Page 15 of Love Immortal

Fourteen

A s the weekend dwindles to an end, a kind of desperate anticipation builds inside of me. It’s not like my life has changed drastically since Dacian read me the poem, and yet there’s been a seismic shift within me. I feel it in my bones. It has become easier to breathe, like a mountain has lifted from my shoulders. Finally, there’s someone I don’t have to hide myself from. Even if all I have inside of me is darkness, Dacian will understand.

Time and time again, I find myself daydreaming about how that night could’ve gone if I hadn’t answered that stupid phone call. Something changed between Dacian and me on Friday. I can’t rationally explain this, but it felt like he was looking straight into my soul.

Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about him so much that I have another mystifying dream. In it, Dacian is standing outside my window. A spark of excitement ignites in me. He’s alone, surrounded by a starless night so dark that I can’t see anything else around him. Yet his silhouette is clearly visible, illuminated by a thin layer of silver mist swirling around him. He’s so beautiful. Otherworldly, even. I rush to the window, eager to greet him, but just as I’m about to open the latches, Dacian takes a step back and covers his mouth with his hand as though he’s trying to hide something. Confused and afraid he might leave me, I call after him, “Wait!”

But the turmoil in Dacian’s eyes only becomes more pronounced. As I struggle to lift the uncooperative sash, he continues to back away from me until the darkness swallows him entirely.

I wake up with a deep sense of unease. What was that about? He looked almost panicked when he realized how ready I was to welcome him inside. And why was he hiding his mouth from me? That’s so odd.

I groan and smush my face into the pillow, consoling myself with the notion that dreams are often nonsensical and should rarely be taken seriously. There’s no way Dacian could stand outside my window—my room is on the third floor!

I drag myself out of bed and begin my Monday, but by afternoon, I can barely hold myself together. The need to see him, to confirm that my dream didn’t mean anything, swirls in my head like the rumblings of a hurricane. But when it’s finally time for Gothic lit, I nearly shatter into pieces when I discover the auditorium door is closed. Stuck to it is a note stating that class is canceled and that we should read Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart” before our next meeting.

The handwriting on the note is rather sloppy. Clearly, Dacian did not write it.

“Oh, that sucks,” Fiona says, joining the chorus of disappointed groans. It seems most of the class was really looking forward to his lecture, though not as much as I was. “I guess it’s early lunch for us,” she suggests.

I follow her to the dining hall, but I keep thinking about the dream, unable to banish the dreadful notion that Dacian’s absence has something to do with me, that the dream was a warning…but about what?

In the following days, the campus-wide curfew is quietly lifted, and the murder of Anita Hernandez is swept under the rug like some inconvenience to be dealt with later—or not at all.

As the fall semester starts to approach midterms, I get buried in assignments and papers, but it’s a welcome distraction. I throw myself into my Latin translations, despite the fact that I’ve never been a fan of the language and can’t wait to move on to Greek with all its gay heroes and poetry. If only all this work would make me stop thinking about Dacian. Even in his absence, I can’t get him out of my mind. I spend the rest of the week obsessing over every detail of the things he said to me. During my library shifts, I flinch every time the door opens, hoping it’s him. But despite my wishful thinking, it never is. And eventually my despondency spirals out of control, not helped in the least by the fact that it’s Family Weekend.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m…hiding, sitting on a bench by the pond in the big green space by myself. There are crowds all over campus. Even Fiona’s parents drove up last night and are currently having the full Camden experience by lunching in the dining hall. Generous soul that she is, Fiona invited me to join, but I didn’t feel like going. Let the Onayemis do their family thing. I snuck a grilled cheese and a can of soda out earlier so I can eat alone. I wouldn’t be good company right now.

Seeing all these proud parents makes me annoyed in a way that isn’t rational. Of course, they should be happy for their children, who are living their dreams. These kids have made it into one of the most prestigious academic institutions in the world. Just…why is this enough to impress other people’s families and not mine? I haven’t heard from Mom and Dad since I packed up and left after graduation. Not once. They know I’m at Camden. It would be easy to contact me if they wanted to.

In my first few months here, my heart jumped whenever I found a letter in my school mailbox, thinking it might be from them. I was incredibly naive. But hope can be stubborn, and deep down, I thought if I gave them time, they’d realize they didn’t want to lose their only son. And that maybe they’d see how much they’d hurt me.

Naive, as I said.

I remember counting down the days till I could get out of that abysmal place. But once I left, it wasn’t freedom I felt. It was another wave of loss, one I didn’t expect. Somehow, leaving North Carolina behind cemented everything that had happened as truly permanent. Clay was dead. I was never coming back. And everything I knew was gone. Suddenly, I was terrified. I found I was willing to forgive the inexcusable things my parents had done to me if they only apologized. But of course, they never did. And on days like this, I’m reminded that, just like Clay, they didn’t fight for me. They’d rather have an empty home than a queer son.

My hands curl around the edge of the bench until it feels like if I press any harder, the wood will splinter or my fingers will break.

“Camden is unusually lively today,” a melodic voice says to my right.

I jolt, letting go of the bench in surprise. Dacian Bathory is standing next to me, clad as always from head to toe in black, like a vision from a Gothic novel, a mystical totem in the sea of golden leaves. Despite my current aversion to people, something in my chest unclenches, endlessly pleased about the prospect of sharing space with him, of being in his company.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bathory,” I say, trying not to let the whirlwind of feelings show on my face. “It’s always this busy during family weekend. And the senator seems to be using it as a photo op.” I tip my head at the big crowd congregating in the square to the left of the pond. I can just make out Senator Madison, his arm slung around his son’s shoulder in an “attaboy” gesture.

Mads Jr. is flashing a delighted grin, his hair combed neatly for his father’s benefit, but knowing him he probably loathes this charade. I won’t be surprised if he lashes out later by doing something cruel to one of the groupies who follow his clique around. Being his roommate for a year, I learned quite a few tidbits about the utter dysfunction in his family. Although I still don’t feel sympathetic toward the jerk. At least Madison Sr. finds some value in his son, even if it’s only to bolster his reelection prospects.

“I see,” Dacian replies, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The Madison family is quite influential with the Camden board.” As a professor, he’s probably aware of a whole other side of things that I’m not privy to.

I huff. “That’s ironic.”

“Why so?” he asks, his interest piqued.

Dacian doesn’t seem like he’s been in Vermont for long; I suppose he wouldn’t know. “Because the senator has been trying to defund public education at every turn,” I explain. “But the board doesn’t care as long as private donations keep flowing. And the senator’s kids will always be able to afford to study here.” Dacian’s eyebrows shoot up at my acerbic tone, and I catch myself. Since he read “The Raven” to me, I don’t feel like I need to pretend anymore because he knows things about me that nobody else does. But such carelessness could be detrimental. My anger has gotten the better of me. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

He studies me for a moment. “No, you should speak your mind freely, Mr. Evergreen,” he says eventually. I might be imagining it, but I think there’s a ghost of a smirk in the corner of his sharp mouth. My face grows warm under his scrutiny.

“Thanks,” I murmur, looking down and concentrating on Dacian’s polished shoes. They’re so clean that I seriously wonder if their soles touched the ground on his way here or if he just levitated above it. I expect him to excuse himself and continue on his way, but to my surprise, the wooden bench lets out a tiny creak as Dacian takes a seat beside me.

“May I?” he asks after he’s already sitting.

My heart flutters. “Of course.”

I can’t believe he wants to stick around. A part of me was so convinced his absence from class had something to do with me. I know that’s absurd. I’m no one important, and I doubt he spent every waking moment thinking of me like I thought of him. But after a week of unfulfilled expectations, I ache for his continued presence, and I want to know where he’s been if only to dispel the preposterous idea that he’s been avoiding me.

“Is everything all right? Class was canceled on Monday,” I say, then hesitantly let myself look up again. Something seems different about him today. His eyes are less tired, maybe. The moment I get caught in them, I feel the familiar pull, the sensation of reality turning liquid. I want to tumble recklessly into them.

“I had to…” Dacian starts slowly, either searching for words or just gazing at me for what could be heartbeats or hours. “…settle some urgent affairs,” he finishes somewhat stiffly, his eyes flickering briefly to my neck. “I hope my absence wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

“No,” I lie. But I hesitate long enough that it triggers a small curl at the corner of his mouth. Something tells me he knows how bothered I was about not seeing him, how mad that silly dream has driven me.

It’s strange sitting so near him again. I feel unsettled, but not in a bad way. It’s like I’m hyperaware of him. He crosses his legs and places his hands gracefully atop them, his body relaxed, as though he’s come here to catch a quiet moment away from the crowds. The wolf-dragon ring on his pinkie finger glints in the sunlight. This brings me right back to the night at the library. Except it is broad daylight, and we aren’t alone, no longer hidden from the prying eyes of the world by a curtain of rain.

“Are you not joining the festivities?” he asks.

“No. Um…my family isn’t here,” I reply choppily as I try to suppress the resurgence of my anger.

“Does that mean you’re far from home, then?”

“Yes,” I say, and then add defiantly, “by choice.” Even though I don’t want to delve into details about how much I hate the place I’m from, I need him to know I’m here because I want to be, not because I’m running away. I’m worthy of this shot at a new life regardless of how my parents feel about me.

Dacian observes me with his dark, curious eyes. He doesn’t try to prod, to make me explain what I mean. He just lets me go at my own pace, aware that I carry dark memories but not forcing them into the light. I’m grateful for this tacit understanding between us. But it should work both ways. This might be my chance to ask him something personal as well, to leave the door ajar and see if he’ll step through it.

“Are you far from home too?” I venture cautiously.

His eyebrows rise slightly. “I am,” he says, echoing my answer. “By choice.”

I’d guessed as much from his accent, but hearing him confirm it feels like a reward. Greedily, I push further. “Very far?”

Dacian takes his time before he responds, “In more ways than you can imagine.”

I recall what he let slip in the library: I spent a long time in a very isolated place. I still wonder what he meant by that. For some reason, I imagine a dark castle with gray stone rooms, so cold that they almost feel haunted, all except for one—a library filled with books. Given the way Dacian spoke of reading like it was his only reprieve, his home library must’ve been his favorite place.

“But I find that being able to travel is one of life’s greatest treasures. Don’t you?” Dacian adds, interrupting my musings.

This question surprises me. “I haven’t really traveled all that much.”

“No?” he asks, amused.

I huff out a small laugh. “Well, I went from a tiny town in the middle of North Carolina to this tiny town in the middle of Vermont. I mean, I’m exceptionally lucky that Camden offered me a scholarship,” I add hastily. “And there’s really only one other place in the world that I’d even consider being right now. But I don’t think studying here qualifies as travel.”

Dacian tips his head. “Which other place is that?”

I look down sheepishly. “I mentioned before that there’s no university that offers an undergrad degree in book conservation—no university in the U.S., that is. But there’s one in England, a very prestigious one. However, attending Oxford without a full scholarship that covers room and board was just never going to happen. So…” I shrug as I trail off.

“So, the two places in the world you would most love to be are full of dusty old paper?” Dacian finishes for me.

“Yeah,” I admit with a laugh. I’ve already pretty much confessed to being a giant nerd—no use in downplaying it now.

I glance at Dacian, but I find no mockery on his face, only a wistful smile as he gazes serenely at the pond in front of us. “That is so very you, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is,” I say, suddenly bashful and giddy at the same time. “What about you, Mr. Bathory?”

There is a moment of stillness before Dacian responds, and as I wait, my heart does these tiny little flips in my chest.

“I’ve always…” he starts, but then silence moves into the small space between us again.

I watch as a golden maple leaf separates from the tree branch overhead and lands on the surface of the pond, creating a small ripple. “You’ve always…?” I nudge, afraid that the moment might pass, that Dacian might decide to close the door to the inner sanctum of his mind, leaving me stranded outside forevermore.

“I’ve always hoped that someone would come along and show me the world,” he finally whispers, still gazing at the pond.

Whatever emotion is swirling in the depths of his eyes is hidden from me, but there’s such longing in his voice, such sadness, that it leaves me breathless.

What a strange way to phrase it. Why would he need someone to show him the world? Isn’t he free to go wherever he likes? The fact that he’s here at Camden now, away from his homeland, is proof of that.

“It seems you’ve done quite well at seeing the world yourself.” I try to sound overly cheerful to compensate for the soul-twisting melancholy that has taken root in me.

A smile graces Dacian’s features, but it’s a sad one. “I suppose so. I’m a modern man. I can go wherever I please.” There’s a strange bitterness in those words that leaves me even more confused. But before I can begin to decipher their cryptic meaning, this odd mood Dacian is in, he stands up. “Speaking of going places, there is a faculty function I am required to attend. The board is determined to impress the senator and his cohort, and I am sadly not exempt.” He sighs a little dramatically.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, even though what I truly mean is, I wish I could tell the Camden board to shove it so we could spend the rest of the day together. The rest of eternity.

Dacian tips his head as though he finds something about my response entertaining. “I will live through it. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Evergreen. It would be a waste to spend such a promising night alone,” he says meaningfully before he walks off into the crowd.