Page 38 of Ashen Souls

“That’s not how college works.” I shuffled toward the kitchen and poured myself a glass of tap water, draining it in one long swallow. “Besides, I need normal again. Campus. Routine. Something that isn’t my parents hovering over me or you stealing my half of the blanket.”

One of her eyes cracked open. “So,” she mumbled, “any midnight visits from Mr. Tall, Dark, and Imaginary?”

“No.”

“Good.” She stretched slowly, catlike. “Means your brain stopped serving you supernatural porn.”

I snorted. “Guess the show got canceled.”

“Mm.” She seemed satisfied with that answer and rolled over again. “Also, did you hear? The mythology prof went on sudden sabbatical. And guess who's teaching us now?”

“Who?”

“Only the sexiest professor on campus. Ethan Hale.”

“How do you even know he’s sexy? You’ve never seen him.”

“I saw him once.” Harper finally opened her eyes to look at me. “And he is seriously hot. Even if he is a sadist who rescheduled our lectures for Monday and Tuesday back-to-back.”

“You think everyone’s hot.”

“Two things can be true.” She pushed herself up on one elbow. “You’re going to class, right? Not sneaking off to nap in the library stacks like a stressed-out ghost?”

“I’m going.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you there.” She flopped back down onto the cushions. “And if Mr. Mythology is as hot as I remember, we can just sit back and enjoy the view.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s what my last three situationships said,” she replied. “Now go get ready, tragic heroine. Quietly. I’m planning to continue my favorite activity: sleeping until the absolute last minute.”

“Goodbye, Harper.” I tossed a throw pillow at her on my way toward the bathroom.

I didn’t linger in front of the bathroom mirror. There was nothing profound to see anyway. Just a tired college student with sleep-flattened hair and dry lips.

I focused on the mechanical routine of getting ready. The hot shower. Faded jeans. A soft sweater that smelled faintly of lavender detergent. As I forced my arms through the sleeves, the rough knit scraped my left wrist. I winced and carefully tugged the sleeve down, hiding the burn from the morning light.

I moved through the rest of the apartment on autopilot. Mug, kettle, the spoon clinking inside the mug. Each small, familiar sound helped quiet the noise in my head.

At the door, I paused, listening to the untroubled rhythm of Harper breathing into the pillows. Keys in hand, bag slung over my shoulder.

I stepped outside and let the door click shut behind me.

The tram would have been faster.

But I wanted to walk.

I needed the uneven sidewalk beneath my boots. The air that didn’t carry the sterile bite of antiseptic or the clinging residue of my mother’s pity. Vesbridge moved around me in its usual rhythm. Cyclists swerved through traffic. A barista shoved metal chairs across the concrete with a screech that set my teeth on edge. A couple argued in low whispers at a crosswalk.

Ordinary life.

God, I’d missed this.

With every block, the tense coil in my spine began to unwind. My thoughts wandered toward everyday things: class schedules, looming deadlines, the mild panic of returning to campus after two weeks away.

And then, of course, my left wrist gave a faint throb.

I grabbed the cuff of my sweater and yanked it down even tighter over my hand.