Page 79 of Ashen Souls

She clapped once. “Good. Because it’s Friday. Spring break starts Monday. And there is a massive party at the dorms tonight.”

I winced. “A party?”

“A celebration,” she corrected. “Of survival. And bad decisions.”

“I am tired.”

“So are they. That’s why it’ll be unhinged.”

I hesitated, glancing back toward the direction of my apartment. The quiet waiting for me there suddenly felt heavy.

“I don’t know. I kind of look like I fought a filing cabinet and lost.”

“Relax,” she said, already steering us toward campus. “You can shower at my place. I’ll lend you something.”

“I can’t just wear your clothes.”

She laughed. “You absolutely can. I own at least three dresses that deserve better lives.”

I eyed her. “You’re very confident about this.”

“Because I’ve been waiting for the moment you’d agree to go out voluntarily.”

“I’m agreeing under protest.”

“Even better.”

As we crossed the quad, the faint, bass-heavy thump of a stereo drifted through the air.

“Just a little alcohol,” I warned her. “Nothing dramatic.”

Harper smirked. “Define dramatic.”

“I want to forget about sigils and ruined empires for a few hours,” I said. “I want my brain off.”

She nodded. “You deserve that.”

We reached her dorm building, the windows glowing brightly against the dark.

“Okay.” Harper swiped her keycard to unlock the door. “Shower. Makeup. I will find you something illegal-looking but emotionally healing.”

“I don’t want illegal-looking.”

“You don’t get a say.”

I followed her inside, more than ready to leave the Archives and my sanity at the door. I didn't know how to actually turn my brain off, but cheap vodka and Harper's wardrobe seemed like a decent place to start.

21

♫ LORD HURON—THE NIGHT WE MET

By the time we were done getting ready, Harper’s dorm room looked like a Sephora had detonated inside her closet.

Makeup palettes lay scattered across the desk, clothes were piled on every available surface, and a mindless, bass-heavy pop song was rattling the plastic of her Bluetooth speaker.

I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Harper had delivered on her promise of “illegal-looking.”

The dress was black, dangerously short, and left my collarbones bare. It was the exact opposite of the oversized sweaters I usually hid in. I smoothed my hands over the fabric, bracing for the usual wave of self-consciousness. But it never came.