Bound by Blood

Chapter 2

I managed to calm down by the time I parked my old jeep in front of the Orwell building. One of the older buildings on the Santa Marina University campus, its tinted windows and dark wood siding blended into the gloom beneath the towering redwoods. My advisor, Dr. Annabel Chissaud, occupied an office on the fourth floor, with windows that looked out into the thickly needled boughs of a robust fir.

With a slightly shaking hand, I knocked on her door.

"Enter," she called from within.

She was seated behind her desk, dainty bifocals balanced on the bridge of her nose, making copious marks on some unfortunate student's paper. Her unforgiving pen had already left so many red dashes, lines, and scribbled corrections that it looked like some small animal had been sacrificed on the page, which wouldn't have been that surprising given her office decor. Her field of specialty was African folk magic, and an array of animal skins, bones, masks, and strange implements adorned the walls.

She continued to work without looking up while I sat in the stained, cloth-covered chair opposite her desk. A cave-art themed wall clock counted the seconds with audible ticks that seemed unbearably loud in the prickly silence. At last, she set down her pen, slipped the now thoroughly dissected paper into a folder, and granted me her attention.

Her short gray hair, silvery eyes, sharp features, and diminutive build gave her the aspect of an angry pixy. Which might have been comical in the right setting, but was instead effectively terrifying, especially when she fixed me with her pinning gaze.

"You're late," she said.

I wanted to argue, to make my excuses, but knew it would do no good. If there was one thing Dr. Chissaud did not tolerate, it was lateness.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Chissaud. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Her gaze softened slightly, and I took it I was forgiven. "Now, what do you have for me today?"

I pulled out my papers and began to shuffle through them. "Um, I wrote drafts for two chapters, and researched for a third. I'd like to include some comparisons with the Demotic manuscripts you mentioned last time and the ostraca with the Coptic curses, but I'm not sure..." I trailed off, holding out a limp handful of papers, my drafts and notes, for her to take.

She flipped through them quickly, scanning my paragraphs with her razor gaze. I flinched when she looked up at me. "This is good," she said. "You're doing the work, that's what matters at this point. The worst thing you can do is nothing at all. This might be rough—nothing you'll use in your final draft—but it's something. A solid foundation." She watched me thoughtfully. "How do you feel about it?"

"Good," I said. "I think I'm taking it in the right direction."

She continued to watch me, rather like a hawk tracking the movements of some small, vulnerable creature. "How are you doing personally?" she asked.

"Well enough." I shrugged. This was the part of these meetings I hated. Dr. Chissaud was more than my faculty advisor; she was also my godmother.

She'd known my parents and knew my history. We weren't exactly close, but she'd checked in on me over the years and cared about me as more than just a student, which made her feel obligated to keep track of more than just my research. Neither of us was particularly comfortable opening up on that level, which made these exchanges all the more awkward.

"Are you seeing anyone?" she asked. "Not that I want you distracted from your work, but it's important to have balance."

I shook my head. "No, no one."

"Going out with friends?"

"Not much," I hedged. In truth, not at all. I had a grand total of one friend, and as she was currently attending art school in Rhode Island, she didn't really count.