Page 44 of Ashen Souls

I was right on the edge of sleep when a faint warmth brushed the back of my neck. It was subtle, like a breath held too close.

Every fine hair on my arms stood up.

A vibration moved through me. It wasn’t a sound, and it wasn’t a thought either. A cold, sharp intrusion like a needle sliding into the softest part of my brain.

Mine.

My eyes snapped open.

Nothing had changed. The bed beneath me was the same, the shadows were where they belonged. Everything was normal, except for the burn on the back of my neck.

13

♫ HOZIER—TALK

Awashed-out yellow glare stuttered from the ceiling fixture, doing nothing to warm the cold bathroom tiles.

I stood with my back to the mirror, twisting my head over my shoulder, sweeping my messy hair out of the way. My hands were shaking so badly I kept dropping the strands.

I had spent the evening paralyzed in bed, waiting for the shadows to solidify into a man. They never did. Eventually, my body had shut down, plunging me into a fourteen-hour, dreamless coma. But the burning at the base of my skull had stayed.

Now I finally saw why.

A mess of broken vessels mottled the nape of my neck. It was an ugly, plum-colored smudge. A bruise left by a single thumb.

I barely touched it. A searing jolt shot through my nerves, and my fingers jerked away from my own skin.

Mine.

A wave of cold nausea hit me. I dropped my hair and gripped the edges of the sink, bowing my head as the porcelain dug into my palms. It wasn't a hallucination. It wasn't post-traumatic stress. He had been in my room. Or he had been in my head. I didn't know which was worse.

The absence he left behind didn't feel like a romantic longing anymore, it felt like a chemical withdrawal. I had known him for a handful of nights, a fragment of time that should have evaporated in the daylight. Instead, it felt as though some essential, foundational piece of my biology had been rewired, and now my body was protesting the missing connection.

I turned on the cold tap and splashed water onto my face until the panic receded into a manageable throb.

I had to get out of this apartment. If I stayed here, staring at the empty corners, I was going to lose my mind.

I snatched my phone. The screen lit up: 11:15 AM. Tuesday. If I moved fast, I could still make the mythology lecture. But the class wasn't the point anymore. The point was the two hours following it.

OFFICE HOURS: Tue 2–4.

I walked back into the bedroom and dug through my dresser until I found a thick, black turtleneck. I yanked it over my head, adjusting the collar until it swallowed the smudge.

Hale had told us that myths were the safety nets we weave when the world stops making sense. My net was gone. But I had a professor who knew too much about gods crossing boundaries in the dark. I told myself I was only going there for answers. But the truth was, I just needed to be near a man whose authority demanded that the world make sense again.

I grabbed my coat and walked out the door.

The air inside my Civic smelled the way I’d left it: stale coffee and the cloying vanilla air freshener Harper had hung from the rearview mirror. But sliding behind the wheel felt like wearing someone else’s clothes.

My fingers dug into the steering wheel, and for a split second, my brain superimposed the memory over the dashboard.

The blinding glare of headlights cutting through the rain. The inescapable weightlessness right before the impact.

I closed my eyes, shoved the key into the ignition, and twisted it hard.

“Just drive,” I whispered.

The engine turned over with a rough rattle that shattered the flashback. I shifted into gear and eased out into the gray streets of Vesbridge, keeping my eyes fixed rigidly on the slick pavement ahead.