Shades of Darkness (10 page)

At least, until a shadow dipped down from one of the streetlamps, flashing obsidian in the pool of light before vanishing into the forest beyond. Too big to be a crow.

“Was that a raven?” Ethan asked.

I just nodded, something from my dreams clawing into consciousness, dragging shards of my past with it.
It was just a bird,
I tried to convince myself.

It didn't work.

•  •  •

Ethan and I ate dinner with Jane and Elisa and Jane's roommate, Cassie. Oliver had already vanished to get ready for the concert and Chris was nowhere to be seen. I tuned out most of the conversation. For the life of me, I couldn't get the damned raven out of my mind. Just thinking of it made me feel colder than the snow ever could.
Black on white, ink on concrete, blood on snow. . . .

I couldn't shake the mantra. Nor could I forget the images it conjured.

When we finally left the cafeteria and headed to the Writers' House for hot cocoa and Chris, I felt like my brain was about to melt. Thinking of the boy just made it worse.
You aren't falling for him and he isn't falling for you, okay? It's just a little boredom crush. You're both in your senior year and getting cabin fever. It will all be over soon.
The trouble was, I couldn't tell if I was actually happy about that fact, which didn't make any sense. Romance wasn't in my cards—quite literally—and I wasn't about to entertain the notion otherwise. Brad had pretty much killed any notion of being in love again.

So why did I think of him every time I looked at Chris?

“You okay?” Ethan asked as we trudged up the drive. The Writers' House was at the far end of campus, peacefully removed from any and all distractions. An oasis of sorts. It also meant getting there in the winter was an ordeal. Well, if you could call walking two blocks an ordeal, which we often did seeing as everything else was in a few-hundred-foot radius.

“Just distracted,” I said. Which was true, for the most part. I just didn't want to tell him
why
. And I probably, hopefully, never would.

He grunted, but didn't press further, which was probably why we got along so well. He knew when to back off and let my mind ruminate. Perk of being around artists: They understood silence.

A few minutes later we approached the wraparound patio of the House. All the buildings on campus looked like lodges, but this one exemplified the architecture. It was two stories tall, overlooking a field that, when not covered in two feet of snow, was used for soccer and Frisbee games. It looked like an alpine ski lodge, with a sharp A-frame roof and raw log walls and picture windows on every side. There was even a small second-story patio overlooking the road, where Ethan and I would perch (no matter the season) to watch the passersby in secrecy.

Even though we weren't in the creative writing department, the House had become a second home on campus. And since it was fairly removed from the hub, it was usually empty. Judging from the view from out here, we were in luck once more.

The interior was seriously like what I wanted my future house to be, except maybe with less angsty teenage writers hanging about. A huge fireplace crackled on the far side of the open atrium; it was two levels, but the second story balcony encircled the room, all open and airy and allowing writers to look over the wooden banister and throw folded haikus at the kids below. Or whatever writers did here. A few kids were settled on the overstuffed sofas by the fire, deep in their books or journals. Even from here I could feel the literary gears turning. There was a warmth that wasn't in any other building on campus—this place felt lived-in, infused with words and stories.

I slid out of my coat and wandered to the open-floorplan kitchen to the left of the foyer. The place was stocked with the necessities of literature: a water kettle, a microwave, a coffee maker, and a plethora of teas and coffees and cocoas. I filled the kettle and set it to boil while Ethan rummaged in the cabinet for mugs and chocolate.

A part of me hoped Chris wouldn't show. Maybe he'd remember a ten-page essay due in the morning. Maybe he'd get eaten up by his own stomach butterflies and bail.

The kettle hadn't even begun to boil when those vain hopes were dashed at the sound of him opening the front door.

“Damn,” he said the moment he was inside, “it's freezing out there.”

“Kaira will warm you up,” Ethan said. He caught my glare. “With cocoa. You
do
like cocoa, right?”

“Obviously,” he replied, and sat down on one of the stools behind the bar.

“Milk or dark?”

“How is that even a question?” Chris scoffed. “Dark. I'm not five.”

He was wearing his duster and fedora again. I had to give it to the boy—for a straight guy, he knew how to dress. The coat fit him perfectly in the shoulders and was trim to the waist. Even the fedora, which I'd usually make fun of, accented the angles of his face and the color of his scruff. Maybe because his facial hair matched the brassy falcon feather poking up the side.

I dragged my eyes away from him and set about mixing the hot cocoa. I could feel him watching me, but thankfully, Chris didn't let the silence go on for too long.

“So, question time,” Chris said. I handed him a mug, which he took in both hands. He didn't look away from my eyes, however. “Why'd you send yourselves to the middle of the woods?”

“Well, I came here as a freshman,” Ethan said. “So it was partly me and partly my parents. I applied in photography and got in. Couldn't stand public school and I had a feeling I'd fit in even less once I came out.”

“You knew as a kid?” Chris asked.

“I've known for ages,” Ethan said. “Just never had a word for it until someone called me a faggot on the playground.” He winked and took a sip of his cocoa. “Kid was right. But hey, I'm here and he's back in suburbia. I think I'm winning.”

“What about you?” Chris asked. Again, those eyes, pinning me into place. I forced down the nerves and told my voice not to stammer.

“It's a long story,” I said. I could feel Ethan leaning in. I'd never told him this tale either. And I wasn't about to. “Basically, I didn't want to stay in public high anymore, so I sent myself here.”

“It's kind of funny, isn't it?” Chris asked, completely ignoring that I hadn't given him a real answer. “The fact that we really came here to escape the real world? It doesn't seem like anyone comes here just because they want to study art.”

“Of course not,” Ethan replied. “We're all running from something. Islington just gives us a place to produce the greatest alchemy.”

“Oh yeah?” Chris asked.

“He means turning pain into art,” I said. “Don't give him too much credit for his pretty words. It's still a cliché.”

“Truths usually are, just like the old ‘love finds you when you aren't looking for it' adage,” Ethan replied, and went back to sipping his drink. I wanted to slap him.

•  •  •

That night passed by in a blur. I managed to make Ethan sit between Chris and me at the concert, which I could tell unnerved Chris a little bit, but whatever; I wasn't about to give the impression that I was actually open to dating. After, we met with Oliver and snagged frozen yogurt at the Dark Note and walked in the woods while talking about art and music and what we were going to do after Islington. Oddly enough, college never came up in conversation—it was always the big plans, the dreams so lofty they seemed to rise from our lips in the cold night air to become apparitions, entities in and of themselves. I made Ethan walk me home. I didn't want Chris to think there was going to be a goodnight kiss.

Elisa and I stayed up a few hours after sign-in, chatting back and forth as we did our homework. For her, it meant reading Sylvia Plath and trying to emulate the style in a series of sonnets. For me, it meant beginning research for my folklore essay. Every now and again I'd make little notes in the margin of my book—not for the essay, but for my thesis. Those Norse had a lot of stuff to draw from. Trouble was, most of it was bloody, and I did
not
need my brain going in that direction tonight.

When my brain couldn't take any more talk of Eddas or the Futhark, I closed my book and glanced over to see Elisa already sound asleep on top of her bed, her poetry notebook open beside her and Sylvia Plath plastered over her face. I chuckled to myself and grabbed the book and notebook and slid them into her drawer.

“Night doofus,” I whispered to her, and turned off the light.

My hand brushed against something warm under my pillow when I curled up in bed.

Right. Mom's crystal. I'd spent the last few years of my life intentionally keeping my dreams in check. It had been working. For a time. But as I lay there in the dark, watching shadows of birds and branches flit past the window, memories of last night's dream inked into consciousness. My chest constricted at the sudden image of a raven penetrating my ribs, Munin's dead white eyes piercing my vision as Brad watched and laughed.

How long had it been since Munin had invaded my dreams? Rather, how long had it been since I remembered? If he was getting vocal again. . . .

“No,” I whispered into the darkness. “I'm not going back.”

I closed my eyes and curled into my comforter, clutched the warm stone tight in my fist. And while sleep slowly washed in, I prayed the raven and the ghost of my ex would stay far, far away.

•  •  •

The weekend was the usual Islington fare: lots of homework, socializing in brief spurts, and then panicking about the work you hadn't gotten done and going back to study. I seriously thought I was going to have a complex by the time I left this place; if I wasn't busy working on something, I was fighting off stomach ulcers from worrying I'd forgotten a Very Important Project. About the only perk to this high-level stress and creative output was the fact that I didn't have to interact with Chris. In fact, after the concert, I'd been doing my best to give him the cold shoulder. I felt bad about it, sure. He was a sweet guy and he deserved someone great. The trouble was, I couldn't be that “someone great,” and the sooner he realized it the happier he'd be. Thus, I'd kept my headphones on while working in the painting studio, even when he glanced over with a look that clearly said he wanted to talk. I preferred not to think of it as rude, but as
focused
. And, hell, if I'm being honest,
thoughtful
. He didn't want to get to know me. It would be better if he went for someone who was actually sweet and charming and emotionally available. Like Jane. He and Jane would be a very cute couple.

Long story short, by the time Monday night rolled around, Ethan and I needed out. And seeing as there weren't too many places to go around here—least of all on a Monday—we used our usual escape tactic. It was maybe seven, and we were sitting in the back corner of T'Chai Nanni surrounded by hipsters discussing Kierkegaard and Dostoevsky, or whatever hipsters discussed. Ethan and I were too deep into our work to really notice. Even with the tea—a simple peppermint this time—my stomach was in knots, and I couldn't tell if it was the stress of the work or the stress of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even though my dreams were blank, I still had a gnawing feeling that shit was about to get real. Too many memories of Brad drifting to the surface. Too many black birds waiting for me in the snow. I told myself over and over it was my tired, overactive imagination, that I was being ridiculous. So far, even drowning in work, I was unable to really convince myself of it.

I was just about to put academic work away to focus on sketches for my upcoming silversmithing project—anything to do with
chains
—when Ethan's phone buzzed on the table. He gave it a cursory glance and let it ring out.

That was the unspoken rule of fishing: Phones only told the time. Nothing more.

I don't know why it reminded me of the raven, as though the vibration on the table mirrored the guttural call that had been following me every time I left the dorm. My stomach clenched into a clove hitch.
Never ignore an omen. Never ignore an omen.
I sketched wedding rings joined by a thick iron chain. Work was the answer. It was always the answer.

When his phone rang again, I looked from the phone to Ethan, who was contorted back on the sofa with an arm behind his leg and his worn copy of
Great Expectations
held in one hand.

“You should probably answer that,” I said. I don't know why I said it; normally I'd recommend he turn it off. But I didn't think my stomach could take any more nervous twinges.

“I don't want to be rude.”

I didn't say anything, just gave him a look. He dog-eared his page and picked up the phone.

“Hey babe,” he said. “What's up?”

Ethan's brow furrowed. His next response was slow.

“Are you serious?”

My phone started to ring then, and I snatched it up without waiting for the second buzz. Unknown number, but Michigan area code.

“Hello?”

“Kaira?” The voice on the other end was familiar.

“Yeah.”

“This is Maria, your RA. Where are you right now?”

I told her. Ethan was still on the phone with Oliver, and he looked even worse. I heard him say, “Who?”

“We need you to come back to campus now. Please. Both of you.”

“What? What's going on?”

A long silence.

“Just come back please. And head straight to your dorm. We'll be making an announcement later.”

Maria hung up then, leaving me flabbergasted and staring at Ethan with my mouth open. He said good-bye to Oliver a moment later. He was pale. Paler than usual.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“They didn't tell you?”

“No. Just said to come home.”