Page 5 of Blood Moon
He winked at me on his way out, and I flung myself on the bed, the springs bouncing.
While I stared at the speckled ceiling, I thought about the dream again, how the ferocious beast stood over me as it tore into my skin. Then I thought about Rena, the act of her leaving me behind, how it calloused me.
And if I had to choose between the monster and my mother, I’d choose the monster every single time.
CHAPTER3
Imperialism was her greatest weapon, and I eagerly fell to my knees.
For her, I’d kiss the dirt.
Article II, Lost Letters from Aadan the First
The sun was setting, but I could already see the moon clipping though the clouds. It brought a breeze that momentarily broke the summer heat and cooled my face as I walked.
Groups of students piled on the sidewalk outside of the dorms, heading toward Robertson Hall for the kickoff of new student orientation.
I walked with Stevie McClure, my roommate. She was much more beautiful than I’d imagined she’d be. There was a poise to her that was marvelous. She was tall with beautiful oak-brown skin. Her thick lashes protected a set of brown eyes. Beneath that were a rounded nose and full lips.
“I think Ronnie might have a thing for you,” Em said to Abi as we turned a corner. They were both on the dance team with Stevie and shared a room on the same hall as us. From the looks of it, the three of them seemed quite familiar with each other, comfortable.
Abi swatted at something in the air, a sneer almost forming on her lips. “Fucking bugs.” Her nose crinkled, and she pushed her hair back. It was long and black, resting past her hips, swaying each time she took a step. It was a wonder it was still straight amid the rising humidity that came with August nights.
“I asked her already,” Abi said, and Em tilted her head in amusement, her curls springing. “She just thinks I’m pretty. It’s why she’s always staring.” And pretty, Abi was. She was shorter than me, with an olive complexion and prominent curves. In the evening sun, her skin glowed, and she embodied the confidence of a firecracker that was set to go off at any moment.
Looking at Em, she was gorgeous, too. Her tawny brown skin was similar to my own. She had long limbs and tightly coiled hair. There was something about her beauty that reminded me of my mother’s. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, her posture impeccably stacked over her spine. Perhaps it was the gold flecks in her dark brown eyes, or perhaps it was that she seemed too flawless, almost as if a beauty filter masked her true identity.
“Impressive,” Em responded, and Stevie and I giggled.
Abi smirked. “Life’s too short to worry about the mundane.”
That was something we all seemed to agree with, nodding our heads in silence as we carried along.
Robertson Hall shared the same refined limestone exterior as the other academic buildings on campus, but the interior almost took my breath away. Large windows lined the walls, and the sunlight tinted the floors a shade of gold. The walls stretched high above us, curving into the ceiling where the echoes of our voices rose. Everywhere I looked, there was something astonishing: exquisite columns, portraits of important people, and long arched halls that branched off into partial shadows.
Through a set of wide wooden doors was a grand performance hall. It was set up like a theater. Lines and lines of black chairs faced a large stage, and clusters of people made their way into them.
I followed my new friends down a tight row, scooting alongside until there was a halt, causing me to stumble into Em.
On the other side of the aisle was a group of guys. All of them appeared similar in some way—athletic, boisterous, an ego that came with years and years of compliments—but it was their matching shirts that informed me who they were. Football players. Because …of course.
I stifled a scoff, a smirk sliding into place as I realized they were holding their hands out for high fives. I told myself to go along with the charade, to bekind, to open myself up to new experiences. This was me making friends—something I needed.
All was fine until I got to the last hand.
A boy gleamed at me, slow and measured. Dimples pierced his brown cheeks, revealing the kind of smile time could fold for. A smile that conveyed I knew this person.
Curly hair flopped around his face and fell like corkscrews. A set of heterochromatic eyes lured me in, inviting me to linger. One amber brown, the other green.
“Hi,” he said, and it was his voice that brought the memories … the laughter … the short adventure we’d spent together. It was Seven.
There was a blink, and then he pointed at me, tilting his head the same time I did. “Mirabella?”
“Seven?”
He leaned back, held a hand to his face in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?” I looked around. “I’m here because I belong here. What areyoudoing here?”
