Page 12 of Love Immortal

Eleven

A fter several days of flashing police lights and officers making inquiries, their presence on campus starts to diminish. Not even a week later, the cruisers are gone, further convincing me that the patrols were mostly for show. Despite the fact that there’s no public update on the murder investigation and no suspect has been apprehended, the palpable edginess in the air starts to dissipate as well.

Although the stupid legacies seem to have missed the memo to chill.

They all skip accounting on Tuesday. On Thursday, Callahan smashes his shoulder into me while pretending not to see me on his way out of the auditorium. I might believe his subpar acting if not for Trish and Mads Jr.’s snickers at my pained yelp of surprise. Those jerks! My banged-up back has barely healed.

Eric doesn’t laugh, though. Something is still off about him. He looks even worse than he did in Gothic lit, like he’s about to be sick and he’d rather be anywhere in the world but here. Still, he trails behind his asshole friends without protest like a loyal puppy. Whatever is happening to him serves him right, I guess.

On Friday evening I get my first closing shift at the library. Dean Wilkins hasn’t officially lifted the curfew, and between that and the intensifying, chilly drizzle, the place is deserted by seven. I diligently hover around the front desk, but when no patrons show up for a solid half hour, I decide to spend some time checking out the glass box. If anyone needs me, I won’t be far.

I swipe my key card and head to the third level, where we store our oldest texts. Usually, I’m too busy to browse the shelves, but this is my chance to touch history. I walk slowly down the row of bookcases, letting my fingers lightly graze the spines of old tomes, some leathery and smooth, some etched in gold and covered with a fine layer of patina. I inhale deeply and smile—I love the smell of books. There is something comforting and nostalgic about it. Seemingly so fragile, these pages have held history, have seen so much—wars, natural disasters, persecutions, burnings—and yet they’ve survived. If magic existed in the world, it would be in a place like this. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear them talking to me like a welcoming circle of friends.

I stop in front of one of the shelves and pull out a hefty illuminated manuscript. Inside, the pages are decorated with many colorful miniatures. I let my fingers gently trace the ink. There is so much I can tell about the book just from looking at it. For example, this one is written in black letter, a narrow, more economical style of handwriting developed to replace the round letters of Carolina minuscule, which was very labor-intensive and required more page space. The handwriting dates this manuscript to between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries. Its velum pages have yellowed with time—and yes, there is some bookworm damage—but the drawings and gold accents are well preserved.

I skim the pages, wondering if any of the drawings depict knights battling monster snails. I heard my professor mention this in my art history class last semester. Why on earth would there be pictures of monster snails in medieval manuscripts? Well, nobody knows exactly. One popular hypothesis is that snails were used as a slur for the Lombard moneylenders, who were starting to set up pawnshops around Europe. It was a type of business that skirted legality, as most types of loans were outlawed by the Christian church. Another less popular theory is that the snails were just a weird inside joke among scribes. Anyway, at a cursory glance, this book doesn’t contain any. It does, however, have a drawing of a shaggy guy laying eggs into a basket like a chicken. Another head-scratcher courtesy of the scribes.

I chuckle and close the tome, but as I try to return the manuscript to its place, I spot a pair of black eyes gazing at me from the other side of the shelf through the gap between books.

Is that…?

Suddenly, the lights flicker, and a big, lithe shadow darts away. The movement is so quick that it’s like there was never anything on the other side of the shelf at all.

Startled, I drop the book.

In a complete panic, I look down, terrified I might’ve damaged an invaluable twelfth-century relic, but instead, I find a graceful hand holding it in a sure grip.

“You’d best be careful with these.” Dacian Bathory straightens up and offers the book to me. His dark eyes are as impenetrable as ever, but there’s a hint of amusement in the curve of his mouth. I blink. I could’ve sworn it was him on the other side of the shelf just now. But how could that be? There is no way he could’ve gone around so fast—the shelves are at least ten feet long. I must be seeing things.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified about nearly damaging a book I’m supposed to protect. “I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“It’s quite all right. It will be our secret,” he suggests smoothly.

“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the book from his hand. Inadvertently, the tips of my fingers brush his. Cold , I notice briefly before a swell of warmth rushes up my neck. “Um, weren’t you just—” I start to say.

“Wasn’t I what?” he asks intently.

For a moment I feel confused, unsure if I’m still seeing things. Deep in the recesses of my mind, I realize that I often feel like this when I’m around Mr. Bathory. Like I’m not quite in control of myself. Like I’m treading on a frozen river and the ice under my feet might crack at any moment, plunging me mercilessly to my death.

“N-nothing,” I stutter, shaking my head. He releases his hold on the book, and the tiny point of skin contact between us disappears. I put the manuscript back on the shelf. “Are you looking for something, Mr. Bathory?”

“Ah, I am indeed. I waited at the front desk, but no one was there, so I let myself in.”

Another wave of embarrassment crashes over me. I swear I shut the door behind me, and only library employees are supposed to have access to this area. It's not like Mr. Bathory is any danger to these books, but still, I wouldn’t want to explain this mishap to Ms. Tarnow. “Sorry,” I say. “I thought I’d look at the books for a bit, but I lost track of time.”

A small smile graces Mr. Bathory’s lips as he glances at the shelves with a kind of wistfulness that tugs at my heart. “No need to apologize, Mr. Evergreen. I, too, find it treacherously easy to get swept away by ancient stories…” He trails off, still gazing at the books, and I’m suddenly irresistibly tempted to get lost in there with him.

“So, what can I help you find?” I ask.

“Oh, right.” Mr. Bathory snaps out of his daze. “The first edition of Poe’s The Raven and Other Poems , published by Putnam in 1846.”

My eyes widen. “Really? I didn’t know we had something like this. Let’s find where it is.”

I usher Mr. Bathory back to the computer at the front desk and search the database. I can’t help but smile at the results. “We do have it!” I don’t bother to hide my excitement as I all but run to the second level of the glass box and reemerge with a first edition of one of the most famous poems of the nineteenth century.

To my delight, the expression on Mr. Bathory’s face mirrors mine. “Would you like to look at it with me?” he asks.

His invitation genuinely surprises me. “Would that be all right?” I ask.

“It is one of the works I chose for your upcoming assignment, so yes, it would be quite all right,” he says coyly.

I try to hold back a grin as I follow him to a reading table near the window. The overhead lights are dimmed at this hour, but the table and the dark oak wainscotting are cast in the warm glow of a pair of green glass lamps, making the space feel like a cozy cocoon. Dacian pulls out two chairs next to each other and offers one to me. There’s a swirl of anticipation in the bottom of my stomach as I sit down.

“The cover is not original,” he says with a crease of disappointment between his perfect eyebrows.

“The catalog said it was rebound in the early nineteen hundreds and the spine was repaired. But it’s a real Zaehnsdorf,” I add, hoping that fact will make up for the absence of the original cover.Beginning in the mid-nineteenth century, Zaehnsdorf was considered one of the finest binderies in London. This book was treasured by whoever commissioned them to rebind it. The cover is a work of art—rich burgundy with elaborate inner dentelles, raised bands, black Morocco spine labels, and the title lettered in gilt.

“It is lovely,” Dacian admits, letting his graceful fingers glide enticingly along the edges. My eyes follow the movement, mesmerized. “Just a shame the original pink wrappers haven’t been preserved. I suppose they were rather delicate.”

“Gosh, how do you know all this, Mr. Bathory?” I say, and instantly get embarrassed about it. I was stingy with praise when Fiona pestered me to admit I was impressed with how much Mr. Bathory knows about books, but I truly am in awe of him now. “I mean, not just what the first edition of The Raven looked like. You always quote novels in class like you have them memorized.”

Mr. Bathory’s dark eyelashes flicker. For a moment I have this strange feeling that he wishes to take back what he said, although I’m not sure why. “The truth is, I spent a long time in a very isolated place with nothing but a small library to entertain me,” he says warily. “It seems I’ve read some of those books too many times. The words got stuck in my head.”

This answer completely mystifies me. What does Mr. Bathory mean by spending a long time in an isolated place? Does he mean he was imprisoned? That just doesn’t seem plausible. Besides, how many days would one have to spend poring over books to be able to recite them from memory? But before I can prod further, he continues, “And in the case of The Raven , I know what the first edition looked like because I was once in possession of one.”

I try not to let my jaw hit the floor. From my quick glance at the catalog, I recall that only fifteen hundred copies were printed. How many of those survived? It must have cost a fortune. But the longing softness in Mr. Bathory’s voice leaves me with no doubt that he’s telling the truth. Then, a shadow passes over his face. “However, I lost it under the most unfortunate circumstances.”

I simply can’t comprehend the idea of owning something that valuable and then losing it. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I manage awkwardly after several seconds of stunned silence.

A melancholic smile graces Mr. Bathory’s lips. “I suppose that makes tonight’s reunion all the more special.”

With careful reverence, he opens the book, and once again, I’m magnetically drawn to the smooth movements of his long, elegant fingers. I was supposed to explain how to handle rare books, but I honestly forgot, vacillating between flustered and excited, as I so often feel around him. Although it doesn’t seem like Mr. Bathory needs a lecture from me, since he has owned antique books himself. Gently, he flips the slightly yellowed but otherwise wonderfully preserved pages to the start of the titular poem.

“Would you like me to read this to you?” he asks.

The offer is so unexpected that I find myself speechless. I even replay it in my head to make sure I heard him correctly. No one has ever offered to read a poem to me. I sneak a glance at him. From this angle, his eyes are obscured by wisps of his dark hair, and he doesn’t raise them from the book to meet mine, to trap me again in their endless depths. Something about this feels significant, though I cannot immediately grasp why.

“I’d love nothing more,” I finally reply, my voice trembling a little for some reason.

If Mr. Bathory notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he nods and then begins to read. “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary … ”

As the words leave his mouth, something in me starts to unravel. He speaks with a slow, heavy somberness that makes me feel the weight of every line as it settles into the plush half-darkness surrounding us. Cold rain pounds against the arched windows of the library, seemingly cutting us off from the rest of the world as Mr. Bathory’s voice fills all the available space. He still doesn’t look at me—he keeps his eyes trained on the page—but it’s obvious he’s not really looking at it. He must know “The Raven” by heart, and he recites the stanzas with such a profound sense of loss that I want to weep from the overwhelming sorrow that drenches his words. Like a perfect key cut by an expert locksmith, they unlock the door to my own grief.

Scholars believe that Poe wrote “The Raven” in the aftermath of the death of his wife, who inspired the character of Lenore. In the poem, the narrator keeps asking the raven that haunts him where his Lenore is and if he’ll ever see her again, but the raven gives no answer. Because Lenore is gone, and being visited by the ominous black bird—be it a messenger from the netherworld or the ghost of his beloved—is not enough to bring her back. Eventually, the narrator is driven to madness as he realizes that he will never overcome his loss and that the darkness and the raven are there to stay.

My heart twists. There is no raven in this room and no box of letters, but I don’t need them to see the ghost that haunts me. All I need to do is let my gaze wander past the safe dome of lamplight and into the dim penumbra where the shadows start to claim their domain, and there he is, watching me with those glassy blue eyes, empty since that day. As Mr. Bathory continues to read the poem, memories start to pour through the unlocked door of my heartache and regret.

If you ever loved me, if you ever cared about me, I want you to burn them all. Tonight. Those were some of the last words Clay ever spoke to me. At that moment, I still had no idea that a mindless prank would soon spin into a tragedy that would change our lives forever. Earlier that day, during PE class, someone had stolen my backpack and dumped the contents into a trash can. Nothing was taken except for Clay’s most recent letter to me.

I probably just misplaced it, Clay. Maybe it’s in my locker , I said to him, forcing calm into my shaky voice. Like I could ever be so careless with anything he gave me. I’d hidden it in the inner pocket of my bag as soon as he’d given it to me so I could read it when I was alone in my room, where I’d be free to stare at each word, each lovingly handwritten dot and curve, and kiss the paper with Clay’s name on it. I treasured those letters more than anything in the world; I still do. That’s why I never burned them, no matter what Clay said. That’s why they are still sitting in a box on my bedside table, where I can see them every morning when I wake and every night before I fall asleep. But when I broke the news to Clay, all I wanted was to erase that wretched worry from his lovely face.

My naive hopes never stood a chance. They disintegrated into ash when I got to school the next morning and saw photocopies of the stolen letter plastered around the entire campus. Even now, my throat spasms and I feel like I might choke, just like I did that day. Both our names were on those pieces of paper.

Miss you, Jonathan.

Love you, Jonathan.

Can’t wait to see you.

Yours, Clay.

I remember wishing that the ground would open and swallow me whole, as if I could be allowed such mercy. I remember people jeering and pointing at me like I was a disgusting freak. I’d never wanted anything more than to run away, to never see that place or those people again, but I couldn’t. I didn’t. Because somewhere in that building, Clay was going through the same thing. My eyes burned as I sped down the hallway. I looked for him everywhere. I wanted to say I was sorry. I wanted to tell him we’d get through this together. That I’d be there for him even if the whole world turned against us.

But I never got the chance. Because that morning, Clay’d had football practice before first period. He’d come to school and seen the photocopies an hour before I did. By the time I arrived, he’d already gone home and hanged himself in his bathroom.

Jonathan. Oh, Jonathan . I see Clay’s cold lips move as the apparition that wears his face stares at me from the dark corner of the reading room. There’s an accusation in his eyes and a rope around his neck. Why didn’t you burn those letters, Jonathan? If you loved me, if you cared about me, how could you let this happen to me? You promised you’d burn them ? —

“Mr. Evergreen?”

Mr. Bathory’s voice reaches me from a faraway place. My gaze refocuses on him as I follow his voice back to reality, to the library, where I’m still sitting next to him, my chest heaving as though it is ready to collapse on itself as the rain pours down outside. Mr. Bathory has finished reciting “The Raven,” and he’s looking at me with the utmost worry, his hand hovering in the space between us as though torn between wanting to reach out and touch me and not daring to.

“Your eyes,” he says quietly.

Dazedly, I put my hand to my face and find it wet. I didn’t realize I was crying .

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I start in a panic, but I’m too shaken to continue. I haven’t cried in such a long time, especially in front of another person. I thought I’d forgotten how.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Mr. Bathory replies, his voice like satin against the patter of the rain on the library’s windows. He withdraws his hand, but his gaze traces the wet line splitting my cheek in two. I stifle a sob. “Poe himself said that ‘if a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul, you haven’t experienced poetry,’” he adds soothingly. “Great art has that effect on people, Mr. Evergreen. It brings the things we bury deep within ourselves to light so we can set them free.”

My ragged heart gives another jolt.

When I left North Carolina, I buried my past along with my tears and hid what had happened from everyone. Even Fiona—I’ve given her only bits and pieces of the truth. She doesn’t know that Clay took his life because of me. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell her when I can barely admit it to myself. I’ve guarded this secret like a stone gargoyle guards a crumbling tomb—in weathered stillness, undeterred by time. And yet, Dacian Bathory has drawn it out of me with just a handful of stanzas. Even if it isn’t words yet, if it’s only tears, I know he knows.

And just like that, I can no longer hold the truth inside me.

“What if there’s no way to set them free?” I ask—no, I beg of him. “What if they’re buried so deep that the light never reaches them? What if…” My breath catches as fear seizes me again, used to being the solitary ruler of my soul. I struggle to still myself. “What if I am buried along with those things, and no matter how much I try to dig myself out, to climb up this endless black tunnel, it still feels like I’m only falling deeper into the darkness?”

For a moment, Mr. Bathory is silent. My heart echoes in my ears, shuddering in my chest like a caught rabbit, and I’m suddenly worried that he might not understand me after all, that he might think someone like me doesn’t deserve forgiveness or even a chance to atone. But then he leans in closer, as though he too has a secret he’s been harboring for an eternity, one he’s ready to release.

When he speaks, his words are a revelation. “Then it is best to make friends with the shadows, Mr. Evergreen. For if you’re shrouded in darkness so complete, so all-consuming, that there’s no telling the skies above from the ground below, then what is the difference between falling and flying?”

My lips quiver as his words shatter me, the full intensity of his lightless eyes on mine. A puzzle piece clicks into place. Now I know how he knows my secret, why he wanted to read “The Raven” to me. He knows because this poem means something similar to him. Because I’m not the only one who’s been roaming in the shadows. We are alike, Dacian and me. I wonder who his Lenore is. There must be one for him to have read the poem the way he did—like his soul never left the funeral even though the grave has long been filled. And perched on this chair beside him, am I the raven that reminds him of his beloved who could never return?

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. I’ve been offered something of great importance—a private history, a piece of a secret that makes Dacian Bathory who he is—and if I’m not careful, if I ask too much too soon, I might break this fragile bridge between us. Still, I desperately want to know more about him, about this strange person with eyes like ancient abysses, who looks barely a few years older than me but speaks like he’s carrying the weight of centuries upon his shoulders.

My heartbeat picks up once more. “Are you—” I start to ask, but the rest of the question never leaves my lips.

At the front desk, the phone begins to ring, reverberating through the empty library with its cathedral ceilings. Unable to tear myself away from Dacian, I let several seconds slip by, but the caller is persistent, and since I’m on the clock, I must answer it.

“I’m sorry, I have to get that,” I say reluctantly, and no matter how much I want to preserve the moment, it breaks as soon as the words leave my lips.

“Of course.” Dacian pulls back from me.

Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I think he regrets the interruption too.

To my further frustration, the phone call balloons into a lengthy research session as I help a grad student from another university find titles in our possession that are pertinent to her dissertation. Minutes tick by as I steal glances at Dacian’s refined profile while skimming the catalog entries on the computer screen. When I finally—finally!—hang up, Dacian Bathory is back at my counter, handing me the book.

“Are you already finished?” I ask, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“I believe you’re about to close.”

I glance up at the clock. “Oh. Right.” I didn’t realize it was almost eight forty-five. The janitor is about to show up, and I need to get back to my dorm before curfew. Without that untimely phone call, I probably would’ve forgotten the rest of the world existed.

Dacian seems amused by how out of sorts I am. I clear my throat and take the collection of poems from him.

“Have there been any updates on the missing book?” he asks then.

I’d forgotten all about that. I shake my head, feeling oddly guilty for not solving the mystery. Although, how could I have possibly done that? I’m no sleuth. “None of the librarians have any idea how it could’ve disappeared. It was kept locked up in the vault underground, which only library employees had access to,” I say.

“Hmm. That’s regrettable,” Dacian says. Something about this information seems to bother him, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Well, good night, Mr. Evergreen.”

My heart sinks a little; I’m loathe to let him go. Just half an hour ago, I was bearing my soul to him, and now the time we spent with “The Raven” feels more like a fantasy than a reality we shared. “Good night, Mr. Bathory,” I force myself to reply.

Just before he turns to leave, he adds, “Be careful walking alone at night. Not all shadows are friendly here.”

At first, I’m confused about why he’d say that, but then I remember the flashing lights of the police cars and the body of Anita Hernandez on the riverbank. “Uh, yes. You too, Mr. Bathory.”

His mouth curves up. He gives a slight bow and walks out into the rain.

After the door swings shut, I suddenly realize that Dacian wasn’t carrying an umbrella and that it’s still pouring outside. Although, I don’t recall seeing a drop of rain on his hair or clothes when he first appeared in the glass box. How odd.

That night, I have the most unsettling dream.

I’m running alone through a snowy forest. I don’t know how I got there or where I’m going. All I know is that I’m being hunted.

It’s freezing cold, colder than I’ve ever felt before. With each step, my feet sink deeper into the snow. A wet chill bites my limbs, turning them numb. It’s hard to move, but I desperately keep pushing forward because somewhere behind me, there’s a tremendous howling. It grows and grows as it gets closer to me. I whip my head around. Already, I can see shadows in the woods. The wolves will catch up to me soon. They will rip my flesh to pieces and leave them scattered in this desolate place where no one will ever find me. Inescapable terror wraps itself around my throat. I try to pick up speed, but I tumble forward.

Do not fear them , a voice says softly into my ear—a calm and steady voice that somehow drowns out the howling. They will protect you from the ones who truly mean you harm.

I scramble to turn around, searching for the source of the voice, but I don’t see him or the wolves. Instead, I’m confronted by a crowd of people. My stomach lurches. I remember these faces. It’s the kids from my high school, dozens of them emerging from the woods. Their eyes are cruel, their faces twisted with malevolence.

“It’s him.”

“The freak.”

“Disgusting.”

They whisper to each other, laugh, and point at me.

I want to curl into a ball to cover my ears, but my body won’t listen to me, frozen from the cold and panic. This feels just like when Clay died.

My parents, teachers, our neighbors—everyone joins in. They all circle me as their voices spin around me like a mad carousel fueled by hate.

“He did it.”

“Yes, him.”

“Poor Clay.”

“Because of him.”

Whispers blur into laughter, into insults, into sneers.

Just when I can’t take it anymore, the crowd finally parts, and Clay steps forward.

Everything stops; even my own heart feels suspended. But Clay isn’t here to save me. He casts his silent judgment on me like he always does in my dreams, but this time, there’s no box of letters between us. His blue eyes are focused on my neck. At once, I feel the weight of something wrapped around it.

Slowly, I lift my hands until my numb fingers touch the coarse fibers of a rope. Someone has wound a noose around my neck. I choke out a sob. “Is this what you want?” I ask Clay, my chest rattling.

He says nothing. He only stares.

But even if Clay won’t say it, the rest of them are ready for the gallows. From the mob, a chant begins to rise.

“Hang the freak! Hang the freak! Hang the freak!”

A tear rolls down my cheek. Even as the vortex of voices spins out of control, I refuse to look at them. I look only at Clay.

“Is this what you want?” I whisper again.

An unbearable realization strikes me: maybe this is why Clay has been haunting me. Not because I refuse to burn the letters but because he thinks I deserve to die for everything that happened to him.

As though he’s finally ready to speak to me, Clay’s mouth opens, stretching grotesquely wide, like he’s not human at all but an emissary from hell wearing Clay’s skin. Petrified, I forget how to breathe. But before Clay can pronounce my verdict and drag me to my eternal punishment, a big black shadow darts from the trees and sinks its teeth into his jugular.

I gasp. Blood gushes out of Clay’s throat.

The howling returns, suddenly and viciously, as dozens of dark wolves spring from the forest and tear into the crowd, their eyes red, their movements so deadly and swift that they look like they’re made of smoke and shadows. Screams of agony erupt around me. The wolves don’t let a single soul escape.

Clay’s body drops to the ground, and a wolf continues to gnaw through his muscle and bone until what’s left of his head snaps off his spine with a wet, bubbly crack, and I?—

I watch with wide eyes as Clay’s red blood soaks the white snow, and the crowd is reduced to a pile of mangled limbs.

And then I wake up.