I want to forgive.
And again, how the fuck did he know where I lived? Possibly, that annoys me more than anything because it means he’s been tracking me, and I like to be tracked as much as I enjoy getting stabbed in the hand with a steak knife.
Distractedly, I finger the wound, a pale strip that resembles a zipper because of my less than adroit needlework. Not that my tools—gin, nylon fishing line, and a rusted needle—had been ideal for stitching skin. I roll my fingers, which pushes out the white scar. Bastian says I’m lucky my tendon wasn’t damaged, lucky I still have use of my thumb.
I don’t believe in luck.
I still have a tendon, because I fought to save it.
Fought to save myself from the shitty hand I was dealt.
The moment I arrive in Brume, there’s no doubt the place lives up to its name. A steely gray mist blankets the entire hill, and icy fingers of cold slip under the collar of my wool coat. As I walk from the train station to the fortified entrance of town, I can’t help but snort at its quaintness. Bastian’s research said this place was sometimes called Merlin’s Hat, but in my opinion, the streetlights winding upward look more like candles on a stacked birthday cake than stars on a wizard’s hat.
Noise leads me up a set of uneven stone stairs, to a road crawling with people dressed in witch hats and black sorcerer robes. Some tote stuffed black cats, others sport fake beards or press-on warts. Garlands of evergreen boughs and mistletoe adorn façades, and candles sit in frosty windows. A vendor ladles spiced wine from a large cauldron in the middle of what I assume is the town square considering it’s square and animated.
There’s laughter and dancing, but nothing like the debauchery I’m used to. Nothing like Marseille, with clubs pounding bass out into the street, restaurants heaving with happy drunks, motorbikes screeching down passageways. Here, there are no cars, no motorcycles, no fireworks. No neon lights or club music. Only geeks and old geezers waving around LED-activated wands.
I squeeze through the hordes of villagers, shoulders tightening from the crush of bodies. I usually enjoy crowds, enjoy working them. Since I’m not working, the contact of so many limbs sets my teeth on edge.
Once I’m free of the throng, I drop my gaze to my map application, following the directions to the dormitories. When I pass the last of the shops, the winding road clears of people but swarms with shadows. A furry black creature streaks across the street, inches from my boots. No wonder people think this town has wicked origins; it looks like something out of a Grimms’ fairytale.
The cold humidity pricks my skin as I finally step beneath an illuminated, rectangular bronze panel strung up on a chain between two houses. The words THIRD KELC’H glint as it swings and clanks. How the hell do the people living nearby stand the grating noise? I would’ve clipped the thing down and melted it.
Huh.
Maybe I could clip it. Could be worth something if it’s an original. I snap a pic, then go back to studying my map and stroll past narrow houses made of gray stone and damp timber that lean against each other like love-starved kids.
Though it looks nothing like any campus I’ve ever seen, the dorms and faculty housing are supposed to start on this circle. I find the address Rainier de Morel indicated in his letter, a three-story townhouse with a large four-leaf clover stamped over the entrance. I tap in the security code, climb up a set of creaky stairs, and unlock the door marked with a brass 3.
The room beyond is cramped and squat. Who the hell lives here usually? Elves? The walls and floor are weathered wood, and so is the bed frame, claw-footed nightstand, three-drawer dresser, and armoire covered by a speckled mirror. A window made of square panes looks out onto the shiny road peeking from beneath the dense fog. No ensuite bathroom, no dusty art on the walls, no knick-knacks on the dresser. I chuck my bag on the bare mattress.
Pop music leaks from the room next to mine, the sort Bastian adores, the sort that makes my stomach turn. I can’t stand boppy love songs. Just like I can’t stand having neighbors. Especially carefree students. The whole set-up feels way too much like a foster house. At least I have a door and a lock, more than