Shades of Darkness (Ravenborn #1)
A. R. Kahler
To my mother, for opening up the world
I used to think that drawing studio would be my favorite way to start the school day. Then we started doing nudes, and I realized—after spending an hour and a half staring at an old dude’s junk—that no amount of coffee or optimism could get me through the full two-hour class. Especially not today. Not after a month of drawing the same guy in the same chair with the same expression to the point where I had nightmares about his draping skin. And definitely not after pulling an all-nighter just to finish the still-life homework.
“Looking lively, Winters,” came a voice behind me.
I nearly jumped.
“Why do you think I’m in line, Davis?” I asked as I turned.
Ethan stood in the short outdoor line for Islington’s saving grace: the Dark Note Café. He was the type of boy any self-respecting mother would love to have her daughter date. He was gorgeous in that sharp-angled, European model sort of way. He even dressed nice—when he had to—though today he was wearing a holey cable-knit sweater and had a beanie squashed down over his mousey-brown hair. He’d totally read you poetry by the lakeside and bring you flowers for no reason at all other than that they made him think of you. Any mother’s dream.
Which was a shame because, like pretty much every other gorgeous, sensitive, artistic boy I knew, he was gayer than a rainbow-shitting unicorn.
“Let me guess,” he said, sidling up to me and hooking his arm through mine, prom style. “You didn’t do the drawing homework last week either? You look like you haven’t slept in ages.”
I reached over and gently rubbed a spot of charcoal from his cheek. It only made it worse, which, again in the typically unfair fashion, just made him even more attractive, in that brooding-artist sort of way.
“You know me well,” I replied. But being up until two a.m. drawing eggs didn’t account for my insomnia or the dreams that followed. Ethan just didn’t need to know about that right now. Before I could wonder if that counted as lying, the violinist in front of me walked off with her coffee and it was my turn to order. “Quad-shot mocha with caramel and hazelnut, por favor.”
“Make that two,” Ethan said. He squeezed my arm. “I love it when you’re buying.”
I pulled his hat down over his eyes, but I didn’t refute.
“Yeah, well, we always knew I’d be your sugar momma.”
He pulled off his hat and tried to fix his hair while I paid the barista. I didn’t know of too many boarding schools that had a private espresso bar on campus, but then again, with four hundred artists locked away in the middle of Michigan’s woods, an espresso bar was about the only thing keeping us from mutiny or a sexual revolution. That and homework.
“I’m still banking on Oliver,” Ethan said, sliding his hat back over his mop of hair and adjusting it so it looked just disheveled enough. His eyes took on that lovesick dreamy cast while he mused about his boyfriend. “He’s gonna be the next Mozart.”
“Bank away. Just remember the little people when you two are honeymooning in Aruba.”
Ethan just laughed.
The barista leaned out the window and handed me the drinks. He was in his thirties, with long black hair and a goatee that made him look like either a performer at a Renn Faire or some heavy-metal guitarist. The tag on his T-shirt read MICHAEL, but he’d crossed it out and written IKE over it.
“How’s The Hierophant coming, Kaira?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s coming,” I muttered, taking a sip from both drinks, just to screw with Ethan. “Thanks again for modeling.”
Yeah, I know, a little creepy that I asked the barista to model for me, but seeing as I’d just taken a photo of him sitting on a bar stool for reference, it wasn’t that big of a deal. It’s not like I invited him back to my room.
“Not a problem,” he said. “Good luck in class. Your model just ordered a triple espresso, so I doubt he’ll be sitting still.”
Another thing about Islington I loved and hated, depending on the moment: Everyone knew everyone else’s shit.