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Every time I say his name there’s an ache in my chest. An empty sensation that I long to fill, but it’s nuts. Duncan is hundreds of years dead, even if he survived the battle. Which he might not have. Worse, I can’t find any record of his having lived at all.
None of which eases the dark whispers in my head that maybe, just maybe, I’m crazy. Totally off the deep end. Lost it. IN serious need of some major medications.
This is not the way my life was supposed to go. My trip to Scotland should have been the highlight of my life and, in a way, it was. It’s also the worst thing that’s ever happened. I need sleep. There’s an itching inside my head that I want to rip through my skull and scratch. I can barely keep my eyes open, but every time I drift off I’m startled awake by visions of Duncan hurt, crying out for me.
Staring at the wall, I will it to fade. Nothing happens, but I keep trying. I’m supposed to have power, be the Destroyer. The one who decides the fate of the Fae and the world. Sounds like I should have powers, and when I was in the land of the Fae I did. I stood up to Caill. Magic poured into me, raw power.
I remember the sensation of it surging through my body, which was too small to contain it, so I made myself bigger. I faced off the Crone and even the Fae Queen. Then I felt powerful; now I feel empty. Small and somehow insignificant.
Trapped. I feel trapped.
Sighing, I stand and take the few steps to the wall. I touch the cold, rough cinder block wall covered over with the thick layer of mute green paint. The first rays of sunlight peek past the curtains over my window, illuminating the tips of my fingers. It’s almost as if I’m touching the sun’s rays, and for a moment it seems as if I could grasp them.
I flex my fingers convulsively and the ephemeralness of the light returns. It’s dawn, which means I have less than an hour before my first class. Comp and Research 110 isn’t my least favorite class, but none of them are my favorites. Not anymore.
I loved school, before. Now it’s part of the trap, holding me here when I want to be there. Back. Not only back in Scotland, but back in time, with the MacGregors. With Duncan.
“Enough, Quinn,” I say out loud, lightly slapping my face to force myself to a greater state of awareness. “You can sit around feeling sorry for yourself or you can get your ass in gear.”
I hear Alesoun’s voice in my head, approving of my intent if not my foul language. I strip out of my pajamas and pull open my dresser drawer. Lying on top is the skirts that Alesoun gave me. I touch the rough spun fabric and close my eyes, enjoying the harsh texture under my fingers. I grab it up and bury my face in the cloth. Inhaling deeply so I can find those last hints of the Highlands that still linger in its weave.
Putting the skirts back, I grab out my pants and pull on my jeans which aren’t clean but they’re not awful. Tomorrow I’ll do laundry. Today I have to get to class, then tonight I’ve got another desperate attempt to figure out this whole magic thing.
*knock* *knock* *knock*
Barefoot, I stare at the door. Did someone really knock? The sound repeats, leaving no doubt it wasn’t only in my head. Nerves makes my heart race and my blood pressure shoots up, making me dizzy. I walk to the door slowly, holding my arms wide to keep my balance.
Hand on the handle I hesitate, unwilling to face one of my neighbors. I wasn’t being loud was I? I’ve not gotten along with any of them since my return from Scotland. My nightmares haven’t made friends because the walls aren’t insulated in the slightest.
Swallowing down bile, I run my fingers through my hair and square my shoulders while the knocking repeats. Feeling halfway together, I open the door.
“Oh, Quinn,” Savannah says, pushing into the room and all but bowling me over.
“Uh, hi,” I say, closing the door behind her, but not before I notice the dirty look from Lisa who lives across the hall. I force a smile before the door shuts her out.
When I turn around, Savannah is trembling, her eyes and face are puffy, and her cheeks are flushed. She shakes her head side to side while her hands twitch.
“Savannah, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve…” She chokes, shakes her head while covering her mouth with a hand, then tries again. “I’m so… I’m screwed.”
A thousand terrible possibilities flash through my thoughts in an instant. I open my mouth to ask why, to say something clever, but I’ve got nothing, so I shut my mouth and wait for her to explain. Tears stream down her face, and she bows her head, so I do the only thing a best friend can or should at a time like this. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight while she soaks my shoulder.
I make comforting noises and hold her until she seems to have cried herself out. When she has she straightens, dries her eyes on a sleeve, then stares continuing to look stricken. She shakes her head, purses her lips, then shrugs.
“What happened?”
“You had Professor Gatin’s class, right?”
“God, yeah,” I say.
“You know how hard he is, how hard to follow.”
“He’s the worst. I swear that’s a weeding out class,” I say. “Is he still writing on the chalkboard with his right hand, nose two inches from the board, while—”
“Erasing with his left?” she says at the same time I do and we both laugh, though hers is halfhearted. “Yeah. Yeah he is.”
“Why are you worried about him? Everyone knows he’s bonkers. No one passes his class.”
