Page 16 of Blood Moon

We were born together; we should not die apart.

Article IV, Lost Letters from Aadan the First

Someone whispered my name. The sound was breathy and deep.

A pause, and I gripped the wooden handrail, glanced past my shoulder.

I was headed down the grand staircase to the coffee shop located on the first floor of the Faulkner Library.

It was a temperate evening. The waning sunlight poured through the stained glass windows, smearing the wooden walls and bookcases with blue and green and orange.

When the sound came again, I glanced above me, the golden chandelier twinkling.

I followed the stairs back up, eyes wide with a keenness, inhaling the smell of leather and pine.

In small clusters were students. Some of them were closed away in private studies, a few stationed in the dimly lit computer lab, but many of them were out in the open, scattered at tables and desks, resting on couches. Not one of them the culprit.

I’d considered it was a figment of my imagination, a sure sign I needed to sleep. I disregarded the matter, onward to caffeine, until the sound came again.

“ Mira ,” they said.

With a snap, I progressed toward the voice, following the checkered floors down a narrow path that led to a row of books.

These withered things probably hadn’t seen the light of day in years.

Edging closer, I bobbed between the empty rows, catching the unsteady sound of breath until the very thing altered into a deep, throaty chuckle.

A tall figure rose in the last row. Panic struck me, my chest warming against the heirloom clasped around my neck.

I questioned my judgment, wondering how it’d been so easy for me to walk hastily into a trap.

Foolishness at its finest. All that changed when the figure shuffled from the shadows. It was Seven.

“Damn you,” I sputtered, flooded with relief. I wanted nothing more than to punch him in the arm from the headache he’d caused.

A quiet laugh, and then, “Hi,” he said, his mouth curving at the sight of me. It was that smile and those alluring eyes. Utterly irresistible. A sliver of the sun beamed on his deep brown skin, and I noticed how he regarded me—a look too long to simply be friends.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, pointing out the obvious. I’d rather a ghost than whatever I believed was after me.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered, peering around to see if we’d disturbed anyone. The library rules were simple: No talking on the second floor.

Seven closed the distance between us before leaning against a row. His curls pulled into a high puff, a fresh taper fade on the sides and back. He was dressed simply: a black knit sweater and jeans. The start of a gold chain at the collar of his shirt grasped my attention.

“What do you mean ‘what am I doing here’?” He tilted forward, and my breathing hitched at the sudden closeness. “I’m in the library studying just like everyone else,” he continued. “Unless you’re under the impression that football players don’t study?”

I pursed my lips. “Don’t get it twisted. That’s not what I meant.”

A line creased his brows. “I mean, I don’t know, Mira. You didn’t even agree to come to my first game,” he teased.

“I can’t say yes to every guy who asks me out.”

He paused. “Are many of them … asking you out?”

No. Not even slightly, but I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I dropped my shoulders and broke his gaze. Less was more. Not that I knew. I’d had the worst luck when it came to dating, but I’d seen it depicted in movies and books.

“But listen, I never said I wasn’t going to your first game—just that it was a ‘maybe.’”

He laughed. “Semantics, girl. Semantics. The real question is, what are you doing here?”

I scrunched my nose, deciding how much of the truth I wanted to share.

Stevie was hosting a study party in our dorm, and the environment was overstimulating.

Amid my despair, I’d reached out to Bobby again, but he hadn’t responded.

I’d rehearsed how I’d inform him on all that occurred, how I’d gently ease him into the idea of Rena returning, like introducing a puppy to a warm bath—but each time it ended with him falling apart.

And I knew that coddling would only hurt him; I needed to rip the bandage away quick and easy, but still, I was unsure how.

Alternatively, I needed solace while I researched the phrase amor vincit omnia . It was crucial to grasp why Rena had used that phrase when it was so deeply embedded in the folklore of our town. Much too precise to be unintentional.

In my exploration, I’d gathered that the phrase originated from a Roman poet who’d been born around 70 B.C. It was written in his first work, Bucolica. The initial phrase was Omnia vincit amor: et nos cedamus amori. Translated to: Love conquers all; let us, too, yield to love.

Within this work, the words were spoken by a man named Gallus on his deathbed. He’d gone terribly mad from lovesickness, and when the god Apollo asked him why he continued this way, he simply responded: Love conquers all.

So, in response to Seven, I settled with: “Researching Roman history.”

He rocked on his heels. “Impressive.” There was a beat of silence, followed by the clearing of his throat. “About next Saturday …”

I hid a laugh, pressed my lips together. “My friends are performing during halftime. I’m obligated to be there.”

“Cheer?”

“Dance team.”

“Oh, right, right. Where are they this evening?”

“Study party.”

“And you weren’t invited?”

“I was, but it was a bit too distracting,” I said, and when I did, I noticed Seven’s gaze was locked on my pendant, at least that’s where I hoped his eyes were fixed to. I’d been sleeping with it on, forgetting it was there.

He took a step closer, grasping the opal between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s really beautiful,” he said. A surge of heat came with his touch, like an ember. “Looks like you have some competition,” he uttered, motioning to the necklace. “But don’t worry. You’re certainly in first place.”

Warmth spread from my cheeks, to my nose, to the tips of my ears.

I felt like a bumbling fool, unsure of how to respond.

Seven was proficient at testing the waters.

He had a natural charisma that made being near him feel so simple.

I’d been admired by others—despite my unfortunate, very much inherited, resting bitch face—and I was cognizant of my general attractiveness, but never had I acquired a compliment that made me feel like this.

“Thank you,” I said, because it was the respectful thing to do. “It’s a family heirloom.”

Seven released the pendant to pull his chain from his shirt.

“I have one, too.” It dangled in front of me, and I reached for it, brushed my thumb over the golden plait with an ankh carved in the center.

I was vaguely familiar with the Egyptian symbol; I’d seen it before in a high school history book.

“It’s for protection,” Seven said, sharing a gentle smile. “Everyone in my family has one.”

“Protection against what?” I begged to know. I recalled Seven mentioning how his mother was superstitious, and perhaps his entire family was a bit religious, but in the case that they weren’t …

“Against evil,” he murmured, and then he tucked the chain into his shirt. “If you ever need me to walk you back to your dorm, I—”

“What’s up, Sev!” Two football players rounded a corner, startling us both. Seven shushed them, but they continued in laughter as they passed by.

It was interesting that, as a freshman, Seven was already well-liked, but I supposed it was attributable to his quarterback title—that and potentially nepotism.

But the fact that Seven was so well-known made me wonder if he knew anything about Julian, or if they ran in the same circles.

They were built similarly, and there was a chance Julian played football.

The biggest difference was that Seven was much taller, leaner.

If I hadn’t known he was in football, I would have suspected basketball, based on his height alone.

“Do all your friends call you Sev?”

“The ones that know me well.”

Seven’s gaze drifted to my mouth. “I like that,” I said. “It’s cute.”

He stammered his words. “You can, um … you can call me Sev, too.”

“I don’t know if I know you that well.”

“But we’re friends, right?”

I smiled at him, nodded. “Right. Speaking of … do you know Julian?”

“Julian? Juju Kipp? Tight End?”

“No. Julian Santos.”

A hardness set in his face, and I steadied myself. He examined the premises before meeting my eyes. “He’s not a good guy.”

I lowered my voice, softened it so I wouldn’t sound so eager. “What do you mean by that?”

His throat bobbed. “I mean, he’s nothing but bad news, Mira.”

“In what way?”

“His vibes are off,” he whispered, and I wondered why he was so quiet about this when it was clear that no one was close enough to listen in on our conversation.

“I’m not someone who would ordinarily tell you who you should or shouldn’t be friends with …

but in my experience with him, I’m telling you it’s not worth it.

He’s someone who will double-cross you with no remorse.

He—” He stopped himself, nostrils flared.

The mention of Julian had ripped at something dark inside him.

It beckoned the shadows, though I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said curtly, and then he scanned the room again, as if he’d been called.

There was no one, nothing but rigid air.

“ Hey ,” I whispered. Something in me wanted to reach for him, place a hand on his shoulder.

But this interaction served as a reminder that I didn’t know him, not well enough.

“Did I do something to offend you? I’m not sure how you meant that to come out, but it was kind of rude … ”

Seven eased up, stepped back. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t trying to be rude.

Julian and I aren’t friends. We have a complicated past, and sometimes I let that get the best of me.

” He took a breath, and there was a break in his face, the light returning as a dimpled smile emerged.

“It was nice seeing you Mira, and I’m serious, if you need someone to walk you back to your dorm, let me know, okay? ”

I nodded, not at all settled about his reaction. “Okay,” I mumbled.

“See you around,” he said, and then he was gone.

I headed for the staircase, bewildered by what had taken place, until I came to a halt. Not a voice this time, but a sign. A literal one. I’d missed it before, but taped outside the restrooms was an ivory poster with an official university seal printed at the bottom.

Large and bolded were the words: Stay Safe. Be Alert.

The poster warned of the animal attack in the city. It advised students to stay away from local parks during nightfall.

There was a squeezing tightness in my chest. A panic that urged me to call Bobby. The line rang and rang until it sent me to voicemail.