I’m curled up in the loveseat in her room, allegedly studying for my Art History midterm, but mostly taking the excuse to not be loomed over by Callahan at the start of his night shift.
Not that hedoesloom, exactly. But more…
Helikesyou likes you.
…it just feels a little awkward now.
Stupid Lanz. Where does he get off telling me things like that? Let alone showing up basicallydrunkto his shift with me. Drunk or…something.
He didn’t lookwell, that’s for sure.
I don’t want to be worried about him. Or Callahan. OrKai, Kai and those ugly, vicious bruises.
Welts, really. Like he’d been beaten.
I really don’t want to worry about that.
But I’m not sure how to stop.
Morgan’s room is one of the few places that feels normal on campus, which is ironic considering how deeply eccentric her decorating choice are. Freed from the restraints of having a killjoy roommate to share a bedroom with, she’s has gone all-out: a canopy of scarves over her bed, strings of lights looping around every surface, and clothes flung anywhere they’ll stay. It’s dark, but cozy, thanks to the several dozen candles she has lit, and I’m more than content burrowing under one of her chunky blankets against the cushions.
Pretending, for a moment, that we’re just two normal suitemates, doing normal homework, living normal lives.
For a moment, the only sound is Morgan crunching. Then a thought occurs to me, and I look up from my notes.
“Hang on. Do you even celebrate Lent?”
Morgan shakes her head. “Me? No. But the dining hall does.” She makes a face. “Fish. Forty days of fish. You aren’t missing out, trust me. There’s only so many days I can tolerate maple-roasted salmon before I turnintoa maple-roasted salmon.”
“Ooh, is that something you can actually do?” I ask, cocking my head. “Shapeshift?”
Morgan wipes her hand on her bedspread—ew—and laughs. “Ha. I wish. Shifters are like Lady Gaga: they’re born that way. Something to do with ley lines, moon phases…” She spins a hand in the airy. “Anyway, I don’t think they ever turn into fish. Never met one myself. Oh! But…” She straightens up. “Check it. I just figured out a new trick.”
She reaches over to her desk and picks up a lit candle, a big fat red one whose flame dances as she holds it in front of her. In spite of myself, my heart pulses a bit in my throat.
“Nothing up my sleeve…” She waves her hand to punctuate, sending her loose sweater sleeve down to her elbow, then picksup one of the many textbooks lying around her like a fairy circle. “And…”
Carefully, she dips the corner ofWomen Who Run With Wolvesinto the golden blade of flame.
I brace myself. But nothing happens.
“Isn’t that neat?” Morgan says, tilting the book—unburnt—back up. “No harm, no foul.” She demonstrates a few more times—in, out, in, out. Not a single flicker or scorch mark.
It’s a little surreal to watch, like an optical illusion come to life. “Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “How’s that…work?”
“Sigil.” Morgan sets down the book and rotates the candle around to show. On its side is a kind of…glyph, I guess, a bunch of spiky lines that almost call to mind a Viking rune, carved into the waxy surface. “Done properly, at the proper time, and the candle gives only light—no heat. See?” She sticks her manicured fingertip right into the heart of the flame, and holds it there. “Not a thing.” She withdraws, and holds the candle a bit more towards me. “Wanna try?”
I shake my head. “I trust you.”
Sigils. Scapulars. Everyone’s got their own version of lucky charm, I guess. Everyone just trying to keep the good things here and the bad things at bay.
Morgan, for her part. shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She sets the candle back on her desk and goes back for another handful of Funyuns as she looks around her circle of books. “Where was I?”
I bend my head and scratch down a few more notes about bronzesmithing in the Hibernian mountains.
“Do you have anything for bruises? Or…” I frown, trying to think of how to describe what I saw on Kai’s back. “Worse?”
Morgan looks alarmed. “Excuse me?”
