Vernal

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  I swivel my attention back to Tristan and unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “So, you’re going to live here?” I wave around the space. “With us? Every day?”

  Tristan presses his lips together, clearly annoyed at being asked the same thing twice. “Will that be an issue?”

  “Not at all,” Magali quickly replies, causing Tristan to flash her another smile that could light up the world.

  “Wait a minute,” I implore. “We don’t live with boys.”

  I’m stretching. I can’t live with him when he smells all yummy and looks like he just walked out of Heaven. See? I’m already using cheesy lines.

  “It’s a good thing I’m all man then,” he counters.

  Unable to tear my gaze away from him, I swallow.

  “I . . . don’t . . . do men either.” I frown at myself.

  The sides of Tristan’s lips lift smugly.

  “That’s your business, raindrop.”

  Wait, that came out wrong.

  “Guess you do now.” Ethan’s eyes gleam in delight at my obvious verbal misstep. “Live with boys, that is, Serena.”

  Tristan’s smile broadens he tries to hold back a laugh.

  Magali appears in my sight line, her eyes narrowing. “Since when have you ever followed rules, Ser?”

  Damn, she’s right. Even I can’t argue that point.

  A silence falls over the group as they all watch me.

  “Fine.” I cross my arms. “You can stay.”

  Tristan snorts. “I wasn’t asking for your permission.”

  “Well, you have it anyway.”

  A shadow passes over his face. “Good to know.”

  My heartbeat stumbles. Why do I get the feeling I’ve given my blessing for more than just living arrangements?

  “Glad that’s settled,” Ethan mumbles. “Tristan, just a heads-up—Mags is mine, so just keep your hands to yourself.”

  She playfully pushes at Ethan’s shoulder. “Stop being stupid, we all know that you’re not my type,” Mags teases, and sinks into the couch, with Ethan following her.

  Ethan frowns. “It’s because I’m Taiwanese, isn’t it?”

  Mags and I share a glance.

  This is an ongoing joke between the three of us.

  “Actually, it’s because you have a boyfriend,” I retort.

  “I’m gay?” Ethan feigns surprise.

  Ethan loves to do this. He enjoys the shock factor; although, at times, I get the sense that it’s more of a test. If you don’t flinch at his preference in mates, then you are in.

  I study Tristan’s response. He looks anything but surprised at Ethan’s declaration, which is strange.

  Ethan has an easy way about him, but unless you know him personally, you wouldn’t know that he’s gay. He’s very private, therefore it’s not common knowledge.

  I watch my tall protector friend smirk at Tristan’s lack of reaction. Ethan’s shoulders visibly relax on his long, muscular body as he rubs his fingers together.

  Mags claps, clearly excited that Tristan passed the test.

  “Serena, we should celebrate getting a new roomie with pizza and beer,” she suggests.

  “I like you,” Tristan says simply.

  She beams under the praise, and a ridiculous pang of jealousy roils through me. I squeeze my eyes closed and attempt to shut Tristan out, trying to regain my wits.

  A dark chuckle floats out of him, into me. When I open my eyes, Tristan has moved closer and is leaning toward my ear. His warm breath tickles the outer rim.

  “Don’t worry, raindrop. I like you too.”

  “I wasn’t,” I squeak out. “And stop calling me raindrop.”

  He contemplates me for a moment. “No.”

  I straighten my shoulders. “No?”

  “If we’re going to live together, you should know that I don’t like being told what to do. It’s a great nickname and I’ll be using it. Often. And without warning.”

  I level him with a look. “Fine. Bring it, protector.”

  “Oh, I will. Trust me,” he whispers, eliciting a shiver down my spine with his proximity.

  Damn him.

  I inhale.

  There is nothing I love more than a challenge.

  I’ve got this.

  I can live with Tristan and all his hotness.

  Two semesters.

  Ten months.

  That’s it.

  I can totally do this.

  Tristan

  I can’t do this. I can’t live with her. I look back toward the open patio door, into the unlit living area, before taking another long hit off my cigarette.

  My eyes close as the nicotine invades my brain. It’s been days since I last had one, and the headache I’m enduring makes it seem like the world is constantly yelling at me.

  I growl into the inky night before opening my eyes and taking in the darkness. My powers reach out, trying to connect with nature, as I listen for the whistle of the wind across the trees, or the gurgling sound of water a crystal spring makes. Anything to help calm me.

  Nothing. Tonight, there is nothing.

  My body is still on edge from enduring Serena’s intoxicating presence this afternoon. Like a crazy stalker, I watched every motion her perfect mouth made as she chewed on her pizza. I flinched every time she smiled at Ethan instead of me. I studied the way she and Magali finished one another’s sentences, wishing for that connection with her.

  Every five minutes, I fought the urge to slam her against the wall, push my hands in her hair and force my tongue into her mou—

  The soft whistle of the wind pulls my attention to the outline forming out of thin air, of my best friend Zander. At the sight of him, my shoulders relax for the first time today.

  As soon as he’s in solid form, he scans me from head to toe and narrows his eyes at the cigarette hanging off my lip.

  “The Queen would be displeased if she knew you were smoking again,” he points out.

  I take one last pull before crushing it under my boot.

  Zander is the second in command of my mother’s royal guard, under his father, Rionach. His dad and my mom married when Zander and I were five, solidifying our best friend status and truly making us brothers. Princes.

  “So don’t tell her,” I counter.

  “Ass.” He smacks me in the back of the head.

  I sigh in relief at his presence.

  “You okay, man?” he asks, eyeing me once again.

  “’Course. I’ve just missed your ugly face.”

  He shakes his head, grinning. Zander’s bloodline and playboy personality make him anything but ugly. These days, his bed is like a revolving door.

  “What are you doing here, Zan?”

  “I’m here to make sure you’re . . . adjusting.”

  Ah. “Tell my mother I’m adjusting just fine.”

  He snorts, tipping his chin to the remains of my crushed cigarette. “I can see that.”

  I glare at him, annoyed by his judgment.

  “It’s been a long day,” I grumble.

  He looks around, taking in the campus, which is now blanketed in total darkness. His face scrunches as he examines our surroundings. “The earth realm is a shithole.”

  “Not every realm looks the way ours does,” I remind him.

  “Human souls have no melody. It’s why the ocean is so angry all the time. Constantly churning. The energy here is depraved. Even you must feel it?” he prods.

  I look around, using my soul sight, a gift from my mother’s bloodline. He is wrong. The auras that surround human souls are brilliant and vibrant. Most supernatural beings are envious of the beauty that a free-willed mundane soul possesses.

  Myself included.

  “There is beauty within the darkness,” I mumble.

  “Your charge is hot.” My friend abruptly changes the subject. “Although your attraction to her seems a bit cliché.”

  I throw him a pointed look. “How do you figure?”

  �
�A free-spirited female has drawn your attention . . .”

  “Fuck off.” I roll my eyes at the implication.

  My anger causes Zander to grin. He loves goading me.

  “I’ve known you your entire life, Tristan. I can see she’s caught your eye. If you wanted a spirited, beautiful girl, there are plenty at home to choose from.”

  “Serena is simply a charge. One I’m required to protect while Gage clears my name with the royal family,” I remind.

  Zander frowns at my father’s name.

  “You sure you’re okay, man? You’re prissier and more . . . angry than normal.”

  I give a firm nod.

  Even though he’s right.

  I’m not okay. Not even fucking close.

  The lock on the front door of the suite clicks, and I look at my watch. Three in the morning? What the hell? I hear huffing right before the door flies open, and Serena staggers in and falls onto the floor in a swearing heap.

  Flinching, I resist the urge to run over to her and help her up. I’m not supposed to be her knight in shining armor. I’m only supposed to make sure she stays alive. And by the number of F-bombs she’s throwing out, I’d say she’s alive.

  “What do you see in her?” Zander whispers in my ear.

  I sigh. “A means to an end. One that I control.”

  Zander chuckles. “Control is an illusion, my friend.”

  “If I don’t govern her, we all lose.”

  “And what if she’s a beginning and not an end?” His normally bright eyes take on a dark hue and his raven hair fades to the night’s inkiness. “What happens then, Tristan?”

  I return my focus to Serena. She’s attempting to pick herself up, while laughing at her own predicament. Her drunken state is about to snap that last bit of sanity I was holding onto this evening when it comes to her.

  “Then we’re all screwed,” I snarl out, and continue to watch her fight with gravity for a few more seconds before deciding that I can’t take it any longer. Rubbing my hands over my face, I exhale and walk toward her sprawled-out form, cursing under my breath.

  “And so it begins,” Zander mocks behind me.

  I crouch down and brush a silky strand of hair away from her glassy eyes, careful not to touch her skin. If I do, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. Her flowery spring scent wraps around my head, making it difficult to function.

  At my closeness, she rears back in surprise.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, quietly.

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “No.”

  “I’m helping you up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re inebriated.”

  She gives me a smug look, which almost causes me to reach out, grab her face, and kiss her stupid.

  Behind the self-assuredness there’s a sadness. It’s buried, but I can see it, because I see her. And as beautiful and forlorn as she is now, it’s about to get so much worse for her. She has no idea what’s at stake or what the future is about to drop into her lap. I do.

  “Do I look drunk?” she retorts.

  A silent pause beats between us.

  “Yeah, raindrop, you do.” I use my pacifying tone.

  That earns me a half snort, half laugh. Serena leans toward me and hushes her voice, as if we’re sharing a secret.

  “Well, Tristan,” she exhales dramatically. “I’m pretty shit-faced. The sorceresses were hosting a welcome back bonfire. Their brew is—” She hiccups and rubs her nose wildly with the back of her hand, as if it itches.

  “Where is Rulf?”

  “Rulfff?” she draws out and giggles.

  I roll my eyes. “Your guard, Serena. Where is he?”

  She shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  I’m going to rip his throat out. I’ve only been around them a day, and I can already see he’s doing a shitty job.

  Serena’s eyes widen and she stops laughing. “Dude,” she tries to tap my arm but misses, and her hand ends up flopping around in the air awkwardly. “Dude,” she says again, garnering my attention. “I’m like that kid from that sixth sense movie.”

  “What?” I ask. She’s not making sense.

  “I see a satyr,” she whispers creepily.

  Zander appears behind me. “She’s plastered.”

  “You think?” I throw over my shoulder.

  “Wait,” she hisses. “You see him too?”

  “Serena, this is Zander. Zander, the drunk is Serena.”

  Zander’s grin widens. “Nice to meet you, Princess.”

  Her faces scrunches, like she just sucked on a lemon. “Don’t call me that,” she mutters. “Don’t ever call me that.”

  He holds up both his hands in surrender. “Apologies.”

  Serena’s unfocused gaze shifts to me. “Why are you hanging out with male nymphs?” she blurts out, then smacks her forehead with her palm. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize this before. You’re—you . . . prefer . . . Ethan?” She heaves a heavy sigh. “I knew you were too good-looking. Are you straight? I mean, into me. I mean, into females?”

  Zander and I share a look before he chuckles. “She’s a handful. You sure you got this, man? I have to get back.”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for checking in.”

  “Anytime.” He pats me on the shoulder, before dipping his chin respectfully to Serena. “Good luck with that badass hangover you’re gonna be sportin’ tomorrow, champ.”

  She groans at the thought, and he dissolves into thin air.

  “Seriously? Nymphs? They’re, like, all . . . sex and nakedness. And touching. They like to have lots of sex.”

  I ignore her ramblings. Most likely she won’t even remember Zander in the morning. “Let’s get you up.”

  “Why?” She tilts her chin into the air.

  Christ, she’s adorably stubborn, even when tanked.

  “You can’t sleep here, so get up.”

  That earns me another withering glare.

  All right, Serena St. Michael can’t be bossed around. New approach. Licking my lips, I extend my hand to her and grit my teeth in anticipation of hers sliding into mine.

  She doesn’t budge. Instead, she studies my hand like it’s a foreign object she’s never seen before. Maybe she passed out with her eyes open. I give her a predatory look and lean toward her. God, I just want to devour her pouty mouth.

  “I normally don’t like to repeat myself, Serena. Last time. Get your ass up off the floor and I’ll take you to bed.”

  A light blush crosses over her cheeks and it’s then I realize what I just said. I tense at the realization.

  “Bed? Really? I don’t know,” she stumbles.

  I push my hand through my hair. “That’s not what I meant. I have no desire to actually take you to bed,” I lie.

  Hurt at my statement, she stills.

  “Just leave me alone, Tristan,” she whispers.

  Her heavy breaths caress my lips.

  I lean in a sliver more, taunting her.

  “Please,” she begs, and blood roars in my ears.

  What I wouldn’t give to have her underneath me, saying my name and begging me over and over again. My outstretched hand clenches into a fist and I pull it back, while I check my secondary bloodline, which is full of lust.

  This isn’t a game.

  She’s not for me.

  Frustrated, I stand and walk away from her.

  Serena

  MY INSIDES ACHE AND THE POUNDING in my head won’t fade. Damn witch infusions. My fingertips feel around for my blankets, but they’re not there. I release a whimper and roll over, smacking my nose against the hard surface below me.

  Ouch. “Where is my bed?” I ask in a hoarse voice.

  I try swallowing, but my throat and mouth feel like I’ve eaten a hundred cotton balls. Turning onto my back, I squeeze my shut eyes as unwelcome images of last night flash through my mind.

  After spending the afternoon with our new roommate, I remember
needing space. And air. Lots of air. All day his scent wrapped around me. It invaded every breath I took.

  My being around Tristan is like an addict being around drugs. By the end of the day, I was shaking so badly that I needed to either crawl into his lap and latch myself onto his mouth or I needed to escape.

  I press my lips together. I still can’t figure out my nonsensical reaction to someone I’ve just met.

  In a lame attempt at evasion, I decided to meet up with some sorceress friends at a party. Given my state this morning, that was not one of my more mature decisions.

  My stomach roils and I groan, remembering how many drinks I’d downed in an attempt to forget Tristan exists.

  The last thing I recall before passing out is fighting with the lock before I fell onto the floor, where I’m currently laying—in last night’s clothes.

  Awesome.

  Then the recollection of Tristan holding out his hand to me—offering to take me to bed—hits me, and my body cringes.

  And did I see a satyr? What the hell? Nymphs never appear for protectors unless summoned. Did I demand one? I must have been really out of my mind.

  My eyelids slowly flutter open, then instantly squeeze shut again at the morning’s light. Damn, that was painful.

  Hot mess doesn’t even begin to properly describe my current state. I wince and grunt as the alarm on my iPhone blares next to my ear, startling me. A text from Mags comes in letting me know she set it. Followed by a second text demanding I get up before I’m late for my first day of classes.

  I pout and roll onto my hands and knees, managing to push myself into a standing position. After the room stops spinning, I head into the shower to freshen up and attempt to make myself presentable.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m tossing my hair into a loose bun and throwing my messenger bag onto the floor in the kitchen. Desperate for water, I head to the fridge, grab a bottle, and see a note from Magali saying she’s left a bowl of cereal, a glass of juice, and two Advil on the counter.

  My vision swings to the empty bowl and bare glass.

  Scowling, I walk over to them and see a second handwritten message. This one is from Tristan, letting me know that since I was passed out on the floor, he took it upon himself to eat my cereal and drink all my juice.

  “Lovely,” I whisper to no one.

  For a moment, I just stare at his handwriting, fascinated with every loop the pen has made on the paper.