Page 42 of Tempest

“I think the kitchen’s through here,” I hear Clover say. She keeps my hand in hers as she yells over the music and drags me through the gyrating crowd toward the back of the house.

We’re clearly the best dressed here. Or, we’ve arrived too late to see everyone’s costumes how they were supposed to be seen. Unbuttoned shirts, wrinkled lace dresses falling off shoulders, and pretend witches screeching and smacking at guys who pretend to throw them into the fireplace.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” I watch in horror as a girl’s ruffle skirt nearly goes up in flames.

Clover pays it little mind. “Just because we go to school with a bunch of rich kids doesn’t mean we go to school with a bunch of smart kids. There we are!” Clover points at a large bar table in the center of the kitchen, as thick as a butcher’s block. Rows of liquor and beer bottles fill its space. Clover peruses quickly, finding two unopened cans of Coke. “I’m parched.”

I accept the can, drinking along with Clover while I peruse the space.

She seems to read my thoughts. “We won’t stay long. I just figured we haven’t participated in college life much, and part of me was curious about what it’d be like.”

“How is it measuring up?”

“I think I’d be happier curled up in our common room reading tarot cards.”

Me too, but I don’t voice it. I’d wanted to enroll in college to break out of isolation and forge my own path, no bodyguards, no parents, just me, entering society too old and too innocent. If I gave into Clover’s subtle invitation to leave now, then I can basically seal my fate for the rest of my undergrad. I’m supposed to be enjoying the experience, making friends other than Clover, and pretending like I belong. I need to make that happen.

“C’mon.” I steer Clover out of our convenient hiding spot in the kitchen. “Why don’t we keep exploring.”

She shrugs. “If you say so. In my opinion, the fun part of getting ready is over.”

“Agreed, but we can’t live out the semester in the common room with a bunch of old books.”

“Why not? I bet they have more interesting stories than…” Clover points her chin at a guy pounding his chest with a t-shirt reading Witch, please while his pilgrim-costumed friend funnels vodka into him. “… whatever that is.”

“True enough, but—” I pause. Since when did I become the positive one in our relationship? My therapist would be proud. If it weren’t for the screams closing in on me, becoming less jovial and more sinister the longer I linger, and the smell of sweat, alcoholic fumes, and too much perfume invading my nose. “You know what? Sure. We came. We saw. Let’s go.”

“Yes.” Clover pumps the air. “I’m pretty sure we came from that way.”

The instant she points, someone booms over the speakers, “Listen up, undergrads and overachievers! The burning ritual is about to begin! Follow me if you’re desperate for some good luck for your first year at TFU. If you’d rather play the odds without the dead witches on your side, then good luck to you.”

A smattering of applause breaks out, with a few people breaking off from their groups and following the boy with the microphone out the back door. “What’s he talking about?”

Clover makes an annoyed sound under her breath. “A blasphemy of witchcraft. Titan Falls seniors and post-grads initiate freshman by—you know what? My explaining it isn’t nearly as appalling as seeing it for yourself. Come on.”

She pulls at my elbow, merging us into the line of undergrads leaving Meat House. “I don’t need to see it. I don’t even believe in this stuff. I thought you wanted to go home.”

Clover shakes her head. “The more I think about this, the better it is for me to be there, so I can cleanse the area and close the circle so malevolent spirits aren’t stuck here.”

“I’m sorry. Huh?” But I allow Clover to lead me into the woods. Makeshift torches light a well-trodden dirt path. They’re not strong enough to break through the black of the forest behind them. “Are you going to make me regret leaving my private facility?”

Clover responds with a thin-lipped smile. “Unlike these heathens, I respect the witches of the 1700s. They practiced paganism and had gentle spiritual practices and didn’t deserve to die. Now these assholes want to commune with them as some kind of sick entertainment.”

I eye the trees surrounding us as they become more untended and wild the deeper we stumble. “Where are we going?”

“It’s not obvious? We’re headed to where the Andertons died.”

My heels drag into the dirt, forcing Clover to slow. “Why the fuck would I want to go there?”

“Excellent question. I’ll take an answer from either of you two morons.”

I come to a complete standstill at Tempest’s voice, like melted dark chocolate sliding down his throat.

Clover releases me, crossing her arms and grumbling under her breath, “I swear he’s inserted a tracking device under my skin.”

“No need, sister.” Tempest steps through the underbrush and directly into our path. “Whenever I wonder where you are, all I have to ask myself is, where is the witches and wizards pretend-play happening? And there you are.”

“Have you added original and creative to your sociopaths-seeking-sociopaths app yet? Because I really think you should.”

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