Page 71 of Every Shade of Shadow

Ava looks to her, eyes weaponized.

“Oh, come on,” says Lily, “we’re all friends. I’m sure Ana would love to know why you’re the Academy black sheep.”

“I doubt it,” Ava says.

“Please,” I tell her. “I’m sadly short of an interesting backstory.”

Ava gives a huff and folds her arms in front of herself, a bird squawking through the canopy above. “You might say the family name is tainted.”

“How so, Ava?” Lily presses, which earns her another Glare of Death.

“There were members of my family that had connections to the Umbral Brotherhood.”

“Really?’ I blurt this out not because I’m shocked, but because I’m genuinely interested.”

“My mother and father, to be precise, who were not making pornos,” a glance to Lily, “but rather running around the English countryside involving themselves in all manner of criminal enterprises.”

“Such as?’ Lily teases.

Another huff. “The transportation of certain magical artifacts that may or may not have gone missing from various historical institutions.”

“Sounds badass,” I offer.

“Not when the only way you could see your parents growing up was behind bars and the aunt you were forced to live with was awfully fond of corporal punishment.”

“Which is why Ava loves it in the ass so much,” Lily adds.

Ava gives her the finger. “But I suppose this infamy worked in my favor, because I’m here, aren’t I?” She looks to me. “And you, Ana, since we’re sharing and all.”

I shrug. “There’s not much to tell. You already know about my grandmother, my shitty life in New York. I didn’t tell you I was attending an art school, did I?

“Art school?” Ava says. “How quaint.”

“You’re arty?” Lily asks.

I give a short laugh. “Apparently not, but it seemed kind of romantic, I guess. I thought I could fumble my way to a semblance of creativity, find my inner voice, but what do you know, I don’t have one.

“What’s worse is that my grandmother mortgaged her apartment to send me to said art school. She told me she had the money already, so imagine my surprise when default notices started showing up in the mail after she died.”

“Shit,” says Lily.

I nod. “Yeah.”

I expect a flood of follow-up questions, but both of them remain quiet, the conversation returning to more menial matters as we work through the forest.

A half hour later, we come to a crossroad, a crude wooden sign reading ‘Adams’ pointing to the left.

“What’s to the right?” I ask.

They both laugh.

“You don’t want to know,” trills Ava.

Five minutes later we arrive at the village of Adams, which for all intents and purposes looks like it was pulled right off an English country postcard. There’s a main street filled with quaint stone buildings and a low-lying mist that seems to give the impression the village is floating.

I thought carriages were obsolete, but no. One’s right there being pulled by two dirt-brown horses, their clip-clopping audible over the noise of ambient chatter from fellow students who have also made the journey out today.

We walk along the main street, and I’m struck by how relaxed everyone is. No one’s striding along the sidewalk checking their watch or shouting at their cell. Instead, three men who I presume to be locals are gathered around a light pole, chuckling lightly over village gossip.

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