Page 52 of A Drop of Anguish
My blood runs cold.In love?
“Maybe,” Thompson says. “It’s all just very extreme.”
“What do you think, then?” I ask, heart throbbing. Is there something more going on with Jarron than I realized? It’s strange, but he did say he was okay.
“I think it might be a mix of both.”
Anxiety curls in my gut. “What would cause it? The conflict with his demon or whatever.” That’s probably not a question I should expect a wolf shifter to know the answer to, but Thompson has always known a bit more than usual about Jarron and demons. It’s one of the things I’ve been keeping tabs on, but at the moment I’d like to exploit that knowledge if I’m able.
He purses his lips and pauses for long enough that I begin to question his motives. He doesn’t seem to be searching for an answer, he looks more like he’s measuring his words, like he doesn’t want to say what just came to his mind. “An illness, maybe?”
My stomach sinks.
That’s a simple answer. Is it truthful? And if so— is Jarron really okay?
Over the next several minutes, I absently pick at my nails so much they start bleeding. Dammit, bad idea with vampires around.
Janet watches my nervous fidgeting. She reaches out and grips my non-bleeding hand. Lola flutters over to my shoulder and nuzzles into my neck. “Give it a few days. Maybe it will settle. He just needs some time to cope with everything.”
23
V’Rta
My blood is pumping hard and fast the rest of the day and the next. The thought that there might be something legitimately wrong with Jarron does not leave my mind for one single second.
And there’s this irrational fear that it’s my fault.
I barely focus during classes, which probably should be bad because I am not coping well in my High Orizian class. Language is not my best subject, and I’m already significantly behind. But I’ve learned that most of the teachers aren’t particularly concerned about grades, especially this one. Maybe it’s because it’s taught by a demon, who doesn’t understand the American culture of grades and accolades over actual knowledge. He wants me to learn, and so long as I’m trying, he doesn’t intend to punish me for not meeting his expectations.
I’m not sure if Ms. Bhatt will feel the same, but it does take some of the pressure off of me when I stare down at a page of very simple Orizian words that I’m supposed to be able to read but can’t.
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Professor Zyair tells me before heading up to begin a lecture.
I half-listen to his lecture in High Orizian. Though I enjoy the cadence of the professor’s voice as he speaks in the guttural language, I’m barely able to make out even a few words.
His general philosophy is that the more we hear and become comfortable with the language, the easier it will be to learn. So, even if we don’t understand what he’s saying, it’s helpful for us just to be around someone speaking it. He’s given us recordings of stories told in Orizian for us to listen to while we sleep.
It’s a much better tactic than just memorizing a bunch of words I’ll forget in a week, but I’m not sure how much it’s helping just yet. Right now, he’s apparently telling us about the Orizian culture. Things I’d very much like to understand, but the words are too foreign and I give up trying after a while.
He begins writing on the dry-erase board. He lists five different words. I don’t know what they mean, but again, that’s not the point of the lecture. If I retain nothing, I won’t fail.
Still, one of the words catches my attention.
“V’Rta”
I straighten. He says the word several times in his casual tone, pointing to a word in symbols I haven’t quite mastered.
I’ve heard that word before but can’t place when or what it might mean.
Recognition sparks somewhere in my mind, just out of reach. I stare at the strange letters, trying to remember where I’ve heard it. Did Mr. Vandozer say it while trying to convince me to enter the games? Jarron’s parents at the banquet? I don’t know where anyone would have spoken Orizian to me except here.
The bell rings to signal the end of the class, but I wait for everyone else to leave, and then I walk up to the front of the class toward the young male teacher with toffee skin and two red horns sticking straight up. His appearance is very similar to Laithe’s, and I wonder if he’s of the same species.
“Candice Montgomery. What can I help you with?” the young male demon says with a perfect American accent.
“There was a word you said that I’d like to know more about.”
“Picking out individual words in a fast-paced speech is impressive. Which word did you recognize?”
