Page 8 of Coveted

What a polite prank, though creepy.

How did he know where I’m staying? I barely knew.

“Name?” repeats the girl in the same dull tone.

“Sadie Marlowe.”

“Oh, here you are.” She taps her clipboard. “Room eleven.”

“Cool.”

She hands me a key. “You’re the last of your roommates to arrive. Orientation activities run all week. And remember, when you meet a ghost in the hallways at night, recite the school motto in reverse three times or else.”

I pause. “Or else what?”

“You’ll never leave this campus.” She winks. “Welcome to Darkbloom.”

I slip the key into my pocket. “Thank you.”

The baggage thief must’ve asked a volunteer for my dorm while I spoke to the student advisor, Chuck.

Gripping my key, I wander to find my room.

The hallway of polished oak and brass definitely feels like a home to ghosts. Walking through here at night must be nerve-racking.

Walking through here now is nerve-racking, because I’m about to meet two strangers who’ll be my roommates.

My social skills are so rusty. I worked through high school, then dropped out of community college to look after my mom. Building friendships was never a priority, but I want that to change now that I’m here.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I knock.

Almost at once, a yell comes from inside. “I bet that’s her!”

Moments later, the door swings open.

I’m greeted by the caramel-haired girl I saw outside with the antique lounge.

“Hey, I’m Juliette.” She beams. “Are you our roomie?”

“I’m Sadie. I’m her. I mean, I’m she.”

God freaking dammit. What is wrong with me?

But Juliette seems unbothered by my awkwardness.

“Awesome!” She takes one of my bags and ushers me inside. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve been decorating all day.”

Another girl with long dark hair and black clothing waves at me. “I’m Clara. We were just saying we hope you like candles, because we might’ve gone overboard.”

Juliette’s antique lounge sits under a window overlooking the grounds and shadowy forest beyond, and the worn floorboards are partly covered by an equally worn Persian rug.

The living area has potted ferns, enough guttering candles to light a cathedral, and cozy old armchairs around a fireplace. Three arched doorways lead to what must be our bedrooms.

“No such thing as overboard where candles are concerned,” I say.

The place is beautiful. So much more homey than I expected.

A strange feeling twists in my stomach, because I don’t know if I deserve this.