“Aw, babe, your approval means everything.”
Orok drops his wrist and frowns at me. “You sure you’re good to play, though?”
There’s a lot unsaid in his question.
I nod. “End tonight by burning the shit out of something? This is exactly what I need.”
There’s a lot unsaid in my response, too.
Small things. Focus on small things. Pretend and pretend and maybe I won’t have to pretend eventually.
Orok exhales. But he manages a smile. “All right. Let’s burn some shit.”
Crescentia cheers.
We all turn, weaving through parked cars to cross the road and head to campus.
Even with the briefly heightened emotions, I’m the only one who seems to have burned through what little alcohol I’d pumped into my body, or maybe Orok and Crescentia drank way more than I did. But Orok slants to the right until I tuck myself under his arm to steer him toward the rawball field, while Crescentia dances ahead of us with hiccupping giggles.
Enacting pranks: a good way to burn off stress.
Going to parties: a bad way to burn off stress.
But actually burning things? Thebestway to burn off stress.
Chapter Two
TRAFFIC ALERT: Troll warning at the South Street Bridge. Travelers advised to seek alternative routes even if they believe they can answer the troll’s riddle. Adventure party dispatched. Expected time to all clear: two and a half hours.
Normally, a notification about an adventure party so close would have me wrestling Orok out of his hangover so the two of us could play gawkers with a few dozen other people. On the spectrum of defensive magic users, adventure parties sit on one end while the Arcane Forces cap off the other; it’s the difference between using an explosion spell to close old subway tunnels so they can flush out a horde of undead pixies versus using it to level half a town along with alleged stores of dragon eggs. A friendly neighborhood adventure party is typically an entertaining start to the day—
—except the South Street Bridge is the path I take to campus.
I wasreadyfor this morning. Before I went to the Conjuration Lab with Orok last night, all my nice clothes were tucked in a garment bag and my messenger satchel was packed next to my laptop, along with printed copies of my grant proposal and my travel case of spell components since my leather belt isn’t exactly fancy. I ordered breakfast to be dropped off at the ass crack of dawn despite Ghostmates’ exorbitant fees and the tendency of their delivery spirits to slam kitchen cupboards and rattle plumbing. All I had to do was wake up this morning, hop in the shower, grab my shit, and get to campus not just on time, butearly,so I could change in my TA office instead of wearing my nice clothes on the bus.
But what’s that saying? When mortals laugh, gods make plans? Or maybe it’s the other way around, but I must’ve laughed way too much last night playing drunken Blast Off with Orok and Crescentia, because holyshit,am I getting fucked by a god’s plans now.
My dress shirt never made it into my garment bag. Hell, it didn’t even make it from the washer to the dryer, so it was a stiff, mildewy mess that’s currently rattling around with hopes, prayers, and extra static sheets on the quick-dry cycle.
And my coffee order, which was supposed to have an extra shot of charisma—yeah, okay, those potions are generally sugar syrup, but I’ll take whatever placebo effect I can get—had an extra shot ofsomething,but it wasnothingclose to charisma. I am vibrating out of my skin as I pull up the Philadelphia transpo app and check what other routes are available, and, wait, are my nails a little jagged? Does that matter? This brunch is for the announcement of the grant recipient, but this is still a chance to network with university uppity-ups and alumni who felt like coming and—shit. I should bring business cards, too. Do I have time to get some? Is there a spell to make business cards? Can I—
What was in that coffee.
I pace my bedroom, window to door, and growl at my phone as the transpo app loads.
New estimated route: forty minutes to campus.
I factored infifteen minutes,which is what it usually takes.
I shove my phone in my messenger satchel, grab my garment bag, and sprint into the hall. The bathroom is still open, steam from my shower making the upper floor of our two-level apartment muggy. I clatter down the stairs, the ratty carpet slick from decades of tenants, and nearly twist my ankle as I trip-tumble into the living room.
“Mom, I’m not hungover, I swear.”
Orok’s huge frame is sprawled on our couch, one leg across the back, a bottle of water balanced on his forehead. He’s still in last night’s clothes that make everything smell vaguely of smoke, his phone pressed to his ear. His eyes are pinched shut even though the curtain’s drawn tight and the only light comes from our dinky-ass kitchen, where the dryer chugs, the buttons on my nice dress shirt dinging around inside the drum.
“Yes, I can handle my alcohol,” he says into the phone. “I’m not—Mom.Mom. No, I didn’t challenge anyone to a fight.” He rubs theskin between his eyes. “Yeah, Seb was there. He had nothing to do with me not wanting to punch people.”
I rush past, tripping on a pair of Converse—mine, oh, I need those; I tug them on, keep walking—but Orok’s eyes stay closed, and he’s now rolling the water bottle back and forth across his forehead.
