
“No, I’ll do it.” I gather up my courage and tear the edge. A thick stack of papers slides out. On top is a letter. I read it aloud with shaking hands.
“Dear Ms. Hansen,
Congratulations! You’ve been accepted into the New York University Graduate Program for the Arts! In addition, we’re excited to announce that you are one of six winners of the prestigious Brannon Grant, awarded to an outstanding applicant in music, visual arts, theater, illustration and drawing, creative writing, and photography.
As a recipients of this grant you will receive a full scholarship and housing for the two years of the program…”
“Holy shit, Morgan! Full scholarship for creative writing? You didn’t tell me you applied for one!”
“I didn’t apply.”
“You must have killed it on your story submission.”
With my heart in my throat I scan the rest of the letter. “I’m to report next week to my new housing and meet with my advisor immediately. School starts the following week.”
“You’re moving to New York next week?”
“Guess this southern girl had to spread her wings someday, right?”
“I just didn’t know it would be so soon.” Shannon and I had been friends since freshman year at the huge state university. She’s pretty much my only family. Her sad face brightens. “Two good things are going to come from this adventure.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll get to visit you in New York and I’m giving you a going-away party!”
“A party?” I can’t pretend I’m not a little excited about it. I can invite Ryan and maybe we can finally cross that line we’ve been flirting with for the last month.
Shannon grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’m so proud of you, girl.”
I tighten my grip. I’m going to miss her. I’ll miss everything about my home state, but I’m ready to move on toward the future and the life I know is waiting for me.
*
It doesn’t take me long to pack and settle my affairs. Graduation occurred three weeks before, and with no family attending it hadn’t been a big deal. Otherwise, I’d been preparing myself to find a job or go to school. Thank God the school thing worked out, because I really didn’t want to go the nine-to-five route yet.
I arrived freshman year with nothing more than a trunk full of clothes and a backpack full of books. I’ll leave with a little more than that; photos, a laptop, and three pairs of shoes (and a pair of boots!) I also have a small circle of girlfriends—the only family I’ve had since my parents’ accident. Leaving them hurts the most.
I was sixteen when I lost my parents. I came home one day and they were both in the house—dead. At first they thought it was suicide. Or maybe a murder-suicide. But nothing was found in their systems except an unexplained super virus. The CDC, which happened to be located three miles away, quarantined me and the house, but nothing came from it. A freak occurrence.
The day I found them was so intense—so traumatic—that parts of my brain shut off. Most of the memories of my childhood are gone, and, according to the therapists, much of what I do remember isn’t real. Somehow, in an attempt to protect myself, my brain mixed up fiction and reality, which is why I started writing. The stories flowed naturally—as if they happened to me. The events were fantastical. Impossible, but so was both of my parents dying from an inexplicable sickness. My fairytales kept me sane, and now they’ve won me a coveted spot in the University creative writing department. And the Brannon Grant.
Shannon planned the party at her boyfriend Max’s house. She invited all the girls, Maggie, Tasha, and her girlfriend Brooke. Everyone paired off over the last year and after a couple of false starts I’d set my eyes on Ryan, the editor of the school paper.
“Tell me about your submission,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. We’re sitting on the decades-old couches Max’s parents donated to their house. Ryan has a thick, reddish beard and green eyes that shine from behind the frames. He’s smart, and I met him when my writing professor suggested that the literary magazine should collaborate with the newspaper on a project.
I’ll be honest, me and guys have never been a great mix. I mean, I like guys—men—males. I’m attracted to them, but when things start to heat up something clicks in my brain and things go south. Quickly. It’s like a bomb inserted in my chest, right under my heart. I want a relationship. I crave it, but the slightest disinterest or even worse, rejection, sends me down a tailspin of insecurity and quite frankly, rage.
It’s not an attractive quality. I admit it. I’ve had therapy for it.
I wrinkle my nose at Ryan’s question. Although I love writing, I’m not that comfortable talking about it. And Ryan always seems to have a ’tone’ when asking about my work. “Eh, it’s just a weird story I’ve had in my head for years. I finally put it on paper and turned it in.”
“So a passion project,” he says, taking a sip of beer. “What’s it about?”
“It’s called Maverick’s Murder, about a girl that grows up surrounded by a group of ravens. They’re her best friends and she spends all her time talking to them while shutting out the rest of the world.”
“Ravens as friends,” Ryan says. He’s a newspaper guy. Facts and copywriting. Fiction is lost on him. “Does she talk to them?”
“Sure.”
“Do they talk back?”
I twist my hands in my lap, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. “In their own way.”
“Like how?” he asks.
I force a laugh and switch the subject. “It’s not a big deal. So do you think you’ll have time to come to New York this summer? You’ll have a free place to stay.”
“Maybe,” he says, but there’s not a lot of enthusiasm in his reply. “Shannon, tell me about this submission Morgan won her scholarship for. She won’t tell me anything.”
Shannon and Maggie plop down on the love seat adjacent to the one Ryan and I are on. My best friend has a glassy look in her eye and she t
akes a big gulp of her red, fizzy drink. “The ravens? Lord, she won’t even let me read it.”
“No? What’s the big secret?” he asks her.
“You know, I’m sitting right here. I can speak for myself.”
“But you won’t.” Shannon rolls her eyes, fully aware of my attitude problem. “At least when it comes to this.”
“I’m trying, but you keep interrupting.” I can’t keep the frustration out of my voice. I don’t want to tell them about it but I also hate being dismissed. They both stop then and stare at me with overdramatic patience.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Of course we do. I want to read it!” Ryan takes my hand and squeezes. “Share your success with us, Morgan. You deserve it.”
“So right, it’s this little girl who makes friends with the ravens in her yard. Five of them. She gives them names and talks to them. In return they keep an eye on her and bring her treats and trinkets. Her favorite is a charm she wears on a necklace.”
Maggie points to the scooped neckline of my shirt. “Like that one? Is that why you wear it all the time?”
I touch the cool medallion of silver hanging from a cord on my neck. I feel heat rush to the tips of my ears. “No, I mean, I just wear it for inspiration.”
“It looks cool, though. I like the silver design in the middle.”
“So, yeah, in the story, the key goes to this sort of alternate universe—”
“Where ravens talk to girls,” Ryan jokes.
“And only Maverick can open the door,” I continue, ignoring the my hot temper and the strain building in my chest. “This is a problem, though, because the ravens are guardians of the door and their job is to keep the two worlds apart. But one day, the door is opened and a battle occurs between the two worlds. At least one raven is injured and although they shut the door, the ravens disappear, leaving Maverick alone.”
“Then what?” Shannon asks, looking more interested than I would’ve thought.
“Then the girl who has no friends—no family—she has to wake up and live in the real world, which isn’t a nice place.”
Ryan nods. “So the ravens and the key and the alternate universe were her escape from the realities of her shitty life.”
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with that accurate assessment. “Sure, yeah.”
“It’s original,” Ryan says, linking his fingers with mine. His nose is red and I suspect he’s a little drunk. “I mean, it may be a little juvenile but I’m sure NYU saw something in it worth pursuing.”
I withdraw my hand from his. “What are you saying?”
He blinks. “Um, about what?”
“About my story. You think it sounds juvenile? Are you implying that makes it lesser for some reason?”
He stills, as though he’s wishing he could turn back the clock, but that’s the problem with Ryan. He thinks he’s smarter than me. He doesn’t respect my work, which means he doesn’t respect me, either. “No, Morgan, that is not what I’m implying.”
“Then what?” I look at Shannon, who has already lost interest and is walking over to her boyfriend. I shake my head and grab my cup. I don’t need this tonight. I don’t need Ryan, really. I’m moving. It’s clear we’re not a match.
“Morgan, come on,” Ryan calls. “It came out wrong. Don’t be sensitive.”
Brooke grabs my arm as I pass by. “Where are you going?”
“I need to make a call,” I lie, “about my apartment in New York. I’ll be right back.”
“Now?” It’s late. Brooke isn’t stupid.
“I know. I just totally forgot to do it earlier.” I flash a smile to her and Tasha. “Be back in a minute.”
Outside, on the tiny deck behind the house, the late spring air feels nice. I’m not sure why I’m so on edge. I think it’s just the move and the raw feelings I get about my story. It’s been a piece of me for so long that there are times I get confused and I think parts of Maverick’s story are real—not just my imagination.
It’s dumb for me to think tonight would be a good time for a hookup with Ryan. I leave in two days. I lean against the railing and stare into the small grove of trees lining the back. If I’m honest with myself, that’s probably why I wanted to give it one last chance. No commitment or obligation. Other than my desire to write, it’s been a life-long struggle.
Plus, it could’ve been a good way to get rid of that pesky V-card.
A shadow moves in the trees, triggering the hair on the back of my neck. I lean over the deck railing for a better view but feel the hands of fantasy reaching for me.
…Maverick wanders through the forest. A fluffy, gray cat weaves between her feet, herding her in a specific direction. She looks up, trying to see the sunlight, but the leaves are so thick it’s nearly dark as night.
“What am I looking for?” she asks. The cat paws at her legs. She picks him up and he nuzzles against her chest. Even though he’s soft, he doesn’t make her feel warm. No, instead a chill races down Maverick’s spine. Her hand touches the charm. It’s hot against her neck and she wants to remove it.
He meows again.
Flapping from overhead gets her attention and her ravens come from above, landing one by one in the trees and on the ground. The cat hisses, clawing at her arms.
“Ouch!” she yells, and she tosses him in reaction. He lands on his feet, close to the biggest raven, back arching defensively. Another of her ravens grabs her by the hair and tugs, back in the direction she came, but not before she sees where the cat was leading her.
A small, shimmery door deep in the woods. The stone heats against her chest, blinking at an identical flash of color ahead…
“Morgan?”
I swing around and find Ryan standing on the deck. I feel the dewy grass on my feet and turn back, realizing I’m inches from the grove of trees.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I uh,” I try to get my bearings. “I heard something in the trees. An animal or something.”
Even in the dark yard I can see that Ryan’s expression is apologetic. “Morgan, look, I was being an ass in there.”
“A little bit.”
“I know you’re talented. We’ve worked together. I’ve read your stuff. It’s great.”
I walk to the bottom of the steps and he meets me there. “You really think so?”
“Yeah, I really think so.” He takes my hand. “I just don’t think you know how immersed you get in that story, which is fine. I get being into your craft, but wow, Morgan, sometimes you go so deep I feel like I can’t reach you.”
I know what he means. I fight a glance back at the trees. How did I get out there? Sometimes, sitting at my laptop or driving in the car, I slip into the story and feel like I’m drowning. “That’s why it’s so important for me to write about it.”
His arm slips around my waist and I feel the warmth of his body. “You’re going to do great in New York.”
I press my forehead to his. “Thank you.”
“And yes, I’ll definitely come for a visit—if the offer still stands?”
I nod but there’s no time to reply. His mouth is on mine and I just feel relief to have something—someone—to hold on to.
Chapter 2
Morgan
Even though it’s only the first of June, the streets of New York are sticky with humidity. I haul my suitcase out of the back of the cab and drag it over the curb. The building number, 236, glints from brass numbers affixed to the front door. Craning my neck, I look up and see that the building is really a house, has gray stone, and is three stories high, with an attic.
“Ms. Hansen?”
I drop my chin and look at the doorway. A man stares at me, brilliant blue eyes roaming from head-to-toe. I assess him back. He’s a little older than me, maybe mid-twenties. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. His hair matches the color of his outfit and even though it’s a casual look, it makes my travel clothes of skinny jeans and a hoodie look a lit
tle grubby. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Dylan. I’ve been expecting you.” He moves quickly down the steps and meets me at the curb. “Here, let me assist you with that.”
“Thank you. It’s heavy.”
He picks it up with ease, as though it weighs nothing. Surprised, I check out his expansive shoulders and the bulge of his biceps straining against the fit of his shirt. Okay, so Dylan works out.
I follow him up the steps and notice the six call buttons just outside the door. Each has a first initial followed by a last name. I spot mine by the number four. I smile and point. “That’s mine?”
“Yep. When you have a visitor they’ll have to be let in by you or someone else in the house.”
“I’ve always heard New York is dangerous. Is it really that bad?”
“For a beautiful woman like you?” he says, with an earnestness that makes me blush. “You’ll always need to be careful.”
He opens the door and I walk in first, eyes popping at the interior. This isn’t a house. It’s a mansion—decked out in the finest décor. My boots slide on the marble floor and massive gilded mirrors flank each wall. A sparkling chandelier hangs overhead and an enormous staircase is in the back of the room, leading to the next floor.
I walk over to one of the mirrors.
Jesus, I look like hell.
My long, dark hair is a mess, having mostly fallen out of the bun I twisted it into hours before. Dark circles highlight how tired I am, giving my blue eyes a haunting look. A drop of brown soda left a stain just below my neckline when the airplane hit a patch of turbulence. And my favorite boots look shabby and cheap against the pristine floors.
My silver charm glints in the mirror and I make eye contact with Dylan’s reflection. I touch the intricate design, feeling oddly exposed. For a brief second I consider that something about his face looks vaguely familiar. When I turn on my heel and face him directly I no longer see it, but he does give me a warm, reassuring smile.
“This is graduate housing?” I ask, once I’ve come to my senses.
“For scholarship winners, yes. The house was donated by the Brannon family in the 1930s, specifically to be used for extraordinary students with creative majors. It’s called the Nead.”
