Page 27 of Tempest

Ardyn

My violent ghostsslink back into their shadowy graves when classes begin.

Freshman orientation week goes by easier with Clover by my side. I’m both relieved and nostalgic at how seamlessly she fits next to me regardless of the time we spent apart. There remains a Mila-sized gap between us, but we fill it with quiet evenings in the common room and midnight tarot readings—between my nightmares where Mila hovers at the foot of my bed with a broken neck and the driver, Max Stelton, pleads to me with bulging eyes—when the rest of the dorm is sleeping or out partying. Neither of us drinks much. At least, not anymore. It also comes as no surprise that we haven’t made any friends but each other.

The first Monday of classes is as sunny as the week proceeding it. It’d be hard to believe the university was founded under such darkness unless you’re someone like me who understands that the brighter it is, the longer it takes for the deadliest creatures to take their naps underground … gaining their strength.

TFU’s quad is crowded with students hurrying along the sidewalks or reclining against the thick oaks in the center, stretching their legs on top of freshly mowed grass. Our modern wear of button-downs, jeans, and skirts clashes with the centuries-old stonework buildings, but nothing is as ancient as the tree-topped hills with skyscraper-sized evergreens bowing under the wind, their spiked branches whispering to their neighbors.

The STEM building is across the quad and closest to the lake. Yes, lake. Flat, placid, and as black as onyx. There are no waterfalls in Titan Falls. Perhaps Sarah Anderton named it thus to pique the interest of America’s nouveau riche—the business tycoons of the 19th century, searching for gold and progress as she lures their wives with her ancient apothecary.

I stroll through the thick mahogany doors with iron hinges bolted to the stone doorframe, taking my time admiring the exposed mixture of wood and brick halls and thick maroon carpeting. Students flow by like I’m nothing more than a rock in their babbling brook, uncaring of their surroundings or the privilege they have in moving from place to place without being watched.

They don’t know what it’s like to be swallowed by white, covered in it, ingesting it in the form of pills, staring at its walls, and sleeping under its bleached cotton.

After that kind of experience, the color black doesn’t seem so bad and scary at all.

My arms swing out, testing the roominess and freedom to twirl if I wanted to. I wouldn’t care if I knocked a few others out—I’m walking untethered. I could run, skip, do cartwheels, and no one would put me in a straightjacket.

As an irresistible grin crosses my face, I get a few strange looks and judgment-filled eyes. Word’s spread about my “delicate state,” in thanks, no doubt, to Tempest. I meet every open study with a flat-eyed gaze, daring them to say something. None do. They all slither away and go back to the safety of their newfound friends.

I wish Clover were with me, but her classes are mainly in the literature and classics building. Her mention of occult studies interested me, so I dropped calculus and joined hers last minute, but other than that, we have completely different schedules. I’m staying within my interest in art history, clinging to my dreams of becoming an art restoration or museum specialist. Father has long since given up on my capacity to rule his empire, and while it brought Mother to tears, she also understood that I was much too fragile to hold such a heavy title.

I’m not fragile. Just disinterested. Give me old artifacts over cutthroat business associates for company any day.

What amazes me is that even after my kidnapping, they thought they still had a chance to mold me into what they wanted. But add a dash of a deadly car accident, and I was a lost cause. My parents were furious that I snuck out, relieved I survived, and determined to put my shattered mind back together. Barry was fired, and my unreliable mental state got me committed. When I was released (against medical advice), I swore to my father I was ready to attend a small university, sequestered deep in the Appalachians where even his most notorious enemies wouldn’t bother to get me. My parents allowed me to go so long as I never left campus. I’m sure they’ve hired security around somewhere, discreet enough so as not to “upset” me.

I do wonder about Barry. I hope he and his son are doing all right.

My business class is at the end of a long hallway, the door open and inviting. Classes at TFU are deliberately small, held around a long, rectangular formal dining table or a circle of cushioned chairs like we’re just having a chat in a library. In this classroom, two walls are lined from ceiling to floor with shelving that holds row upon row of faded leather spines. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a ton of first editions in here. My fingers itch to check.

I control myself and go to one of the last available seats at the dark wood table, pulling out my chair. I’m between a girl with a messy ponytail and glasses and a guy with cropped hair and a crooked nose. As I sit, I wonder how they’d describe my physical appearance. Dishwater blond? Red-rimmed eyes? Vampire skin that starts cooking under the sun?

As the girl watches my descent into the chair with a curled lip, I’m tempted to murmur, I don’t burn, I sparkle, bitch, but keep my mouth clamped shut. I’ve already made it clear I’m not making friends. I don’t need my mother descending like a concerned vulture, pecking at anyone’s innards for daring to ostracize me.

My back faces the door, so I don’t see the last person to come in. They shut it with a resounding click, so I assume it’s the professor.

The person strides behind me, the disturbance in the air playing with my loose strands. Cinnamon, cloves, and a sharp pine scent lingers in my nose, so intoxicating that at first, I don’t wonder why it’s so familiar.

A stack of books slams at the head of the table, gluing me to the back of my chair and snapping my chin up.

“This is your required reading, kids. Professor Rossi doesn’t play. If the size of these textbooks makes you want to piss your pants, now’s your chance to drop out of Titan Falls and run home with skid marks—”

Tempest cuts off abruptly when he meets my eyes.

My mouth goes dry.

A mere stare from Tempest Callahan sucks all the energy out of the room, tunneling it into one source: me. I can’t look away, but I’ll burn alive if I don’t.

He blinks, and his hold breaks.

My chest collapses on an exhale.

“As I was saying,” Tempest continues to the rest of the class, “Professor Rossi expects the first ten chapters to be read by next week. That information is essential for your upcoming project.”

Tempest doesn’t preface project with group, but I hear it nonetheless. I want to shrink in my seat at the thought. A mere week at TFU, and I’m as much an outcast as the one year I spent in high school. Tempest’s efforts weren’t even all that much—an offhand comment here, a nod of confirmation there, and I was turned into the university’s asylum girl, a person whose brain fell apart when she let her best friend die and almost killed his sister, too.

“Um, excuse me?” A dark-haired girl across the table raises her hand. She bites her lip under Tempest’s attention, her fingers trembling ever so slightly when he answers with a curt, “Yes?”

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