Page 118 of Claiming Pretty

Across from us, Ciaran paced, a journal in his hand, though it was clear he wasn’t reading a single word.

Ciaran’s agitation radiated off him like heat. His fist clenched and unclenched around the fragile binding, his knuckles whitening as his jaw tightened.

Every few seconds, he’d exhale sharply, mutter a curse under his breath, and toss a glance our way, as if expecting us to have figured it all out already.

“Anything?” he snapped, breaking the silence.

“Not yet.” Ty didn’t even look up, his tone maddeningly calm as he skimmed through page after page.

Ciaran growled, slamming his book shut. “We’re wasting time. What if it’s simpler than all this? ‘Chase the raven’—maybe it means we just need to kill a raven or something.”

Ty finally looked up, his expression as dry as his tone. “That’s too literal and it’s not how riddles work, Ciaran.”

The tension crackled between them, sharp and dangerous.

Ciaran’s shoulders tensed, his fists tightening as if he was one step away from throwing the journal. “You don’t know that. You’re not the only one with ideas here.”

“And you’re not the only one who cares,” Ty shot back, his voice still quiet but carrying an edge.

“Stop.” My voice cut through the rising heat. “We don’t have time for this. Just… focus, okay? Every second we waste arguing is a second closer to them winning.”

Ciaran grumbled something under his breath but sat down, flipping the journal open again, though his hands shook as he turned the pages.

I returned to the journal in my lap.

The professor’s handwriting was neat, precise, almost clinical, which somehow made the words more horrifying. He wrote about his experiments with an almost childlike excitement, detailing the effects of his latest creations like a proud artist discussing his masterpiece.

At the edge of my consciousness, Ty began muttering in Irish. But one word made my ears prick. “…grianstad…”

Its meaning buzzed in my mind like static.

“What did you just say?” I asked, my focus shifting to him.

Ty blinked, his gaze sharpening as he looked at me. “Grianstad. It means ‘sun stands still’ in Irish.”

“But it also means solstice,” I said, the word unlocking a memory. My heart gave a small leap as a connection began to form. “Wait. During orientation, didn’t Lisa say something about the winter solstice?”

Ty nodded. “Yeah, she wouldn’t stop talking about Darkmoor’s history. I remember her saying something about a building on campus aligned with the winter solstice.”

A lightbulb flickered on in my brain.

“Darkmoor is actually a really cool old place.” Lisa’s voice carried as she followed Ty down the hall. “We even have a legit passagetomb on the grounds aligned with the winter solstice or wintergrianstad, if you’re up on your Irish.”

I stood up so quickly that my chair clattered to the floor behind me. I began frantically searching through the mess of papers we’d accumulated at the end of the dining room table. I found what I was looking for at the very bottom. Forgotten from weeks and weeks ago, the Darkmoor new student orientation welcome packet that Lisa had brought for Ciaran and Ty at the very start of term.

I slammed it on the table between them, opened to a page.

Among other pictures of various interesting or historical spots around campus was a photo of an ancient stone passagetomb, a grassy mound rising up out of the forest, the stone entrance partially hidden by thick vines of morning glory.

Any other spot like this, on any other college campus would be ripe for late-night hookups, Adderall drug deals, and beer bottle smashing. But no one went there. I don’t remember ever being told it was off-limits. But we all seemed to know to stay away.

I pointed to the passagetomb, the very one I’d run past when they had chased me through Darkmoor forest.

“The passagetomb,” I said, my voice rising with excitement.

Ty’s eyes lit up, and for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to lift.

“Right,” he said. “Across the dark moors to where the winter sun stands still—it has to mean the Darkmoor passagetomb.”

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