For a moment if feels like we’ve left my stomach behind as the craft jets up into the cloud-scudded cerulean sky. E.J’s eyes flick to my hands, knuckles paling as I grip my armrests.

“Take it back a notch, Somi,” she chides.

The craft slows, and heartbeats later we level out, cruising through fluffy mounds of cloud. With my nose practically glued to the window I watch, eyes peeled for the intermittent view of the ocean. It’s so rich with life out here that I see fins or tentacles breaking the surface with almost every glimpse. We travel northwest, and the clouds grow heavier, darker. The waters below turn gray-green, but the surface teems with activity. Dark flukes, drifting shadows, and patterns of brilliant bioluminescence.

About two hours pass before we begin to dip below the cloud line. Rain drums across the craft, joining the droplets of moisture that already cling to its surface and flowing backward in quivering streams. We tilt a bit, and I peer downward. Below us is a new archipelago, its shape reminding me of a nautilus. No, a gargantuan fossil of one—worn and broken—thrusting up from the churning sea. Towering firs cling to the upper reaches, and between them abounds lush, vivid greenery in a diversity of shades. The architecture that peeks out and towers up from all the growth is old, almost ancient—most of it made of stone.

We follow the curve of the largest island, the central one at the heart of the nautilus-coil, dipping ever downward until we come to a hovering stop above a landing pad atop the island’s largest facility.

After saying our goodbyes to Hornsby, we pile out of the skycraft with our luggage and rabbit-fox in tow. He’s off again an instant, speeding into the streaking rain and looming clouds. Not a drop of water touches us as we cross the roof to the upper entrance, thanks to Somi and Boon’s invisible projection-umbrellas. But before the horned heron spirit shells can say a word, their articulated wings fold with a loud clack to their sides and someone dressed in billowing black and gray charges through.

“Jonathen!”

I stumble backward a bit as the two of them collide, dark meteor to silvery moon. When they pull apart, they’re flushed—the robed one’s face lit with joy, E.J’s a contorted mixture of pain and…relief?

“Hakka,” she breathes.

“It’s been too long fox-face. Much, much too long,” booms Hakka, leaning into E.J. once more to clap her on the back before stepping back.

Then their golden eyes catch on me, and it’s like sun breaking through the clouds. Their smile doesn’t just light their whole face, it lights everything around them.

“You must be Miss Ashwyn,” they say, stepping towards me and opening their arms in offering as E.J. introduces them as Hakkarijo AgaThari, dean of Storm’s Gate and her very good friend. I accept the hug and find myself enveloped in soft fabric, hard muscles, and the intermingled scents of clove and vanilla.

They hold me by the shoulders as they pull away, just as they did with E.J—bright eyes roving over my face. Their skin’s a deep brown, their hair a color that shifts from darkest auburn in the light to raven’s wing black in the shadows, braided in beautifully elaborate knotwork across their scalp and trailing free at the back in a thick tail.

“It’s wonderful to see you both, though I understand the circumstances are…trying. Come, come along now.”

Placing a hand briefly to E.J.’s back and mine, they urge us forward before releasing us once more. Past the spirit shells we go ahead of them, out of the rain and straight into a lift. I’m quiet as the two of them talk on the way down, feeling small next to the immensity of their overlapped presences, their loud, excited voices. But it fills me with bubbling warmth to see how her whole self lights up around this person.

Just as the lift comes to a stop, though, they make it past the essentials of catching up. E.J’s voice quiets once more as she asks “Do you really think he’ll tell us anything?”

“There’s a small chance he might. If you play the game just so.”

The lift opens, and we step out into a long hall, awash at intervals in flickering orange light from clouded-glass and brass lanterns rendered in the shapes of various Lesser Spirits. Our steps our muffled by the rich strip of rug running down the center of the stone floor, black and gray like Hakka’s robes with bits of golden thread glimmering in the shifting light. We don’t stop until we reach the hall’s northern end, where our host shows us through a heavy oaken door and into their office.

At Hakka’s insistence, I let Mittens out of her bag for a bit to sniff around while E.J. and I settle into two of their four high-backed, richly cushioned chairs. Meanwhile, our host turns from us, bustling around at a bar of some sort at the back of the room and returning with a kajhi service set for three.

“Oh spirits,” says E.J, practically moaning as she closes her eyes and inhales the fragrant steam. “I haven’t had kajhi in years.”

“Because you haven’t come to see me in years,” chides Hakka. “It’s not as though you can make it,” they snort, pouring out our servings.

“I can make it,” says E.J. defensively. “It just won’t be drinkable.”

I take the delicate clay cup gratefully, admiring the way the light catches the little veins of gold shot throughout. I’ve always loved the Kohachi Phoenix ceramic style. I’d like to think it’s because I appreciate the idea of destruction as part of the creation process—shattering a piece deliberately only to bring it back together with molten metal. Mostly, though, I just think it’s beautiful. I bring it up to my lips and pause, letting the steam warm my face, scent my next intake breath. Clove and creamy vanilla again, and something at once floral and fruity.

“So then,” says E.J, leaning towards Hakka as I take my first sip. “What’s our strategy?”

~*~

Another hour or so later, E.J. and I sit side-by-side on the inter-isle rail, zipping away from central campus and towards a part of the archipelago called Isle Orca. It’s easy to see where the island got its name. On this end of the archipelago, the thin veins of crystaline white running throughout the island’s foundation of black stone thicken to form pale, rounded patterns. Many of these irregular, black-and-white formations rise from the tossing waters along the shoreline, resembling pods of many-sized whales, frozen forever at the surface.

The buildings, too, are made of cobbled black-and-white stone—their rooftops green with moss and fallen fir needles. We step off the train and E.J. takes my hand, her warmth spreading through my palm. I glance up at her, but her eyes are fixed on the street signs.

“Where was it again? Curses, I—ah, right. This way.”

Mittens claws her way up from her bag to ride on my shoulder as E.J. tugs me off at a rapid clip down the sidewalk, a wide grin spreading across her face.

“Spirits, it feels good to be back,” she says, more to herself than me. We pass shops and cafes and bars, many with apartments over them—the businesses and lodgings of those who serve the students and staff of the archipelago. A small town unto itself. Our path grows steep as we follow Pikestone Street up a hill. Our luggage rolls and bucks over the wet cobblestones behind us, seemingly of their own accord, but in truth another courtesy of our servitors.

“Hope you don’t mind walking,” adds E.J.as we make our slow way upward. “I just really wanted to take it all in.”

“Not at all.”

The buildings give way to low stone walls trying and failing to contain fruit-laden trees and colorful underbrush. Beyond, through the leaves, needles, and rain, I catch glimpses of mossy lawns and water features amidst the fertile chaos.

“I always looked forward to staying at this place, some day. Back then it seemed like the height of luxury.”

At the crest of the hill, the street passes through an arching gate and becomes a circular drive—and set beyond that stands a grand hotel. Porters hurry out to attend us, but there’s nothing for them to do. E.J. tips them anyway. Passing between the heron spirit shells, through the elaborately carved entryway and around an indoor water feature, we roll up to the concierge’s desk.

“Ah, Ms. Butler, Ms. Fleetwood, how wonderful. Welcome, welcome,” enthuses the gentleman, an elderly human fellow with pale skin and dashingly coifed, salt-and-pepper hair. To my surprise, he comes out from behind his lacquered station to embrace E.J. like an old friend.

“Lovely to see you,” he says, pulling away, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles over at me. “Just lovely. Now,” he claps his hands, fingers twining to clasp together in a ball held to his chest. “Let’s get you two rightly settled, shall we?”

The Sun Wolf Suite is part of something E.J. apparently has that the concierge called the Special Guest Lecturer’s Package. It includes its own small kitchen, a broad covered balcony, a living room with enormous wall screen, and two bedrooms—each with their own bathroom. I wilt a bit when I realize this. Of course. Wouldn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

As I gape around at everything, I realize I’m shaking my head.

“What is it?” asks E.J, shrugging out of her jacket.

“This is all so much. I knew the school was more than just a school but this…” I trail off, shaking my head again. I hadn’t let myself learn too much about any of the Umbran universities before, knowing as I thought I did that there was no way I’d ever step foot in one.

“Ah,” she says, padding up behind me as I turn to look out the windows facing the balcony. She places her hands on each of my shoulders, squeezes. “UNI will be like this, someday. A whole little world unto itself. But it won’t be exclusive to the rich and extremely lucky.”

“You were more than just lucky,” I say, putting a hand up to caress hers. “You earned that scholarship.”

“One of only three. Three.” She grits her teeth. I can feel the thoughts building liked damned water behind her tongue, but she keeps them back. I lean into her, the length of my body warm as it presses to hers, and let my head fall onto her breast as her arms snake across mine to pull me even closer.

“Ash,” she breathes into my curls, the word becoming a gasp as I writhe my hips against her. It sounds almost like she’s in pain.

“I know, I know,” I sigh, beginning to pull away.

“No.”

That one syllable is like iron, the same as her arms as they go rigid around my chest, jerking me back, locking me into place.

A thrill runs down my spine, warmth erupts at my core. “No?”

“We need practice,” she says. “I’ve got my collar on. The archipelago has advanced Umbra storm detection and alarms in place. We’ll know well before that’s a problem. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

Storm detection? “I didn’t even know that was possible. How—?”

“If I knew, we’d have it at UNI,” she says, words becoming a growl as one of her hands travels up to clasp my jaw, my throat. “But let’s enjoy it while we can.”

“But my flares…if I have too strong of one—“ Why am I protesting now? Isn’t this what I wanted?

“We’ll go slowly, and not too far. Show me you can control your power. Show yourself. I know you can do it, Ashwyn. You’ve been getting better.”

“Have I?” I try to think back to the past few weeks or even days, but everything’s a rose-colored blur of lust and confusion. I take a deep inward breath.

No thoughts but darkness.

My head lolls back onto her chest once more, eyes closing as my breath escapes me in a long sigh.

No feelings but calm.

But I feel something other than calm as E.J’s right hand travels down between my legs, as the soft pressure of her lips at the base of my neck gives way to cloying pain of her canines pressing into my flesh.

“No taking any bites out, now,” I say shakily. “My professor told me I need to watch out for myself. Something about…self preservation.” I exhale again and bite my lip as she pulls away, the breath of her scoff stroking my skin.

“You’re not the only one practicing control today,” she growls. The next instant, I’m flying up off the ground, hoisted into her arms as she turns toward one of the bedrooms.

We’re two steps away when an angry, rhythmic knock sounds at the main door.

E.J. freezes, muscles tightening around me.

“Fuck,” she says.