Page 21 of Hallowed Bones

If I had my way, I’d turn away and ignore her very existence. I would kill or die for my brothers, and they would do the same for me. Despite that fact, I don’t want that for her. If Haven truly is one of us, then her life is about to change. Forever. Once she’s awoken, there will be no going back. She will have to face the same darkness that we’ve had to face, overcome, and tame. With each monstrous revelation she makes, the light in her eyes will dim just a little more.

I should leave. Should disappear into the woods and let her stay in this bubble of blissful ignorance a little longer. But my feet won’t move. My eyes won’t stray. I watch her, tethered to the sight of her long, dark hair and her dual-colored eyes like a starving man. Like a man ready to burn himself in the flames of her heat.

If Haven Wardwell is of witchblood, then there is no saving her. She might have walked through the gates of Ipswich expecting salvation, but all she’ll get is ruin.

CHAPTER 8HAVEN

Patient continues to present with a withdrawn social nature. While understandable given her circumstances, her insistence on a “bad luck” curse may be a psychological response to trauma.

Additional Note (Unofficial): There is a growing sense of unease in observing the patient. The alignment of misfortunes persists and cannot be dismissed that her presence may somehow be linked to these events, though I lack any explanation.

—EXCERPT FROM NOTES TAKEN BY DR. M. ELLISON REGARDING PATIENT HAVEN WARDWELL, AGE EIGHTEEN

There’s a kind of quiet that comes before everything goes to shit. It’s the eye of the storm. When the whole world just rocked your ass and then, suddenly, everything is calm and you can breathe. Only it’s nothing more than a pretty lie, because in the end, chaos always returns.

That’s how I feel as I get ready for class a few days after the lake party. It’s been weeks since my last bout of bad luck, and I know the damn curse is waiting for me to let my guard down. It’s not gone. I doubt it ever will be.

“If you hitch up the waistband here,” Elodie says as she turns and shows me in the mirror on the back of her wardrobe door, “then you can hardly see the difference.”

“If you can’t see the difference, then what’s the point?” I ask, frowning at the plaid skirt that had been delivered alongside the button-down shirt and sweaters, as well as a few extra sets of the Ipswich uniform, over the weekend.

Elodie groans. “Because,” she says, elongating the word. “It lifts the skirt up a bit so you don’t look like a nun in training.”

I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. Without the alteration, Ipswich’s uniform skirt falls at an awkward length. The hem isn’t quite down to my knees, but also not short enough that I can’t feel the weight of it pressing into my thighs when I walk. Lifting the hem up just those scant few inches is better than nothing.

“Why does a college need uniforms anyway?” I grumble as I make the change, fastening the fabric in place with a borrowed safety pin.

Elodie shrugs. “No idea,” she admits. “I think it’s just a tradition passed down from when they first opened the school. A lot of the students couldn’t afford nice clothes, so uniforms were provided.” She flops her hand around with a casual air that speaks of how little she actually cares about the topic.

I smooth the pleated hem down and drop to sit on the edge of bed to reach for my shoes. Once they’re on, I’m up and slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder as I head for the door. Elodie meets me there, her own bag—a bright white monstrosity of a purse instead of a backpack—hooked over one arm and a pair of massive shades shoved into her wild array of curls at the crown of her head.

“Let’s do this,” Elodie says, linking her arm with mine. “Time to introduce you to the adoring fans of a legacy family member.”

My groan only earns a wider grin from her. “I should’ve never told you that,” I mutter.

“Why?” Elodie asks. “It’s kind of cool. I just came here because they had the program I wanted and my loans covered everything. But you—” She chuckles as we descend the stairs to the bottom floor and head out through the double doors along with a crowd of other girls heading off to their own classes. “Who knows—maybe you’re related to more people in the Salem area. Maybe that’s why he was so anti–everything witchy.”

“It’s just weird. I didn’t even know my dad lived here, much less was a legacy at Ipswich,” I confess. “He didn’t talk about his past.”

“Well, now you have an opportunity to find it out for yourself,” Elodie says. “Maybe it’ll bring you two closer, you know, like spiritually.” She wiggles her fingers at me at the last word in a bad imitation of performing magic, and I can’t help but burst out laughing.

It’s so ridiculous and, despite the topic, normal that it’s almost like the last twelve months of my life weren’t a terrible freak show. The strange whisperings, the monsters in the dark, the nightmares, the broken electronics. I shake my head at Elodie as she continues to wiggle her fingers at me, her face a concentrated mask of over-the-top goofiness. Wiping away a tear that leaks out of the corner of my eye before it can smudge my eyeliner, I nudge her toward the corridors that lead to the classroom buildings.

“Come on, you weirdo. We’re gonna be late.”

Elodie drops the act and bounds along as we follow the flow of students as the bell in the clock tower chimes in warning overhead. We reach the second courtyard together and Elodie waves as she heads off with a few of the upperclassmen toward the building that houses most of their classes, and I wave back before turning toward mine. Reaching into my bag, I pull out the paper I put there the night before to double-check that I’m in the right place. I’ve marked each building alongside each class and the behemoth in front of me is the location of my first one.

Like most of the campus’s structures, the building is all sharp angles with the doorway acting as an almost gatelike entrance with an arched overhang made of stone pointing toward the sky. I duck beneath it as the last echoes of the bell ring out and push against the heavy wooden door. The scent of musk and wood polish hangs heavy in the long hallway inside. Wrinkling my nose, I ignore the itching sensation it provokes in my nostrils as I follow the students trailing through an open doorway marked with a room number to the right of its frame.

Seats are stretched together in rows of ascending aisles with two long tables on either side of the room. As I move farther inside, I realize that most of them are taken. There’s a small section at the top by the windows that looks unclaimed. I hurry toward it before it can be snatched up. The second my ass settles into the seat and I set my bag down, a body drops into the only other chair, next to me.

I’ve got my notebook pulled free and a pen dropped atop it before I bother looking over. When I do, my jaw practically unhinges and falls off.

Cameron. Fucking. Goode. Is sitting next to me.

What the fuck?

I snatch my notebook and go to stand up when my eyes catch up with my actions and I realize—in the time since I’ve sat down, the rest of the chairs have been claimed. This is a packed class and there’s not one single opening. I slump back in my seat with a silent groan and slam my notebook back down on the surface of the table.