Chapter 1
Present Day
Grant
I don’t notice her at first. The lecture hall is massive for Introduction to Folklore, full of barely adults who only know they have to take this class in pursuit of their major which, in some cases, will change before the end of this year.
I don’t take it too personally.
I much prefer the environment of my upper-level elective this fall, a small class on Elven Culture and Mythology, one that I’ve fought to be offered tooth and nail for the past few years. I suspect my success is because one of the board members is actually related to or in communication with the Light Elves themselves.
If there's anything I've learned about the world of magical and paranormal beings, it's that they are adept at hiding in plain sight.
But for now, I walk into the lecture hall to a bleary-eyed smattering of Anthropology, Religious Studies, and Archaeology majors, who all have one thing in common: the hope of an easy pass. It’s only the second class of the semester, and I pride myself in not being a self-important tyrant, having been teaching here for almost ten years. But I’m not a pushover either.
So, I turn to the class, ready to start my lecture with questions on the assigned reading, hunting out a few of the students who look like they didn’t actually just wake up, along with a few who haven’t bothered to put away their phones.
I’m five minutes into my inquisition, a rather light hazing of the students in the far back, when I ask the same question I did earlier this week.
“So that brings us back to this: who decides what is folklore?” It would be a crucial essay question halfway through the semester. The more I force the question to the class, the more I hope they’ll be prepared to use their own words rather than asking an AI bot.
At the silence, I prod, “What is the difference between folklore and religion? Or between folklore and mythology? Remember, last class, we not only discussed what folklore is but also what it—”
My eyes coast from one end of the class to the other, but they snag on a glimmer so familiar that I can’t stop the flex of my hands.
Three rows from the back, a woman sits with her chin propped on her palm, fair hair spilling out from under a ratty ball cap. She is lovely, beautiful in a way that demands a soft approach, a delicate hand. She is also very clearly human.
But between the heartbeats I waste staring at her, I detect a tremble in the air around her, an iridescent flash that turns her skin a pale, impossible opalescent, her hair the white of snow under a full moon.
She winks.
I clear my throat. The entire class is actually paying full attention now, probably wondering why their professor has suddenly gone mute. “Ah, we also discussed what folklore is not.”
I pivot my body and force myself to focus, even though my pulse is hammering in my throat. “Folklore is not synonymous with fiction and is not confined to ancient records or oral history. And it most definitely should not defined as ‘untrue.’”
My next words fall out on autopilot as I try to resist looking back at the student and fail miserably. I am relieved to see that she’s dropped her gaze to the tablet in front of her as she uses a stylus to take notes. What color had her eyes been? From this distance, they could have been any pale shade. Green or blue or something more...other.
It’s only due to running this syllabus several times that I survive lecturing for the rest of the seventy-five minutes allocated to the course. I have to resort to writing useless notes on the whiteboard to keep from looking at that student who is, in fact, one of the very beings we would be studying in my class, glamoured to protect herself.
And of course, she is more than that.
Significantly.
When I finally dismiss the class, not entirely sure if I confirmed or cancelled the quiz next week in answer to a student’s question, I pack my satchel with shaking hands. I breathe through my nose deeply. Then, nothing left to put away, I straighten and look directly at her.
Ah, it’s as I feared.
Aquamarine.
A smile I’ve never seen on her face before curls her lips, and it pulls at something dark and neglected inside me. I start toward the steps leading up to her row.
But then someone plops down in the seat next to her, a giant of a man with sandy hair, tanned skin and white teeth. He throws an arm around the woman, and when she leans her head back to laugh, he plants a kiss on her neck.
No.
I shake my head. Did I say that out loud?
The remaining students still shuffling out don’t appear to notice my furious stillness, the clench of my jaw.
“Hey, Grant,” I hear from the side entrance. I know without looking that it’s Dale Tiller, the adjunct professor who needs this room for his Lit class. “How’s it going?”
Moving my head to address him feels like a thousand cords straining, all attached to that woman. To the man who put his lips on her skin.
“Good morning, Dale,” I say with a stiff smile in his direction. As quickly as I can, I look back at the couple. They’re already walking out the door, leaving without a backward glance.
I stand there so long, torn between following and running, that Dale has to politely ask me to leave so that he can start his class.
