“Politia, Station Fifty-Three—what can I help you with?”

I draw in a lungful of air, but then I taste the dark magic at the back of my throat, and I have to fight another wave of nausea.

All I can manage are a few short words.

“There’s—there’s been another murder.”

I return to the residence hall an hour before daybreak, my body beyond exhausted.

I was questioned for hours, my familiar and I photographed and swabbed for blood and anything else we might’ve picked up from the crime scene while Politia officers scoured my room for additional evidence. My bedroom is still sealed off, but I’m in no rush to see or deal with the tainted blood all over my things.

I’m going to have to bless the shit out of it once I’m allowed to return.

I spend the first hours of the day crying in one of the shower stalls. Nero is in there with me, rubbing his head reassuringly against my leg. On any other day, I’d find this situation beyond fucking weird—my familiar and I taking a shower together to rinse off the blood and dark magic clinging to us.

Not today, however.

All I can focus on is the memory of that dead individual, their organs ripped out, their very blood infused with dark magic. I didn’t see the person’s face or the shimmer of their own lingering magic—assuming they had any to being with. Somehow, that lack of distinguishing features makes the whole thing worse. There’s no personhood to change my horror into grief or sympathy.

I lean my head against the wall of the shower, letting myself cry until I feel empty.

My hands shake as I grab one of the two towels a Politia officer grabbed for me earlier from my room. I wrap the towel around myself, then use the remaining one to wipe down my familiar.

My bones are weary. I ache in places that can’t be healed with ointment and a Band-Aid.

Once Nero and I are dry, we exit the communal bathroom. If there’s one silver lining from this whole shitty experience, it’s that I feel a deeper connection to my panther than ever before.

I guess trauma can do that.

Wearing only a towel, I head down to the second floor, where Sybil’s room is. Then I pause in front of her door, my hair still dripping. I glance down at Nero. My panther stares up at me. Maybe there’s something in my eyes, or maybe he can see my lower lip shaking—something it’s been doing on and off for several hours—but Nero rubs his head against my leg, then leans his body heavily against me.

I catch a sob in my throat and force it down at the show of protective affection from my normally distant familiar.

I run my hand down the side of his face and neck. Turning back to the door, I take a deep breath, and then I knock.

From the other side of the door, I hear Sybil groggily shout, “Go away!”

I want to say something snappy back, but it feels like my throat is lodged with cotton, and the words aren’t coming.

I wait for my friend to get up and answer the door. When she doesn’t, I knock again, this time more insistently.

I hear a groan. “Someone better have died for you to be waking me at this hour.” Sybil’s words carry through the wall.

I lean my forehead against her door. “They have.” My voice comes out softer and hoarser than I imagined. I close my eyes to fight off the images pressing forward in my mind.

There’s a long silence, and I almost think Sybil’s fallen back asleep when I hear the rustle of blankets.

Seconds after I straighten, the door swings open and a bleary-eyed Sybil is squinting at me.

“Selene,” she says, frowning, “what’s going on?”

Keep it together. Keep it together.

“It’s a long story,” I whisper. “Can Nero and I crash in your room for a few hours?”

“You never need to ask,” she says, grabbing my wrist and dragging me inside. She holds the door long enough for Nero to slink in behind me.

The window is open, and her familiar’s perch is empty. I let out a relieved breath at the sight; I don’t want to be dealing with my familiar trying to eat her familiar on top of everything else.

“Need some clothes?” she asks.

“Please,” I say as, next to me, Nero noses the plants that seem to explode from every nook and cranny of my friend’s room.

Sybil riffles through her dresser before pulling out stretchy pants and a T-shirt.

I remove my towel and hang it up, then tug on the clothes. They’re soft and smell like my friend, and once I have them on, I collapse onto her bed.

Sybil comes to the other side of her mattress. “Scooch,” she says, nudging me over.

I crawl under the covers of her bed, making myself at home in my friend’s room as I have so many other times before. Nero comes to my side before lying down on the floor next to me. Sybil slips under the covers.

After a moment, she runs her fingers through my hair. “Are you okay, babe?” she asks softly.

I shake my head.

“Want to talk about it?”

A ragged breath leaves me.

“No,” I admit.

But I end up telling her everything anyway.

The rest of the coven finds out only a few hours later, while Sybil and I watch a baking show on her laptop, the two of us still nestled in her bed.

It’s impossible not to know about this latest murder, considering the number of forensic specialists I’ve heard tromping up and down the stairs, undoubtedly heading into and out of my room to collect and catalog evidence.

Eventually, I drag myself out of Sybil’s room, taking a pen and a few sheets of lined paper so I can attend classes today and take notes.

I don’t know why I bothered to attend today; I sit there and robotically scribble down everything my instructor says. I don’t really process any of it, my body tired, my brain fuzzy.

Why did I have to go out into the Everwoods like some sort of junior detective? I shudder when I think about Nero wandering in that forest alongside a murderer, one who practices the dark arts.

Toward the end of class, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.

Forensics is done with your room. You can return.

Relief and trepidation flood my system.

After class ends, I head back to my house, running my hand over one of the stone lamassu as I walk up to my front door. Once I enter, my heartbeat quickens.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just my room. I’m ready to be reunited with my things.

I head up the stairs and down the hallway, the rooms in my wing of the house awfully quiet. Usually, there’s laughter, or shrieking, or animal vocalizations from my coven sisters’ familiars.

When I get to my door, I hesitate, remembering the blood on my sheets.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, I grab my knob and turn. Opening my door, I step inside, and almost immediately, my nose scrunches at the smell of disinfectant and the layers of faded magic still clinging to my room.

The blood has been scrubbed away from the windowsill and floor, and my bed has been stripped completely—someone’s even performed a sanitizing spell—but I can still sense the faintest traces of dark magic.

The room feels less inviting than when it was bare of all my things.

I blow out a breath.

There’s only one thing to do.

Clean.

It takes several hours to scrub, bless, and ward my room to my satisfaction. Once it’s done, I order myself a new comforter and sheet set, wincing inwardly when I realize I charged more on my credit card than I have in my account.

And I still have to buy Nero more food.

I rub my forehead, a throb building behind my temples. The thing about being poor is that you’re always one minor problem away from ruin.