Page 62 of Tempest

Ardyn

Clover decidesto argue the merits of Mariana’s points all the way home.

“It’s like she read right into you. I’ve always wanted to learn how to do psychic readings,” she says as we enter the university’s gates. “Maybe we should hold a sèance at the cottage. With enough cajoling on my part, Tempest’ll let us use his room.”

“God, no.” It takes a metric ton of mental weight to prevent myself from covering my ears. “For so many reasons, no.”

“Okay, so we won’t contact Sarah. What about her daughter, though? Aren’t you intrigued that her name has been erased from history?”

An angry thought pops into my head. Next, you’ll be asking me to use a Ouija board to contact Mila.

I’d never hurt her like that and say it out loud. Instead, I argue, “Mariana probably recognized us from the news. Our families don’t exactly stay out of the press.” I focus on picking my cuticles. “God knows they like to point out that my kidnappers have been paroled every anniversary of my abduction.”

Clover sucks in a breath. I never talk about the two weeks I spent locked up, unable to speak for months after the ransom was paid and the exchange was made. My therapists practically had to pry my mouth open with pliers to get me to talk about when Mila was killed, too.

“All Mariana did was take advantage of open information about me and refer to it as ‘darkness.’ No kidding.”

“Forgive me for saying this, but your reaction in store after she spoke to you … what was that about?”

A drop of blood beads at the corner of my thumbnail. I curl my finger to stop it from picking further. “I thought I saw something. It had nothing to do with her.”

“What did you see?”

Out of everyone in my life, I should be able to confess the truth to Clover. She wouldn’t judge or consider calling my parents. She’s the only safe person I have left. “I saw a face. In a ski mask.”

“Seriously?”

“Behind that beaded curtain thing. It’s nothing—probably a play of shadows. I’ve already dismissed it.”

Clover slides her gaze over to mine before going back to the road. “I agree it probably wasn’t real.”

My stomach sinks at her ready acceptance of my hallucination. Just Ardy being Ardy, who probably needs her meds increased.

“But Ardyn, that’s where she said the occult books were. If any angry spirits would exist, that’s where they’d be. You probably saw a manifestation of evil in the shape it wanted you to see it as. Your greatest fear. Don’t you see? An exorcism is needed.”

I can’t help it. I scoff, then relax my features and scold myself to listen to her. Clover deals with my shit without complaint.

“You’ve tried everything else, haven’t you? Why don’t you humor me and let me do what I’m good at to help you? All you’ll lose is time, and hey, maybe you’ll even feel better after a good cleanse.”

I try to see my friend’s side of things, I really do. This is how Clover has decided to deal with Mila’s death through the mystical and divine. I don’t blame her since my coping skills aren’t exactly stellar, but sometimes Clover gets ahead of herself. I’m reluctant to shout, I’ve had enough dark rooms and terrifying encounters, thank you very much, which would shut her up in a second. But then she’d feel terrible, and I’d feel bad and we’d both be awkward with each other until one of us says something stupid again.

It’s an unnecessary and predictable segue that I don’t need to make us take, so I let Clover ramble on about the benefits of spirit summoning until we part ways at our respective classrooms and I don’t see her until the evening.

She tries to coax me into a study session with a group she’s met in her literature class, but I decline, preferring to spend my night in the common room skimming through one of the many thick hardbacks it has on its bookshelf.

Camden House empties early, the girls choosing parties or late night study sessions at the library rather than staying inside on a gorgeous, cool night. I’m elated—it means I have the common room to myself when I descend the circular staircase and walk into the carpeted interior with lines of books and old wingback chairs for company.

To add to my preferred atmosphere, I light a fire and drag a chair closer to the golden flames. It’s stunning how TFU allows working fireplaces despite the very real correlation between drunk people and fire hazards, but I have to assume it’s the outrageous tuition proving its worth.

I’m happy for the lax rule because I get to hear the cracks and pops of a warm fire while curling up on a chair in my favorite leggings and sweatshirt, reading an early copy of Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff kept me company for years when I didn’t have friends and the chances of finding a boyfriend were zero. He’ll be fine company tonight.

Half an hour into my re-read, I find my eyes dragging across the page until my attention focuses more on the fire than staying in Yorkshire. Mariana’s inquisitive gaze seemed to assess my skeleton more than my skin.

Setting the book down, I dig through my hoodie’s front pocket and pull out the three stones. Amethyst, yellow jasper, and black tourmaline. Purple, yellow, black.

I wonder if Mariana or Clover thought to question giving me the exact colors of a bruise.

Using the chair’s arm, I lay them out in a perfect row, suspended for a moment within the subtle glitter of flame against crystal. They’re beautiful. Mesmerizing. But rocks can’t protect me.

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