Page 6 of Hallowed Bones

I swallow around a suddenly dry throat and manage to rip my gaze away from his. A fire burns in my core, low and hot and uninvited. That familiar sense of attraction flutters just beneath my navel. The sudden tightness in my chest, in my thighs, is so out of character for me. My skin prickles, heat pooling, molten and undeniable.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My fingers itch to reach up and make sure that the odd streak of silver is hidden well beneath my headband like always, but then I realize he’s probably staring because of my eyes. The differences in color always make people look twice. He probably doesn’t care about the other oddity I carry with me when my eyes are the first thing people notice.

He’s staring because of my eyes, I assure myself. That has to be it.

“It’s the final class,” he says. “Professor Ackerman released us early.”

He stands, and I retreat a step. Despite his bookish surface, he’s much taller and broader than I expected. Amelie hums in the back of her throat as she approaches.

“This is one of our new freshmen,” she states. “Miss Wardwell, this is—”

“Cameron,” the man says, and, tucking his book to his side with one hand, he holds out the other. “Cameron Goode.”

“Haven,” I say, reaching for the offered hand only to jerk back a second later as the crackle of pain bites into my palm. “Ugh, sorry—” I shake out my hand and frown. With the clouds hovering overhead, I hadn’t expected static electricity to be a problem.

Cameron doesn’t respond as he glances down at his own palm and then moves away. No other words, no excuse or greetings of farewell. He just nods to Amelie and takes his book and leaves. Rudeness, it appears, is a universal disease.

I stare after him for the longest time, confusion and annoyance spilling into my bloodstream. Turning to face Amelie once more, I offer my own apologies.

“I’m sorry, but I think I’m tired. Is there any way we could cut the tour short?” I ask, hopeful.

“No need,” she answers. “This is where the tour ends.”

“It is?”

When she gestures to the building at my back, I pivot and look up. Made of all dark lines, iron, and black stone—the structure is older, perhaps even older than any school that I’ve been to by at least several decades if not a century. Yet there’s something entrancing about it.

“This is the women’s dormitory,” she tells me, striding past to the front doors. Clouds roll in overhead, the earlier threat of a storm finally coming in. “The rain is about to hit,” Amelie says, pausing outside the next set of doors and holding it for me. “Let’s get you settled in before that happens.”

Three steps have me by her side, but I, too, pause and look back over my shoulder. This place really is vastly different from the lights and sounds of New York. It’s quieter, a secluded collection of buildings hidden from the modern world. Despite the rudeness of Cameron Goode, Ipswich College might be the key to my future. Aside from the dean and vice dean, no one here should know about the Wardwell fire.

If I’m lucky, no one ever will.

The moment we enter the dormitory, the skies open and a crack of thunder rattles the windows of the old building. Amelie doesn’t seem to notice as she moves toward the staircase leading to the next floor, but I pause and look back. A sense of dread fills my chest.

It rained the night my parents died as well. The news said it’d been a once-in-a-lifetime storm. The fire persisted like some cruel creature sent from the depths of the underworld on an unholy mission. Even the rain hadn’t been able to put out the flames that stole everything from me.

“Haven?”

I blink and I’m back in the dorm, shaking away the old thoughts and memories of months past. “Coming,” I call out, turning and hurrying toward the staircase that Amelie is already halfway up and waiting for me on the landing.

Music pours into the corridor as we reach the third floor. To my surprise, it’s not the kind of music I’d expect to come from dorm rooms filled with eighteen-to-twenty-year-old girls. There’s none of the usual pop or rock or country I’m accustomed to, but instead, the notes of Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor spills into the halls.

The lilting notes are louder than any chatter, and as I pass by several closed doors and a few open, I peer inside—seeing no one and curious as to where the music itself is coming from. There’s no sign of anyone, though, as we make our way to the last door to the right.

Withdrawing an ancient-looking key rather than one of the more common key cards that I’ve seen most other colleges and universities I’ve toured use, Amelie sticks it into the door’s keyhole and turns the lock.

“There are no curfews,” Amelie says as the door swings inward and I’m greeted by the darkened interior of a room that’s much larger than I expected. “You’re all adults here, and we expect you to behave as such. However, no alcohol or drugs are allowed on campus regardless of age.”

I step into the room as Amelie hits the switch, illuminating the plain chandelier that hangs atop the arching rafters. Massive, I mentally correct my earlier assessment. One side of the room, where the window is set into the gray brick, is nothing but glass and exposed stone.

There are two twin beds, one in either corner, two dressers, two wardrobes instead of closets, two desks, and an unnatural number of boxes stacked on the single unmade bed. I grimace at the totes and boxes and bags of my things waiting to be unpacked.

“I’m sure your roommate will be back soon,” she says, looking at the analog clock sitting on what I assume is my roommate’s nightstand. It announces that it’s half past five PM. “She’s likely at dinner. If you wish to head to the cafeteria, then I can—”

“No,” I say quickly, stopping her. My stomach churns at the idea of shoving food into it, and just the notion of walking into a cafeteria full of strangers is more than enough to have me comfortably forgoing dinner. “Thank you, but I should probably unpack and get everything out of the way before she returns.”