Chapter 9 Visiting Hours (Rowan POV)
The door clanked open, and Professor Winters poked his head in first. "You have a visitor, Rowan. Fifteen minutes only. I'll be right outside if you need anything."
I pushed myself up on the cot, the chains of the silver marks tingling like static under my skin. Ms. Chandler stepped inside next, her cardigan buttoned all the way up, her hands clasped tight around a small orange bottle. She glanced at the door as Winters pulled it shut with a heavy thud, then turned to me, her smile too tight, too quick.
"Rowan," she said. "I came as soon as they allowed. How are you feeling?"
I shrugged, keeping my voice even. "Like I'm starring in my own horror movie. You?"
She didn't laugh. Just shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "This must be terrifying. I can't imagine."
"Try harder," I muttered.
She took a step closer, eyes flicking over my arms where the sleeves had ridden up. "Those marks... they're from the Turning, aren't they?"
"That's what everyone says." I pulled the sleeves down. "Not that I asked for them."
She nodded, but her gaze lingered too long. "Do you remember how it happened? The party, anything at all?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. Black hole. One sip of punch, then poof. Woke up like this."
Her shoulders dropped just a fraction, like she'd been holding her breath. "No flashes? No dreams that feel... real?"
"Why do you care?" I asked. "You're my advisor, not my therapist."
She cleared her throat. "I'm just trying to help. If there's anything you recall, it could make a difference. For the investigation."
"I recall nothing," I said flatly. "Zip. Nada."
She pressed her lips together, disappointment flashing across her face so fast I almost missed it. Then she held out the bottle. "From the health center. Your vitamins. You missed your dose, and with all this stress, you need to keep up. Take them now, it'll help with the headaches, the dizziness."
I took the bottle, turning it over in my hands. "Right now?"
"Yes," she insisted, her voice sharper than usual. "Just swallow them. Water's on the sink."
I hesitated, thumbing the cap. "I'm not really feeling dizzy."
"Rowan," she said, stepping even closer. "Take them. Please. It's for your own good."
Her eyes were wide, almost pleading. I popped the cap, shook two into my palm, and pretended to toss them back with a swig from the sink tap. She watched every move.
"Better?" I asked, wiping my mouth.
She exhaled. "Good. Keep the bottle, finish the course. I'll check back soon."
"Ms. Chandler," I started, but she was already turning toward the door.
"Stay strong, Rowan," she said over her shoulder. "We'll get through this."
She knocked twice. Winters opened up, and she slipped out without another word. The lock engaged with a final click.
I waited ten seconds, counting under my breath. Then I spat the pills into my hand, wet, blue, not dissolving yet. Blue? My vitamins had always been white, plain as chalk. These had tiny markings stamped on them, little numbers, like "47" etched in.
I held one up to the light, squinting. The color was off, too vibrant, almost cobalt. I rolled it between my fingers, then lifted it to my nose on impulse. The scent hit like a wall, bitter, metallic tang mixed with something herbal and sharp, like crushed leaves that burned the back of my throat.
I dropped the pill, heart racing. What was that? I sniffed again, deeper this time. Silver, yes, that sterile bite. And wolfsbane? I'd smelled it once in botany class, the teacher warning us about its toxicity to shifters. This pill reeked of both, layered under a chemical gloss.
My hands shook as I dumped the rest into my palm. All the same, blue, marked, wrong. I swept them into the toilet and flushed, watching them swirl away.
The room felt smaller after that. I paced the narrow space, three steps one way, three back, trying to shake the unease. Ms. Chandler had never pushed like that before. Probing my memories, insisting on the pills right then. And that disappointment when I said I remembered nothing? Like she'd expected something else.
I stopped at the sink, splashed water on my face. The drops felt colder, sharper against my skin. I could hear them hitting the basin like tiny drumbeats.
By dinner, some bland tray slid through the slot, my head was pounding, but not from pain. From clarity. Jackson's footsteps outside were louder, each boot scuff distinct. The food smelled stronger, salt, starch, a hint of spoilage on the bread. I pushed the tray away untouched.
Night fell slow, the lights dimming to a low hum. I lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling beams. The buzz of the fluorescent wasn't just noise now, it vibrated in my bones. Down the hall, someone typed on a keyboard, keys clacking like gunfire. A coffee machine gurgled two rooms away, the scent of burnt grounds wafting through the vents.
I sat up, rubbing my temples. Everything amplified. The air carried traces I'd never noticed, dust motes, faint bleach from the floors, even the metallic edge of the bars on the window.
And inside me, that rumble again. Deeper. The silver marks glowed faintly in the dark, warmer, like they were alive.
I inhaled slow, testing. The pill bottle, empty now, crushed in the trash, still lingered in the air. That same mix: silver's cold bite, wolfsbane's acrid green.
Suppressants. Had to be. Why else push them so hard? Why the probing questions?
I curled my fists, nails digging into palms. My senses weren't dulling, they were sharpening. Without those pills, whatever was locked inside was waking up.
The wolf stirred, a low thrum in my chest. Not threatening. Curious.
I closed my eyes and listened, to the academy breathing around me, to the secrets humming in the walls.
Whatever Ms. Chandler was hiding, it wasn't staying hidden much longer.