Odin's Murder (8 page)

8.

Mind

Any hope of an air conditioned reprieve in the liberal arts building is burnt to ash the minute I step through the heavy wood doorway. Dr. Anders’ office is three floors up and my deodorant fails me by the time I find the right hallway. The lights are off, but the door is partially open; I clatter my fingernails on the nameplate, and wish I’d remembered to spit out my chewing gum.

“Miss Erikssen, come in.” He half stands from behind his not-so-large desk. The oak surface is piled high with papers, a leather briefcase, and an opened laptop. “How are you this afternoon?”

I ignore his mess of a tie and his shaggy disaster hair. I should be happy to have a professor who is so relaxed and hip, but his appearance is so grubby I’m afraid to breathe through my nose. As I take the seat he’s offering, I lecture myself for being judgmental, especially since I’d called my brother an ‘obsessive-compulsive whiner’ less than an hour ago. “I’m fine, thank you. Just dealing with this heat.”

“It’s oppressive, isn’t it?” He leans back in his chair, reaches out to the metal box fan—which is doing nothing to the air but making noise—and tilts it toward me. “How goes the project?”

“We’re still trying to get organized. There’s so much information out there that we’ve had a hard time settling into a direction.” I scan the room, taking in the sloppy stacks of books, a laptop with broken hinges balanced precariously on the top of the desk computer, the overflowing trash can; my eyes land on an ornate, wrought-iron bird cage behind his desk.

A black bird sits inside.

I swallow my gum.

“Do you have a thing for crows?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

The bird’s beady eye fixes in my direction. In the shaft of light through the window, its feathers shine with the same iridescence of a black pearl. My latest dream flashes in my mind, desperate claustrophobic images, and the teacher’s office now seems cold, despite the sun.

Dr. Anders glances over his shoulder and smiles. “
Corvus brachyrhynchos
.”

“So why not parrots, or blue jays? Or doves?”

“Jays are actually a form of
corvidae
, did you know that? They’re magnificent creatures, crows and ravens, with a full history, as I’m sure you’ll come to realize in the upcoming weeks.” I do know that, but I say nothing. “I’m excited to see where your co-op project will go, this summer. Maybe you’ll become as fascinated as I am,” he says.

My shirt sticks to my back, clammy and gross. The crow blinks, clacks its beak at a bar and I’m overwhelmed with the need to flee the room and take the bird with me. “Why did you choose us? Our group for the crows?” My voice is a croak in my throat.

“Frankly, because of you, Miss Erikssen.” Dr. Anders turns to a stack of files, rummages through them. Several spill out onto the floor. He turns back, a familiar, glossy red folder in his hand. “While most of the group topics were random, I admit I did choose yours. Largely because of this.” He opens my portfolio and turns to the back, to the final page in my creative writing sample, and holds up the illustrated page. “This is a lovely drawing.
Corvus ossifragus,
the fisher crow. Is your original sketch this size?”

“Oh!” Absurd relief bubbles out of my mouth as laughter. “No, it’s about twice that. We were on a wetlands field trip when I saw him. He was funny. His feathers puffed out when he squawked.”

The bird in the cage makes a noise of contempt, beak in the air, feathers remaining smooth. Dr. Anders and I grin at each other. “Now. About your project.” He sits down. “Your group is still defining your statement?”

“Well, today we talked about working in some of the local legends in the area.”

“That’s an excellent approach.” He spins in his chair, rolling over what looks like my brother’s writing portfolio, and faces a listing shelf. He pulls down a book with one finger. “I have some reading material that might be perfect for you. It’s not very well known, and quite old, but some parts could be pertinent.”

I take the ancient book and turn it over gently. The spine is cracked, the binding peeling away from the cover. “It seems very fragile, are you sure?”

“I have another copy in mint condition,” he says. “This one I don’t mind loaning to students.”

I carefully open the front cover, to a pattern of crows lining the inside flap.  Unease flares in my stomach again, and I shut the book. “What is this?”

He sits in the chair behind his desk. “A treatise on crows in Appalachian folklore and their ties to the Old World. It was written by one of the original professors here at the college.”

“What was his field?”

“Greek mythology.” He smiles at this revelation, a private joke I don’t understand. The bird squawks in its cage, flapping its wings.

I turn the book over in my hands. The decaying paper smells like autumn leaves. “A Greek scholar writing about southern folktales?”

“The parallels may surprise you.” His statement seems like a dismissal. “I think you’ll find some compelling information in there.”

I stand, and wind through piles of books and papers toward the door. “Julian is going to freak out. He would kill to read a book this old.”

Dr. Anders laughs again. “He does seem to be determined to get his hands on every book ever published.”

“Determined? More like fanatical.”

“Well,” he says, digging around a stack of folders on his desk, “He should be pleased with you for bringing this to the discussion.”

“Or furious that you didn’t give it to him first!”

He laughs again. “You’re all equal members of the team. I know things are rough being down a person. Hopefully this will help.”

“It just might,” I say, as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Thank you.”

“See you in class, Miss Erikssen.”

*

“You want to hang out after dinner?” Jeremy whispers across my neck.

“I think I have to go to evening activities.” I blink, pulling up the dorm bulletin board in my mind’s eye. Swimming, Movie Night, and Lawn Chat are the options for this evening. “Don’t you have to supervise us?”

“Do you need supervision?” he asks, hand on my lower back and eyes on my chest.  I can’t blame him. My dress is low cut and shows more than an appropriate amount of my lace bra, but no one ever says I’m appropriate.

“Definitely. Which activity are you assigned to?”

“Movie night.”

I smile and brush the hair from his eyes. “What film are we not watching?”

He smirks into my cleavage. “No idea. Let me go check on my crew and make sure no one burned down the dorm yet.”

“Okay. Save me a seat in the back.” I watch as he jogs across the common area and up the stairs to the boys’ dorm. I don’t usually go for athletic types, but I’d seen him running this morning across campus in the early morning fog, before the heat became unbearable, in nothing but a pair of compression shorts, and, well, that is a memory I replay often. Once he’s inside I go to my own room.

“Hey,” Faye says from her desk. She’s on her laptop for a change, though her desk has five neat piles of tiny leaves.

“How did your date with Ethan go?”

“It wasn’t a date. Not that I wouldn’t date him. I would, I suppose, if there was enough mutual attraction.” She looks up from the computer with a frown. “Though, after this afternoon I don’t feel as though our sexual chemistry is very noticeable. Maybe he has low testosterone—or maybe it’s too high? He does have that warrior thing going on. Tribal soldiers were known to have extreme amounts of testosterone, which made them perform better on the field.”

I think about Ethan and his broad shoulders and the constant anger roiling beneath the surface, wearing medieval armor. “I don’t imagine low sex drive being a problem with that one,” I mutter.

“Oh, do you find him appealing?”

“He’s attractive, I guess.” Attractive as a magnet, though we’re opposites, repelling with that bubble of friction that pushes and spins, misaligned and wrong. “Did you get any photos?”

“Yes.” She nudges the laptop in my direction. “Ethan sent them to me to go over. He seems to use some kind of filter, or a program, I suppose. See how each one has a different tint?”

I lean over and clicking through the photos, one by one. She’s right; there is a strange effect on the images, almost like an aging process. “They’re actually really good, aren’t they?” I push the screen back, but the images still flick through my mind’s eye. “Julian is going to freak about the manipulation. He’ll say it could take away their benefit as primary sources. I suppose Ethan can print them out normally. Did you found anything else interesting?”

“Vitsippa and smörblomma. Nordic varieties of wood anemone and buttercups. They shouldn’t be growing here.” She points to the piles of green stuff. “Don’t touch that one. It’s an inflammatory.”

“I meant about the chapel. Anything we can use for our project?”

“Nothing conclusive. There are some architectural aspects that I should be able to use to date the building. The materials and a few design elements can tell us a bit, but there isn’t much to work with, and what’s there is odd. The whole building seems out of place here, and out of time, too. I’m going to compare it to some other places with similar motifs.”

“Let me know if you need help,” I offer, and she gives me a vague nod, already absorbed in her work. I move over to my bed and open the book Dr. Anders gave me.

*

Jeremy makes good on his promise, and slips into the seat next to mine three minutes after the movie starts. Making out with him in the dark of the student theater is definitely a good way to pass the time. His lips are soft, and full, and he knows how to kiss, hands in all the right places, letting me lead. I’d led him on a fair bit that first night we’d hung out.

“Let me,” he said between kisses, “go check on everything, okay?”

“Sure.”

An auditorium seat behind me squeaks open, and the springs groan. I pull out my powder compact and flip open the mirror to check, wishing Jeremy had the brains to take the last row of seats, but it’s Ethan, not a teacher.

He’s alone. I’d seen him at dinner, stuffing his face while Danielle yammered at him, but he’d disappeared before we all left the dining hall. I roll my eyes and mutter, “Great.”

The movie lights up his face, casting it in an ethereal wash of color. His eyes are in shadow, dark as night, cheekbones high and sharp. For once his body is relaxed. A knot coils in my belly.

Jeremy returns to his seat, throwing an arm over the back of my chair, ready to start back where we left off. I let him, kissing back, but this time, my eyes are open. I know I shouldn’t, but I look at Ethan and dare him to look at me, to see me. It’s only a matter of seconds before he does.

While Jeremy’s lips move to my neck, my eyes are glued to Ethan’s and his to mine. His expression doesn’t change, and the tangle in my stomach tightens, and Jeremy’s kisses on my neck now seem too moist on my skin. I close my eyes, breathing deep to find my way back to the moment. I’m not going to let some angry boy with deadly eyes ruin a good evening.

The hinges of the seat behind us bang in release and light slices the back of the theater as the door creaks open and closed. Ethan is gone. My belly turns hard and cold. I push Jeremy back with two hands on his chest. “Um...I’ll be back.”

Outside, I turn around to look for the boy I cannot stop baiting, and he’s right there, behind me. His eyebrows are light brown, framing the blue eyes stabbing into mine. I press back against the closed door, defensive and annoyed that I let this guy get to me.

“What the hell was that about, Cherry?”

“What?”

“Stop playing games.” He draws away, taking his body heat with him. His head is down and his shoulders are high, tense, like a hawk ready to strike prey.

I pull my hair off my neck, letting the evening breeze cool my overheated nerves, but it doesn’t help; Ethan’s stare is too hot. I keep my face calm, but it takes effort. “I’m not playing games.”

He shakes his head, gestures inside. “Then what was that?”

I have no idea what I’m doing or why I’m pushing him. Our chemistry is crazy fascinating, but he’s oil and I’m water, and there is no blend, no give and take, just surfaces rubbing the wrong way, repellent and opposite. “It’s you. You make me—”

“I don’t make you do anything.” He steps closer.

“I can’t think around you.” I snap my mouth closed, before I blurt out anything else that doesn’t make sense. He smells of soap, and sweat.

“I know the feeling.”

“It’s ridiculous,” I say through clenched teeth.

In my heels, I’m close to his height. His hair has grown out a little and I wonder what the texture feels like. My fingers reach up without my permission, but he catches my wrist and pushes it into my side. His hand is hot and calloused, burning into my skin. He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I raise my chin, challenging him, daring him to say something snide, but then he tilts his head and he presses his lips to mine..

His mouth is heavy and hard, and we’re not oil and water, I’m gasoline, and he’s fire. White flame explodes behind my eyes with a roar, and quill feathers strike across my cheek like nothing I’ve felt in my dreams.

I jerk back, and my vision clears. He’s staring at me, eyes wide, gasping, and I remember to breathe, too. “
What
was that?” My voice is a crow’s rasp. My head pounds and I’m almost nauseous.

He releases my wrist and slides his other hand away from my face. “What did you do to me?” He rubs his temples. “Fuck. My head.”

The music from the movie inside changes, a silly cartoon jangle that makes my brain throb. “It was you, not me!” I close my eyes, and touch my mouth. My lower lip still burns. “Why did you do that?”

His shirt sticks to his chest as he breathes. “I have no goddamn clue.”

The air around me cools, and I know without opening my eyes that he is gone. A glowing red arrow shoots up behind my eyelids, piercing my brain, marring all my memories with its afterburn.