Page 60 of Strange Familiars
My chest feels tight. “Like…a familiar?”
“No,” Dr.Chapman says. “A human.”
My mind churns. I almost stumble, unsteady on my pencil-thin heels. I grab Heli’s arm to regain my balance, my eyes wide.
Is this what the saboteur is doing? Usingpeopleas tethers to holdopen the portals? Is that why people have died—they can’t deal with the level of magic required to hold open the tears?
I try to swallow around the blocked feeling in my throat.
I must look slightly unhinged, because Heli’s mother gives me a look of concern. “Gwen, are you quite well? Do you feel ill? I can check you over if you like—”
“No, thank you,” I say quickly. “It’s…thanks very much, Dr.Chapman. I really appreciate your help.”
I drag Heloise away from her mother, who goes to rejoin her group. Heli is confused. I’ll need to explain everything to her. But first I need to tell someone. Not Harrisford, of course—since he seems to have completely disappeared (and is also a raging arsehole).
So I text Conall instead, on my strap.Conall, I tap out, while Heloise frowns beside me.I think I know what the tethers are…And it’s even worse than we imagined.
26
Harrisford
I escape into the men’s lavatory, tearing my mask off so roughly that the ribbon breaks with a snap. My pulse is galloping at the speed of a unicorn, and my skin—everywhere—is burning up.
It takes me two tries to successfully push on the tap, lean over it, and douse my face with water. Cupping my hands, I gulp some down, washing away the lingering tastes of champagne and Gwendolynne’s lips.
Then, bracing both hands on the counter, I let the droplets stream down my face and plink dramatically into the sink.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Briggs?” I stare at myself in the mirror. My face is all flushed and mottled. I don’t know why I feel so goddamned…ill. Am I coming down with a virus or something?
Deep down, I’m quite certain I know the answer, and the answer is Gwendolynne Chan. I can’t remember the last time a woman had this much of an effect on me. I can’t rememberanytime a woman had this much of an effect on me. Anytime I look at her, draw near her, or touch her, I go completely to pieces—as though my body is just a disparate cluster of cells held together by lust and longing.
At least now, being away from her, I’m starting to regain mybearings. I clutch at my chest, waiting until my heartbeat slows to an almost normal level. Then, turning toward the row of urinals behind me, I take a piss, wash my hands, and carefully adjust my bow tie.
My mask is the last thing I tackle. The black velvet ribbon is broken, but there’s enough slack that I can re-knot it—I guess those knot-tying workshops in third year were handy for more than just restraint of animals.
Fixing it back on my face, I take a deep, calming breath, trying to settle my nervous system. I need to find Gwendolynne. It’s incumbent on me to apologize for running out on her like that. My mind flicks back to the way she looked, clinging to my shoulders, her face all flushed and lovely. The curves of her body against mine. The feeling of her mouth as it moved—so soft and sweet—when I finally mustered the courage to kiss her.
I wanted to bite those plum-stained lips. I want to bite her elsewhere, everywhere. Something about her is bringing out my primal, animalistic side. After tonight, I doubt I can maintain my resolve to keep away from her much longer.
I let out a sigh. Of course my timing was, as usual, terrible. Have I blown it? Hopefully not—hopefully all I need to do is explain that I’d suddenly needed the bathroom, and we can pick up where we left off.
From back in my dorm room, Pudding sends her sympathies down our bond.Don’t worry, Harrisford, she says.Gwendolynne has a kind heart. She’ll forgive you.
Sure, she’s kind and forgiving—to everyone except me. And honestly? I probably deserve her derision. Regardless, I square my shoulders, bracing myself as though I’m a soldier heading into battle. This isn’t war, of course, but it’s possibly just as bad, or worse. I’m going to have to go out there, push through the crowds, and confront a pissed-off Gwendolynne Chan.
But just as I leave the bathroom, a familiar figure steps into my line of sight. He is tall and rakish, with a mop of thinning gray hair above a full-face mask. He has his arm snaked around the waist of a platinum-blond woman. She’s laughing, and she, too, is masked. But even with her face obscured I can still tell she is definitelynotMrs.Mason-Price.
“Harrisford,” Nathaniel Price says, letting go of his companion to shake my hand. “It’s good to see you, son.”
Since Mr.Price is my father’s boss, I can’t very well turn down his offer to join him for a smoke on the upper level. We trudge up the steps, past Darwin’s statue, the raucousness becoming more muffled as we climb up and away from the party. The entire time, Nathaniel keeps his hand on my shoulder like a conqueror staking his claim.
“How’s your father?” he says, when we finally reach the top. After groping around his chest pocket, he draws out a cigar.
We’re on one of Hintze Hall’s famous internal balconies, overlooking the dance floor. It’s dark up here—a stark contrast to the lights and music that relentlessly pulsate below.
“Still in a coma,” I say, staring at Nathaniel as he flicks a magic-fueled lighter and lights the end. Is it even permitted to smoke in here? I think the answer is no, butnois not a word that Nathaniel bothers to pay much mind to.
“Pity,” Nathaniel says, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
