Page 116 of The Black Table
“Your roommate?” my mom echoes. “The same one who almost burned down your dorm?”
I wince. “She’s…nice,” I hedge, “just a little scatterbrained.”Sorry, Morgan, I think silently,for throwing you under the bus. Notlike my mom would have liked you anyway.“It’s all been a little hectic, so…”
“So you missed your appointments,” my mom finishes for me.
I don’t say anything. Let her fill the silence. The one interrogation technique I picked up from having two lawyers for parents.
At last, she sighs.
“I’m glad you found something that interests you,” she says, almost mechanically.
And I hear the subtext loud and clear.Something that isn’t a dead language or religion adjacent.
Somethingnormal.
Ironic, isn’t it, that my life is maybe the least normal it’s ever been.
“When’s the next fencing match?”
I’m not stupid. She’s testing me. She wants to make sure that my story is airtight.
“It’s Friday,” I say. “A big rivalry, actually. Should be exciting. I’ll take pictures,” I add, as a cherry on top.
“That’s great,” she says, with the flattest possible tone of voice for someone who thinks something is great. “I’ll look forward to seeing them.” In the background, an indistinct voice calls for her, and she calls back an answer, her palm audibly pressed over the phone. “I need to take this, Gwenna. Take care now.”
The call disconnects, and I realize I’m breathing hard. My skin crawls as I slide the phone back into my pocket, too exposed. Too visible.
The twin sensations of guilt and terror coil around each other in my stomach. I hate how easily she can shake me, hate how easily she can zero in on everything I’m unsure about, or still figuring out, or simply okay with not knowing right now.
My steps quicken, and then I break into a near run, my boots echoing against the bricks and flagstones, not caring if anyonenotices or stares. How much worse could they think of me now, anyway?
I pound up the steps to Camlann House, desperate for the calm and hush that I know is in there.
Heart still pounding, I get to the top of the step, throw on the front door, and rush into the foyer. There, I freeze, breathing hard, letting my thoughts and blood pressure catch up with me, when I hear it.
No—him.
At first, I think it’s a groan of pain, like someone’s hurt.
But then the sound comes again, and my body seems to realize what it is before my brain.
Because my skin prickles. My lips part. Heat floods my entire body.
“Unh.”
Because it’s not pain.
It’s a…moan.
Low. Male.
Wanting.
I freeze, stock still, a fawn on a highway. Listening intently, whether I want to or not.
There’s a…rustling sound. Like fabric, or clothing. And then another human one.
A growl. Deep and guttural.
