Page 13 of Hallowed Bones

Elodie shoots me an amused glance before finishing her task and moving back into the room and toward her wardrobe. “Ask away.” She waves her hand in a gesture that I take to mean she’s ready for the interrogation. Not that I think of my questions as an interrogation, but I am curious about that man yesterday.

“Do you know a guy named Cameron Goode?”

Under her hands, the wardrobe door swings open with a loud creak, revealing an inside packed with far more clothes than should possibly fit. “Cameron Goode,” she repeats the name, and I catch the corner of her mouth tilting up. “Yup, I know him. He’s a freshman, though.”

“A freshman?” I blink, surprised. Sure, he’d had a young face, but he’d held himself so regally that I’d assumed he was at least a year or two older than me.

“Yeah.” Elodie pushes aside a series of colorful scarves and belts as she dives deeper into the wardrobe. “He’s from the area, and all his friends are students here too. Plus, he spent the summer doing classes to get ahead. He’s practically a genius—could’ve probably already graduated high school a bit earlier.” She casts a look at me over her shoulder. “No one knows why he didn’t just skip a few grades.”

“I see.” My mom had always warned me against judging a book by its cover, but Cameron? Yeah, I’m not surprised to hear that he’s a genius. He’d reminded me of the types of guys popular in French films—scholarly men with an interest in strange art, black clothes, and cigarettes.

She turns back to her task of sifting through clothes, the belts clanking together as she forces them to the side once more. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” Lie. “I just—uh, I met him when I first came in and thought he seemed interesting.”

That, as well as the fact that I’m viscerally aware that Ipswich is a small school and I have no doubt that I’ll run into him again regardless of whether I want to or not. What was the saying? Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back? I shake my head. Maybe I shouldn’t be daring my bad-luck curse to take effect just yet. It might be better if I try to avoid the subject of men for the time being.

Elodie’s snort at my words brings me back to the present as she yanks out a glittery black dress and holds it up. “Cameron Goode might not be the man you want to set your sights on, girly,” she says, examining the dress with a keen eye before shaking her head and stuffing it back inside. “He may have a pretty face, but I doubt you’ll get more from him than a fling or one-night stand at most.”

Despite my mental note to let the topic go, I can’t help asking, “Why?” and then correcting her when her other statement catches up with me. “Not that I want a fling with him!” I add quickly. “That’s not why I was asking.”

The look that passes my way via the mirror hanging on the inside of one wardrobe door makes it clear she doesn’t believe me. Then she turns, abandoning her clothing search in favor of giving me her undivided attention. Elodie holds up two slender fingers.

“There are two reasons why you should probably avoid Cameron Goode—at least in terms of fucking him—”

I grind my molars together. “I don’t want to fuck him,” I snap.

“Sure you don’t,” she says. “And I wouldn’t love a brand-new, paid-in-full Ferrari.” The blasé comment grates on my nerves, but I stop trying to convince her as she continues speaking. “Reason number one: Cameron Goode, like all his friends, is richer than god.”

My mouth drops open. That definitely had not been on the potential list of reasons I’d expected from her. “Richer than god?” I repeat, dazed as well as confused.

Elodie nods. “Yup, and the first thing you should know about rich boys is that they’ll chew you up and spit you out if you don’t know what you’re getting into.” She folds down one finger and holds up the second, shaking it back and forth. “And the second and most important reason is this.”

I lean away from her waving finger.

“Cameron Goode is a witch.”

I blink at her. Look away. Then back. Her face remains as serious and solemn as before. I sigh.

“Okay, what’s the punch line?” I deadpan.

Elodie drops her fingers and shrugs. “No punch line,” she says. “I’m one hundred percent serious—or rather, he’s a witch if you believe in all that crap.”

I roll my eyes. “What if you don’t believe?” I ask. “Seriously, I thought you were going to tell me he was a mobster or something, but a witch? That’s insane.”

To my relief, she snickers. She can’t believe it’s true if she’s laughing about it. Elodie goes back to her wardrobe and starts shuffling through the clothes again.

“Yeah, it’s totally insane,” she agrees, and my shoulders relax somewhat. “But it’s what a lot of the locals believe.”

I tilt my head to the side. “They do?”

“Yup.” She pops the end of the word and yanks out a pair of dark wash jeans, throwing them on the end of her bed. “Because Ipswich butts up against Salem, a lot of the townsfolk are the same. The whole place is a tourist trap for people who believe in all that crap from the Salem witch trials. Those who’ve lived here for generations honestly think that Cameron Goode and his friends are witches—” She pauses and turns to the side, tapping her lip with one fingernail. “Or I guess, maybe, descended from witches?”

With a huff of breath, I fall back on my bed and reach for a pillow. “That’s ridiculous.”

The sound of hangers moving reaches my ears before Elodie’s response. “Totally,” she says. “Then again, anyone whose family has lived here for generations takes their superstitions seriously, and there are records, at least, that the Goode family did have an accused witch die during the trials.”

“Wait, there are records? Like shit you can look up and verify?”