I didn’t turn on the light when I locked the door behind me; I knew the corners of this place like the curves of my own body. I slid out of my clothes and turned on the shower, pushed the heat to almost-scalding. Then, in the pitch blackness, I stepped under the spray. In here, I could pretend I was anywhere else. The darkness could be a cave, the cosmos, the water some magical liquid washing me clean inside and out. I slid to the wall of the shower, sinking down to rest on the floor of the cubicle. And it was then I let the last week crash in. It was too much, all too much. Mandy’s death. Memories of blood in the bathroom. Even Chris’s presence, touching on wounds I didn’t want to feel. Too many wounds. Too many aches. Too many reasons I shouldn’t even be here. I pressed my palms to my eyes and prayed into the spray, wash me clean, wash me clean. But I knew I couldn’t get clean, couldn’t run fast enough—nothing would cleanse me, not the water or my tears. I didn’t deserve to be clean, to mourn. Mandy was dead. Dead. And even though I’d heard Munin’s warnings, I hadn’t known enough to stop it.
Cold wrapped around me in spite of the burning heat. The darkness wasn’t a comfort. Not now. I wrapped my arms around my knees and pulled them close to my chest. I felt Brad behind me, wrapping his arms around me, kissing the back of my neck. Whispering that it should have been me.
? ? ?
After the shower I felt empty, but that was better than the alternative. I didn’t look in the mirror after drying off. I didn’t want to see Brad there, staring back. My moment of weakness was over. Now wasn’t about me. Now I would focus on Mandy and those who knew her. My phone blinked with a dozen texts from Ethan and Oliver, all asking if I was okay, though Ethan’s escalated from Are you okay to Please tell me you’re not dead to if you are dead, please don’t text back, I don’t want to behead a zombie-kaira to holy shit if you don’t text back I’m going to sneak from my dorm room and find you and you know I live on the second story and can’t climb. My paralysis is on your shoulders.
I sent him a text first. I’m fine. And I hope you’re not in the bushes outside Rembrandt with a broken spine.
A second later he texted back. Moderate paralysis. I expect cookies.
I chuckled softly, careful not to wake Elisa. The room was lit by my little desk lamp, and I settled onto my papasan chair with a blanket over my legs. For some reason, Ethan’s humor didn’t feel sacrilegious or an affront to Mandy’s memory. It was a reminder that my support network was still there, that life was still moving forward.
Despite what Brad had told me years ago, there were people who cared.
Oliver’s texts were much more his calming style: I heard about Mandy. I hope you’re okay. and Call if you need anything. Any time.
I thanked him, then set my phone to silent and leaned back, staring at my cluttered desk and wondering what to do with this insomnia. I didn’t want to sleep. Even with Mom’s crystal, I didn’t want to risk the shadows.
Mason jars with charcoal sticks and colored pencils and fine-tip markers lined one corner of the desk, while a stack of papers and folders was piled haphazardly in the other. My bulletin board was covered in snippets of paintings and inspirational quotes, pressed leaves and feathers, and a few photo-kiosk strips of Ethan and me at the mall.
I sighed and tore my eyes away. There was no way I was going to try to do work tonight, so I quietly slid out the drawer under my bed and grabbed a tiny cloth bundle. My Tarot deck.
The cards were warm and soft as I slid them from the bag. Four years of nearly constant use had worn the edges smooth and the cardstock supple, almost velveteen. The deck was the traditional Rider-Waite, with the primary-color images and geometric sky-blue card backs. Not my favorite style of art, but there was something to be said for the simplicity, the easy symbolism. It had been a gift from my mom the first day of freshman year. Because the gods know a young girl needs more guidance than her mother can give. Those had been her words when she handed it over, and a similar quote was written on a tiny notecard inside the bag, her handwriting perfect and looping in black ink. I envied my mother many things, but her handwriting was among the top.
I wasn’t too worried about being quiet—Elisa had long grown used to me shuffling in the dead of night. The familiar whir between my fingers was calming, rhythmic, almost more soothing than the guidance I was seeking.
I’d nearly thrown them out sophomore year. Almost. The idea of being connected to the occult after . . . well, it felt like a dangerous line to walk. But the idea of trashing something my mom had given me caused too much guilt, so the cards stayed.
“What’s going on?” I whispered, images floating through my mind to make the question solid: Mandy’s smile, cop cars in the snow, Ethan’s words ringing like omens: Someone died.
A card flipped out mid-shuffle, landing on the desk.
“Ten of Swords,” I muttered, staring at the man stabbed by his own blades. Obvious enough—defeat, destruction, death. “Tell me something I didn’t know.”
I kept shuffling.
Minutes seemed to drag by. The cards shuffled quietly, none dislodging. I couldn’t think of anything else—no other question seemed pertinent. Then, after my eyes began to droop and my shuffling faded, a new image flashed through my mind: Jonathan, standing before our folklore class, a raven on his shoulder. It was the gods who took the innocent away.
I jerked awake as two cards spilled from my hand, landing on the floor, one crossed over the other.
The bottom was The World, inverted. And above it, The Tower.