Another stab of pain. Then, I feel a strange, fluttering panic, like I’ve just tumbled down a staircase, but instead of hitting the floor at the bottom, I tip forward—into memories.
* * *
Where is he?
Genetics 201 starts in five minutes, and Nick isn’t here.
I’d arrived early to make sure I wouldn’t miss him and have been hovering near the back row of the large lecture hall as students stream in. A girl with stringy black hair scoots by, blocking my view of the door momentarily. After she passes, I see Nick in a blue T-shirt and jeans, walking along the back wall toward the corner of the room.
I weave through the incoming flow of students to follow him. When the clock strikes eleven, a thin, middle-aged man wearing a gray tweed suit steps up from the front row to cross the creaking wooden floor. He pauses at the lectern and frowns as the others and I continue to find seats.
“As the board states, this is Genetics 201. Not Geology 201. Not General Anthropology 201. Not German 201. If you are here for any of those classes, please exit now and take some time to review both the class abbreviations and the campus map.”
Amid a low wave of laughter, half a dozen students stand and shuffle down their long rows toward the exit at the back of the lecture hall.
Nick flops into a wooden seat in the very top row in a move that somehow manages to look graceful. I speed toward him, slipping into the seat directly beside him at the end of the aisle. “Nick, short for Nicholas.”
He jumps. “Bree. Hi.” I don’t miss his quick glance at my forearms. “How’s my peer mentee?” His smile is so fascinatingly genuine that I probably would have believed him if I didn’t know any better. He pulls up the small writing surface attached to the armrest and slaps down a composition notebook that looks like it got wet at some point. He pauses, squints. “I didn’t think you were in this class.”
“I’m not. I asked the dean for your schedule.”
A smile breaks across his face. “Who’s creepy-clever now?”
I snort. “Still you. By the way”—I lean back in my chair—“I’ve never gotten blackout drunk in my life, and I’d die before I set foot in a frat house. Tell Sel to mesmer better next time.” I sit up, eyes wide. “Wait, was that a frat house? I thought you said we couldn’t join them.”
Nick’s brow lifts a fraction, his eyes widening, but he doesn’t respond.
Any further conversation is interrupted when the professor clasps his hands together. Nick faces front, and I smother a frustrated growl. The professor serves all 150 of us a long-suffering gaze. “Now that everyone who is supposed to be here is here, my name is Dr. Christopher Ogren. We will be taking roll today and randomly throughout the semester”—groans all around at this—“by sending around the roster. Please initial beside your name and only your name.”
“Nick—” I begin, turning to him.
He silences me with a finger, then points to the front of the room. “I’m trying to pay attention.” His tone is serious, but I catch the slightest twinkle of humor in his eye. Without another word, he bends over his composition notebook and starts writing who knows what.
Unbelievable.
I lean over and hiss, “I made myself remember.”
His pen stops moving, but he doesn’t raise his head. “Remember what?”
“Are you seriously—” I’m cut off when an olive-skinned boy with a buzz cut passes the roster to our row. I grab it and scribble you know what! before passing it to Nick.
“Your handwriting is atrocious.” He signs his initials before passing the clipboard down. Irritation is a barely contained scream behind my gritted teeth.
Dr. Ogren calls our attention again. “All right, let’s begin with a thirty-minute pretest.” Groans again. Dr. Ogren smiles. “Relax, it won’t be graded. It’s just an assessment to see, generally speaking, where everyone falls in their knowledge before we begin the term, or what you remember from the last time you studied genetics. Work with a partner, share your ideas, record your answers.”
“Work with a partner” is easily the second-worst classroom phrase after “group work.” But today I couldn’t be happier to hear it.
“Partner?” I ask primly.
Nick studies me, evaluating his options. “Fine.” He opens up to a fresh page in his notebook.
The TAs distribute large stacks of worksheets. I grab a copy and send the rest along. We spend the first few minutes actually reviewing the pretest. The worksheets are fairly straightforward and a combination of multiple choice and short answer. Nick is as smart as he is good-looking, because of course he is, but he hasn’t covered the material as recently as I have. I stow my questions for now and take the lead to help move things along.
“We’re at the short answer portion now”—I flip my own notebook over to a blank page—“and we’ve got to write these together.”
“Mmm, yeah.” Nick scratches at the faint white-blond stubble on his chin. “I’m not one hundred percent sure on this one…” He reaches across and taps his finger over question ten.
“ ‘Common DNA processes include replication, transcription, and translation. At a high level, describe the distinct functions of these processes.’ ”
“I can’t remember the difference.”
“It’s easy to get the terms mixed up. Replication is making more DNA, transcription uses DNA to make RNA, and translation has to do with ribosomes. They use RNA to make protein.” I sketch a diagram on my notebook. “Visuals help.”
Nick examines my drawing, and his eyes flicker up to mine. “Visuals do help. A lot, actually.” I’m unprepared for his small, appreciative smile. Even at a low wattage, it is warmth and sunlight and summer and entirely distracting and it makes me squirm in my seat.
We speed through the remaining five short answer questions and finish with ten minutes to go. Ripping a sheet out of my notebook, I scribble down a few words. When I shove the sheet into his hands, he braces himself like the paper might explode on contact. I watch his eyes dart over the list of words—Shadowborn, Legendborn, Page, Onceborn, mesmer, Merlin, Kingsmage, aether—before he crumples the page in his fist and shoves it into his pocket.
I lean into his space. “I’m not gonna let it go.”
Nick takes a slow, steadying breath, still facing straight ahead. “How are you… doing this?”
“Not sure.” I push against the wound in my mouth. “Pain, I think,” I murmur. His eyes snap to mine in concern, but I wave him off and whisper, “Better question: How do the Merlins do it?”
He shakes his head. “Whatever questions you have, I promise you, the answers aren’t worth it. You should act like last night and the Quarry never happened.”
“Pens down!” Dr. Ogren directs our attention back to the front of the classroom.
“Can’t do that.”
He turns to me then, his eyes flashing a warning. “Here’s what’s gonna happen: I am going to ask Dean McKinnon to assign you another mentor, because if we’re seen together on campus, it’ll raise suspicion. You are going to stop asking questions and move on with your semester, because this conversation is over. I’m sorry, Bree, but that’s final.” He turns back to the front of the classroom as if that’s that on that. Like he’s just handed down a decree.