Chapter 3 He Walks In Daylight

Chapter 3: He Walks in Daylight

Lena's POV

The car jerks to a stop a few feet short of the curb and my forehead nearly kisses the dashboard.

"Sorry, sorry." My mother yanks the wheel straight, slapping it as if the curb insulted her personally.

Stone towers fill the windshield, dark ivy climbing the walls so thick it looks less planted than alive. Tall windows flash gold beneath the morning sun. Somewhere high above us, bells ring, the chimes sending a vibration right through the metal car doors. My shoulders tense at the sound, fingers gripping the fabric of my skirt. I force them to relax.

Students cross the lawn dragging luggage that belongs in five star hotels rather than freshman dorms. None of them looks lost.

A girl steps out of a black sedan next to us, her eyes locked onto her phone while a driver unloads six matching suitcases behind her. Six. I try to imagine owning enough belongings to fill six suitcases worth packing.

My mother kills the engine. Her hands stay on the wheel, fingers not moving a beat longer than the engine needs to stop.

"You'll call. Every Sunday. Maybe Wednesdays too." The words trip over each other. Talking fast is what she does instead of crying.

"Mom."

"I'm not saying every day." She laughs, short and unconvincing. "I'm saying Sundays. And Wednesdays."

I stare out the window so this won't get more emotional. The university flew me halfway across the country on a full scholarship covering tuition, housing and other necessities. The acceptance packet arrived in a thick black envelope with gold lettering, like they were inviting me into a cult with excellent funding.

I still don't understand why they picked me.

"I'll see," I say, meaning no.

She asks the dorm question anyway, marking the third time this week. "You could come home on weekends. The drive isn't terrible."

"We spent five hours reaching here."

"It's still not terrible."

I blink at her.

She sighs. "You're getting meaner."

"You raised me."

That earns half a smile before her expression fades back into worry.

We unload my things from the trunk. One suitcase and one duffel with a fraying strap I stitched badly myself last year. My mother had tried to buy me new bags before we left, but I told her I didn't need them. It was much easier than admitting we simply couldn't afford them.

Then she pulls me in. It lasts too long, long enough for my ribs to start aching under the pressure. But I let her have it because pulling away first would hurt her more.

She steps back. Her eyes drop to my collarbone, to the jade pendant sitting where it always sits. Her fingers rise slowly and brush it once. Barely there.

My breath catches a little. She has never touched this pendant, not once that I can remember. Not when I was little, and certainly not when I was thirteen and tried to take it off, only to wake up with the cord mysteriously back around my neck the next morning.

Her hand drops away fast as if she wishes she could undo the gesture. "I love you," she says, already retreating toward the driver's side.

"Love you too."

She climbs into the car, sparing us both another goodbye. I stand there watching until the sound of the engine fades down the gravel road. I count to thirty then I pick up my suitcase and walk through the gate.

Vaelthorn looks built to make people feel small. Students stream through the entryways without glancing up, but I find myself craning my neck, checking the high rooflines. Dozens of people flood the central courtyards carrying maps and coffee cups. I catalog everything because that's what I do, sorting voices, faces, basically anything useful.

A red haired guy laughs beside the fountain and girls giggle too soon, whether the joke deserved it or not. Fine face privilege.

Two boys pass me carrying long fencing bags over their shoulders. Actual swords. Of course this school has extracurricular weaponry.

I keep my eyes down and continue walking.

†★†

The admissions office carries the scent of polished wood and old books.

I sit on a leather bench, sandwiched between a girl arguing fluently in French through her wireless earbuds and a guy spinning a set of car keys around one finger, close enough to knock them against my head.

An academic advisor finally calls my name, gesturing me into a private office. He scans my registration schedule in silence, turning one page and then another, his eyebrows climbing higher with every course listed.

"You selected every single class that caught your interest," he notes.

"Yes."

"Most scholarship students build their schedules a bit more strategically."

"This seemed faster."

One corner of his mouth twitches.

I glance around the room while he reviews the rest of my file. Oil paintings line the walls, and a man in one portrait watches me with the stern expression of a man who clearly disapproved of joy. My attention wanders back to the paper on the desk, reading the printed course titles.

Advanced Historical Systems.

Ancient Languages.

Supernatural History and Mythology.

That last title stirs a strange sensation inside my chest, a familiarity that exists without an actual memory to attach it to. The advisor lingers on that line longer than the others. "You have an interest in mythology, Miss Vale?"

"I think so." Not my strongest answer.

His expression flickers, unreadable, then he stamps the paperwork and slides the documents across the desk.

"Welcome to Vaelthorn University."

Outside, the campus somehow got louder. I hold the printed campus map upside down. Eight minutes later, I admit I'm completely lost, though I still refuse to ask anyone for directions.

A body collides into me from the side hallway at full speed. Books explode across the floor, and papers scatter over the tiles in every direction. A leather bag spills its contents while apologies pour out from somewhere below shoulder height.

"Oh my god, I am SO sorry, I wasn't looking, I never look, my advisor says I'm going to concuss someone eventually. Are you okay, please tell me you're okay, I can't kill someone this close to syllabus week…"

I crouch down to grab a notebook as it slides toward a wooden bench, and finally look at my attacker. Her hair is a bright, cotton candy pink. She scrambles across the stone floor, gathering loose sheets at terrifying speed. One page skids toward my shoe, covered in complex equations and what appear to be genuine scorch marks along the margins.

She looks up abruptly, freezing in place. "You caught one."

"What?"

"My notebooks." Genuine amazement spreads across her face. "Nobody ever helps me with them when I drop things."

I glance at the notebook in my hand.

"Do you want to see my lab?" She throws in abruptly.

I blink. Strange person number 3. "I don't know your name."

"Pippa."

"So you invite any stranger into your workspace?"

"You're holding one of my notebooks. We're basically family now."

A laugh escapes me and Pippa points at me. "See? I knew you were funny. You looked emotionally unavailable from across the hallway."

"That's my normal face and I have class in four minutes so about the offer…"

"Perfect. After class, then." She cuts me off and stuffs the remaining papers into her bag, zipping it shut. "I'll find you."

"You don't know where I'll be."

"I believe in myself." Then she disappears around the corner as I stand.

†★†

The lecture hall sits near the east courtyard. Tall floor to ceiling windows lined one wall, sunlight spilling across the dark oak desks. I find an empty seat with two minutes to spare, opening my notebook in the middle of a row.

My pen moves on its own. A symbol curls across the bottom corner of the page. Lines intersecting into a shape that feels ancient and familiar at once. The same design from the club. What I've drawn my entire life without knowing why.

This is getting creepier.

I stare at it until the hall door opens. Professor Voss walks in, carrying a stack of grading papers beneath his arm. He has long, dark locs, warm brown skin, and a thick silver ring on one hand that glints under the lights. The room stills around him. He hasn't said a word yet.

"Good morning," he says easily, his voice pulling people toward listening.

I like him immediately, which means I distrust the feeling immediately after.

He begins lecturing without notes. Three sentences in, every word feels familiar. I've never heard it, but some part of me knows it all the same.

"The Sealer War reshaped modern supernatural society…"

My pen freezes against the paper. I wait for someone in the room to laugh or look confused, but nobody does. The sound of scratching ink continues uninterrupted, alongside someone coughing in the back row. Apparently supernatural society is a reasonable phrase to hear after noon on a Monday.

I glance around the lecture hall to confirm I hadn't misheard him. Every face is calm, even a hand goes up two rows ahead.

"Professor, does blood binding still fall under restricted practice if both parties consent?"

Professor Voss nods. "Legally, yes. Consent changes the sentence, not the classification."

My grip hardens around my pen. At the sound of blood, the metallic taste from Friday creeps back into my mouth. I swallow, trying to clear it, but the flavor lingers on my tongue.

The rest of the lecture passes in a blur of words that shouldn't feel known and somehow do anyway. When the session ends, students spill back into the courtyard in noisy groups. The sunlight feels blinding after the dim hall. I unfold my campus map again, realizing it's upside down once more, but at this point, I am simply committed to the experience.

The crowd ahead parts. Bodies move aside from the path on their own, a current deciding for them.

Then I see him.

That dark hair falling over his eyes, pale under the sun to read as silver from feet away. He carries the same unnatural stillness I watched from across the club, except now he's walking through the middle of campus making the giant walls feel smaller.

Three others keep pace with him, close to be more than acquaintances, far back that none of them crowd whatever space he carries with him.

I recognize one of them instantly. The boy from the admissions office, still spinning his keys around one finger like gravity gave up trying to catch them. A girl half a step ahead of the rest, talking fast enough that the key chain guy rolls his eyes. A third figure says nothing, dressed in deep charcoal, his attention sweeping the courtyard, then fixing forward again.

My gaze shifts right back to the center.

Mercury eyes find mine from the center of the group, and my feet forget how to move. I still don't have a name for him. His head tilts slightly as he looks across the plaza, his eyes traveling from my face down to my boots.

Friday night rushes back all at once. From the club, the blood on my skin, his hand around someone's throat and the alley.

'She's mine.' The words replay with the exact same terrifying calm.

Heat flares beneath my collarbone where the pendant rests against my skin.

I hold his gaze this time, refusing to look away first. One second passes. Two.

He looks away, continuing his stride down the path. The silent one falls into step beside him, while the other two glance back at me, then catch up. My lungs finally remember to work.

I stay where I am, upside down map loose in my hand, pendant burning faint against my skin. And every explanation I built since Friday night collapses all at once. I'd spent two days trying to convince myself I'd imagined everything.

But he's here.

Which means the blood was real. The alley was real. His hand around my wrist was real.

None of it happened in my head. I actually thought I was going insane.

The only question left standing now is what kind of school has him walking its courtyard in broad daylight on a Monday.