CRESCENT MOON RISING

CHAPTER ONE: The bus dropped Sasha Laurent at the bottom of a hill and drove away, leaving her alone with two suitcases and a growing sense that she'd made a terrible mistake. She watched the taillights disappear around a curve, swallowed by the dense Vermont forest, and felt the last thread connecting her to the normal world snap. No more city buses. No more familiar streets. No more grandmother waiting at home with tea and that look—the one that said I'm worried about you, but I trust you to figure it out. Grandma was gone now. Had been for six months. And Sasha was still waiting for the grief to stop feeling like a physical weight on her chest. Veritas University was not what the brochure had promised. The glossy pamphlet that had arrived in her mailbox three months ago—sent by someone who knew exactly where she lived, exactly when her grandmother died—had shown manicured lawns, smiling students, buildings that looked like they belonged in a prestige drama about rich kids finding themselves. Golden hour lighting. Laughing friends. The promise of belonging. What Sasha found was a winding dirt road that disappeared into darkness, a gate made of wrought iron twisted into shapes that might have been trees or might have been reaching hands, and a sign that read: VERITAS UNIVERSITY Founded 1692 Knowledge is Light 1692 The same year as the Salem witch trials. Sasha's grandmother had always said witches were good at hiding in plain sight. We've had centuries of practice, child. When they burn us, we learn to blend in. When they hunt us, we learn to disappear. When they forget us, we build universities and call them sanctuaries. She'd said it with a smile, but her eyes had been sad. Ancient. Like someone who remembered things no one should have to remember. Sasha grabbed her suitcases and started walking. The road wound uphill for what felt like miles. Her arms ached. Her lungs burned. The October air had that sharp bite that promised winter was coming, and her jacket—a thin thing she'd grabbed in a hurry, not thinking about Vermont cold—was definitely not warm enough. Her breath misted in front of her face. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches skeletal against the darkening sky. You could still turn back, a voice whispered. The same voice that had kept her safe for twenty years. The voice of hiding, of survival, of don't let them see you. You could walk back to the highway, find a ride to the nearest town, disappear again. You've done it before. But turning around wasn't an option. Turning around meant going back to Portland, back to the apartment that still smelled like her grandmother's lavender sachets, back to the life she'd been living since she was seven years old—hiding, always hiding, never knowing who she really was. Grandma had hidden for seventy years. And what had it gotten her? A small apartment. A few friends who never knew the truth. A granddaughter who learned to lie before she learned to trust. Sasha wanted more than that. Veritas was supposed to be different. Veritas was supposed to have answers. The trees thinned suddenly, and Sasha stopped walking. The university sprawled before her like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Gothic stone buildings with arched windows and climbing ivy, their spires reaching for a sky that had gone purple with approaching dusk. A quad of impossible green grass, so perfectly maintained it looked artificial. Students crossing between classes, laughing, talking, glowing with the kind of effortless beauty that only came from supernatural DNA. A girl with hair that floated around her head like she was underwater. A boy whose eyes flashed gold when he laughed. A professor whose robes billowed despite the lack of wind. In the center of it all rose a clock tower that looked ancient and new at the same time, its face catching the last light of the setting sun. Frozen at 11:47. Sasha's stomach clenched. She didn't belong here. She could feel it in her bones, in the way her magic stirred nervously under her skin, in the way her wolf—the part of her she was still learning to acknowledge, still terrified of accepting—pressed against her ribs like it wanted to run, to hunt, to be free. Control is everything, Grandma's voice echoed. Without control, you're just a weapon waiting to go off. Sasha pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat, the quieter thrum of the magic beneath it, the almost imperceptible other that was her wolf. All of them contained. All of them controlled. For now. Too late now, she told herself. You're here. Make it work. She hauled her suitcases toward the nearest building, hoping someone would tell her where to go. The wheels bumped over cobblestones, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet evening. Students glanced at her as she passed—curious glances, assessing glances, glances that lingered a beat too long before sliding away. She was halfway across the quad when a voice stopped her. "New student?" The voice came from her left, low and smooth as honey. Sasha turned— And forgot how to breathe. The man leaning against the stone archway was beautiful. Not handsome in the way of magazine covers or movie stars, but beautiful in the way of old paintings—timeless, deliberate, like someone had spent centuries perfecting every line of him. Dark hair fell across his forehead in careless waves. His eyes were the color of aged whiskey, warm and deep and old in a way that made her think of forests and castles and things that should stay buried. His mouth curved in a smile that suggested he knew exactly what effect he was having and found it mildly amusing. He wore a simple dark sweater and jeans, clothes that should have looked ordinary but somehow looked like they'd been designed specifically for him. His hands were in his pockets. His posture was relaxed. Everything about him said I have all the time in the world. Which, Sasha realized with a jolt, he probably did. Vampire. Had to be. No one else moved with that kind of grace, radiated that kind of stillness. "You're staring," he said, and his voice was even better up close—a low rumble that seemed to vibrate somewhere in her chest. Sasha snapped her mouth shut. Heat flooded her cheeks. "I'm—sorry. Yes. New student. I'm looking for Hawthorne Hall?" "First-year dormitory." He pushed off the archway and moved toward her, and god, the way he moved—like water, like smoke, like nothing human should be able to move. "You're heading the wrong way. Hawthorne is on the east side of campus, past the library." He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell him—something warm and spicy, like cloves and old books and rain on stone. "I could walk you. If you'd like." Every survival instinct Sasha had spent twenty years developing screamed at her to say no. To thank him politely and find her own way. To not get involved with anyone, especially not an ancient vampire who looked at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. But she was so tired of saying no. So tired of hiding. So tired of being alone. "Yes," she heard herself say. "Thank you." He fell into step beside her, matching her pace even though she suspected he could have crossed campus in seconds if he'd wanted to. He didn't offer to carry her suitcases, which she appreciated. Didn't treat her like she was fragile or helpless. Just walked beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I'm Lucien," he said. "But everyone calls me Luc." "Sasha." "I know." At her look, he smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes—creased them at the corners, made him look almost human. "New students are big news here, Sasha. Especially ones who arrive alone, three days before the semester starts, with no one to meet them." His eyes flicked to her, assessing but not unkind. "You're either very brave or very lost." "Maybe both." "Maybe." They walked in silence for a moment, past buildings that seemed to breathe with hidden life. Through a window, Sasha saw a classroom where students sat in a circle, hands linked, a faint blue glow rising from their joined palms. In another, a girl practiced what looked like martial arts, except she was moving too fast to follow, a blur of motion against the stone walls. "What's your major?" "Photography." Luc's eyebrows rose. "Photography. At a university known for its supernatural studies program." "I'm not here for supernatural studies." The lie came automatically, smooth as breathing. "I'm here for a normal education." "No such thing at Veritas." He guided her around a corner, and suddenly they were facing a building covered in ivy so thick it looked like the walls had grown fur. Windows glowed warm in the gathering dusk. A few students sat on the front steps, talking and laughing. "Hawthorne Hall. Home of the artists, the outcasts, and the students who couldn't get into the main dorms." He gestured at the door. "You'll fit right in." Sasha wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult. "Thanks for the help." "It was my pleasure." He stepped closer, and suddenly the air between them felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. Close enough that she could see the faint patterns in his irises, the way they seemed to shift and swirl like smoke. "I hope I'll see you around, Sasha. Veritas can be... overwhelming. It helps to have friends." His eyes held hers, and for a moment she felt like he could see straight through her—past the lies, past the walls, past everything. "Especially friends who understand what it's like to be different." Then he was gone, moving away with that impossible grace, disappearing around a corner before Sasha could think of anything to say. She stood there for a long moment, heart pounding, magic humming, wolf restless. What the hell was that? And why did she already want to see him again?