Page 33

I write:

Kárr inn gamli (Kárr the Old)—draugr

Glam the revenant

Lord of the Rings–Nazgûl

As the students file in, I murmur soft good mornings. I do feel badly for these kids. They’re, what, all of twenty-one? Awake for an 8 AM Classics course on a Sunday? Preston truly takes no days off. They knew that coming in, I remind myself. I remember those days keenly, when I didn’t know what I wanted to study, and thus felt every page of work weigh on me. I would have gladly taken weekend classes to get ahead, too.

But as I look across my room of twenty students, it’s hard to see myself in those sleepy, bored eyes. Not with the grave of my dead friend only four stories over my head.

Focus.

Swallowing hard, I clear my throat. The hush of voices dies.

“Good morning, all. So good to see you.” There’s a soft chorus of replies, and I give them a slight smile. It’s not my job to be their friend, and yet I feel the urge. “Good, good. I’m glad.

“Today, we are discussing the fascinating instances of the undead in Grettis saga, or Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. You all read, I am sure.” Offering them a wink, I turn to the board. “What can we glean from this harrowing, bloody tale about strongman Grettir? Anything will do. Just shout out your impressions.”

“Bloody.”

“Outlaw.”

“Murder.”

“Terrifying.”

The words come and I write them quickly beneath my own notation. “Yes, these are all perfect to describe the story as a whole, and Grettir, our protagonist. He sees himself as quite the hero, don’t you think?”

My brain goes on autopilot. This was my dissertation focus, and I know the saga like my own hands. “Speaking of terrifying. What of the undead? There are several instances in this saga alone. But for our purposes, we will be discussing Kárr, a wight, and Glam, the latter killed by Grettir himself at Yuletide when…”

My eye is drawn to movement behind the door of the seminar room. Behind the part-frosted glass, Marcella and Arjun are speaking. Her hand is on Arjun’s arm, and she’s looking at him with wide, understanding eyes, her lips a frowning pantomime of concern and grief.

He gesticulates, his voice a muffled whisper, then lays his hand on top of hers. She leans in, a dreamy look on her sharp features.

A scream barrels its way into my throat, my teeth snapping shut to catch it. How dare he touch her? How dare she let him? Reconnaissance, indeed, but does it have to look so … so cozy? My mouth fills with acidic spit, and I recognize this emotion for what it is: jealousy.

I have no right, do I?

“Um, hello?” A boy in what appears to be pajamas interrupts my thoughts. When my eyes snap back to the door, Arjun and Marcella are gone. “What were you saying?” He holds a pen over his notebook, poised and ready for my next sentence.

Shit.

I offer a shaky smile to the class, scrambling. “Oof, I’m sorry. Seems like Saturday night got to me. Not enough sleep, too much wine.” That evinces a chuckle from the room—trust it to weekend students to get it—and I clear my throat as I turn back to the board. “Anyway, the undead…”

EIGHTLacie

The day has heathered into late afternoon, storm clouds gathering on the horizon behind Preston’s Gothic buildings. If I wasn’t so pissed with Marcella for kowtowing to Arjun, it would be the perfect moment to invite her to the Perk. But no. I’m hoping to slip away from her, to talk to her when my brain feels less like it’s on fire, but no such luck.

She’s waiting for me outside Classics, her pantsuit not even creased from a full day’s work. She’s playing with something: a bit of string, her deft fingers folding a cat’s cradle, then releasing it. Form, release. Form, release. Her oxblood nails catch the string, cupping the white fibers in shadow.

All I can think is how precise she is, how focused, her eyes flashing as she gives herself a puzzle of knots to untangle.

It’s impossible not to think of her fingertips trailing over my skin, and I give myself a sharp shake. Think of how she was with Arjun.

Anything but this.

Setting my jaw, I quip, “Hi.”