Page 16 of Love Immortal

Fifteen

I don’t know if it’s because of Dacian’s parting words, but I decide to join Fiona and her family for dinner. She has invited both me and her roommate, Becky, a fellow family weekend orphan since her mom couldn’t fly all the way from California, and despite the shitty start to my day, I have a really good time.

The restaurant the Onayemis pick is one of those gourmet establishments that mills their own pizza flour and serves apple cider from the brewery next door. The pizza is to die for, and the bourbon maple pecan pie that comes with a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream is probably the best dessert I’ve ever tasted in my life. Fiona’s dad fills the evening with fascinating stories about all the corners of the world he saw while volunteering for the Peace Corps before he and Fiona’s mom met in law school. I can tell how proud Fiona is of them both, and they of her, but I’m surprised to find that it doesn’t make me feel resentful or envious, just happy for them.

At the end of dinner, I shamelessly pack up the leftover pie to take back with me, and when we’re about to leave, Mrs. Onayemi gives me the tightest hug that makes me forget how awful my own family is. For a moment, I almost feel loved . And guilty for ditching them earlier. I promise myself I won’t do that again.

The restaurant is in a small town along historic Route 7, a good forty miles from Camden, and I end up riding back with Becky, as we can’t all fit in Fiona’s car. Being the airhead she is, she forgets to drop me off and parks by her dorm, which is a fifteen-minute walk from West Hall.

“Shoot. Do you want me to drive you back?” she offers belatedly.

“Nah, I’m okay to walk.” I wave Becky off and climb out of her convertible. Kind of a silly choice for a car, if you ask me, considering the amount of inclement weather we get in the mountains. Stylish, though.

I thank Becky for the ride and trudge back to my dorm.

Since the curfew has been lifted, my walk through campus is less creepy than usual, but it’s also late enough that I encounter only a couple of students. The night is chilly but beautiful. Promising , as Dacian called it, whatever he meant by that. I look up at the sky and notice the moon is full, a large glimmering disk on a tapestry of dark blues. I wonder what Dacian is up to. Somehow, it’s difficult to imagine him doing something ordinary, like having dinner with friends or watching TV. The idea of him spending the night with someone else irks me, though, so I abandon that train of thought.

I yawn, shivering in the brisk breeze, and decide to cut across the big parking lot instead of continuing on the windy path through the quad. As I emerge through the thick hedges that separate the lot from the lawn, I hear the screech of tires and someone laughing. Then I spot Mads Jr.’s blue Firebird and Callahan’s Testarossa zooming in circles in the widest part of the lot, like dogs herding sheep, with Eric Stockton in the center.

“Bro! Come on, dude, let me in!” he pleads, trying to chase after Mads’ Firebird. But the moment he gets close, Mads cruelly steps on the gas pedal and drives just out of reach. Eric jerks away, barely avoiding getting hit. He tries for Testarossa next. “Grady, my man!” he whines. “Let me ride with you guys!” But to no avail.

Mads Jr. laughs maniacally. “Nice try, Eric! But you know the deal. No rides for you until you do your part.”

Eric looks positively miserable and dives for the Firebird again, only to be met with the same derision.

I halt at the edge of the lot. What kind of sick game is this? Not to mention, why are the legacies doing it to one of their own? I expected Mads to throw some kind of tantrum after being used as a prop for his dad’s photo ops, but I can’t believe he’s taking it out on Eric, who always follows him like a loyal puppy. Not that it’s any of my business or that I even care, but their mansion is far from campus, and Eric never got a new car after drunk-crashing his DeLorean. The idiot got away without a DUI, thanks to his parents’ influence, but he didn’t get out of the incident completely unscathed: they won’t buy him another car, and he’s forbidden to drive on campus. Since then, he’s been hitching rides with Mads and Grady. And now, for some reason, they’re refusing to let him in their cars. Do they expect him to hike miles through the mountains to get home? That’s messed up.

Still, I’m not getting involved. I decide to cross the lot while they’re distracted. I speed up, but before I can get to the other side and disappear under the cover of trees, I hear the loud roar of an engine.

“What the hell!” I scream and jump back as Grady’s Testarossa zooms right in front of me, almost driving over the toe of my right sneaker.

Like an angry red demon, it screeches to a stop several feet past me, and Grady’s head pops out of the driver’s side window to leer at me. His mouth is all teeth, and he looks like he’s barely holding himself back from flooring the gas and rear-ending me for fun. Several girls chortle in the back seat, highly entertained.

I clench my fists, my anger about to explode. What is this asshole’s problem? I want to kick his stupid Ferrari, but I don’t dare. Grady might very well run me over—he’s that deranged. As I seethe, he revs the engine several times to taunt me.

From behind me, I hear another car coming. I whip halfway around, not wanting to lose my visual on the Testarossa. The blue Firebird pulls up to me, swift and dangerous. Mads and Alessandra are sneering at me through the windshield.

“You should be careful what rumors you spread about us, Evergreen,” Mads says, grinning like a horror movie clown. “Consider this your final warning.”

I clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from lashing out. I’ve done nothing wrong, and it’s been weeks! Why can’t they just freaking let it go? But even as I think this, I realize that my telling Pixie Trish that Grady drugged her drink doesn’t have anything to do with this. They’re probably bored after dealing with their families all day, and they’re using the stupid party incident as an excuse to take it out on me. I can only imagine what Eric has done to end up in the same boat. Now that Mads has stopped his car, he dives for the Firebird’s back door. But to his further humiliation, it’s locked.

“You know the deal, Eric!” Mads taunts mercilessly as both Firebird’s and Testarossa’s engines come alive again. From this close, their roar is so annoyingly loud that I have to cover my ears. Within seconds, they tear away several times faster than the fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit.

I exhale heavily as their red taillights vanish into the night. Like an unwanted pet, Eric stands beside me, abandoned and miserable. He really doesn’t look well. There are giant bags under his eyes, and his skin is the color of ash. I almost feel sad for him.

Almost. Because the moment our eyes meet, he snarls, “What do you want, Evergreen?” I instantly lose any charitable feelings toward him. Just because the legacies have a rift doesn’t mean he and I are friends now.

“Nothing,” I snap back and turn away, not sparing Eric another glance as I march back to my dorm.

I try not to let that encounter ruin my otherwise exceptionally good second half of the day. The dinner with the Onayemis and Becky was wonderful, and I even got to talk to Dacian. Alone. That was a dessert sweeter than even the maple pecan pie from the restaurant. I climb into bed, smiling. This weird push and pull between us is frustrating and confusing. But today was more pull, and I got to uncover more pieces of the enigma that is Dacian, even if I’ve yet to make sense of them. What did he mean about waiting for someone to show him the world? Whatever it may be, I’ll be the first in line if called.

Before I close my eyes, I gaze at the moon hanging outside my window. Promising , Dacian’s velvety voice says inside my head as I drift off to sleep.

The dream I have that night is perhaps the strangest one yet.

I dream that I awaken when I hear someone whispering to me. It’s coming from the darkness of the trees beyond the western edge of campus, a distant voice I can’t place. But it has a strange lulling quality that calls to me, compels me to rise out of bed and obediently follow it outside into the cold, moonlit night.

I’m on the path outside of the West Hall courtyard, halfway to the dark woods, when silver mist starts rolling across the grounds. It surrounds me, quickly obscuring my way. Alarmed, I stop. But then my wariness fades because the mist seems familiar somehow. It beckons me, whispers to me, makes me feel that it wants me nearer. In a daze, I take another step. Slowly, a tendril of silver extends toward me, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. It’s beautiful, like a spell of midnight magic. When it grazes my hand, I sigh at how cool and soft its touch is. Entranced, I let it caress my skin—just the tips of my fingers at first, then my palm. I want to touch it back, but when I try, it slips through my fingers, ungraspable and ghostlike. Yet its effect is intoxicating.

Tentatively, as though asking for permission, it skims up my arm up to my exposed neck. My breathing quickens. As the mist brushes the sensitive skin under my ear, the touch becomes more sensual, and then I notice someone watching me. A glimmer of a silhouette concealed within the mist, or maybe one with it—I can’t tell. But even so, I don’t want the mist to stop. I let it whisper to me, let it drift over my throat, my mouth, slip under the neckline of my sweater and the loose fabric of my pajama pants. The feeling of being observed only makes my heart thrum faster, makes me want to lose myself in this phantom embrace.

I close my eyes and let the mist envelop me, let it touch me everywhere it wants.

Waves of pleasure explode in me as I gasp awake. I lie on my back, staring at the shimmery sliver of moonlight on my ceiling, panting, my body buzzing and warm. As seconds pass and my skin starts to cool, I gradually become aware of other things, such as the sticky dampness in my pajama pants.

Embarrassed, I squeeze my eyes shut. I haven’t had a wet dream in a while, and this one was provoked by a fog . How can someone get aroused by fog?

There was someone hiding in it, though. Who was it? I furrow my brow, concentrating so hard on remembering anything about the mysterious stranger that splotches of white flood my vision. But there was no face, only a vague silhouette. Even so, I’m certain the presence didn’t feel unfamiliar—so close, almost within my grasp, and frustratingly out of reach at the same time. Why wouldn’t he come out? I wasn’t scared of whoever was hiding in the shadows. Not once did I hesitate or try to draw back from the mist. I wanted to be touched. Wanted to be seen. Why did I have to wake up so soon?

I roll onto my side, and despite the immense need to sleep some more, I slowly coax myself out of bed. At least it’s early enough that the shared shower should be empty.

It is only after I’ve washed myself in steaming-hot water and changed into fresh pants, devoid of evidence of any lascivious dreams, that I finally notice—I’ve left my window cracked open again.

“Desire and terror,” Dacian says as he writes the words on the blackboard in his exquisite cursive. A hush falls over the auditorium; the way his velvety voice curls around those words does something to the air in the room. Every girl in the class perks up, seemingly even more interested in his lecture than usual. But I don’t have a brain cell to spare on them. My eyes trace the luscious flowing lines of the word desire over and over, and my cheeks flood with self-conscious warmth. Dacian doesn’t glance at me when he turns around, but I have a hard time keeping my eyes on him. It’s not like he was in my dream the other night. It was just fog that touched me, not a person. And yet, every inch of my skin seems to be reacting to him.

“As you know, we won’t have a midterm in this class. Instead, I would like you to write a short essay exploring the connection between these two themes in Gothic literature,” he announces. “You may use any of the works we’ve discussed or anything you’ve read outside of class to illustrate your points. You have the next two weeks to work on it. Don’t shy away from the forbidden, from the monstrousness we might face if we follow our desire through the darkness. Does anyone have any questions?”

Slowly, his dark gaze glides around the room until it settles on me. My stomach feels like it’s been hit with a cannonball of heat. I want to hide my eyes from him, but I can’t look away. For a moment, time stops, and to my utter mortification, I become convinced that he knows what I’m thinking. It’s not possible, but my heart stutters anyway. The heat spreads from my belly to my face like a raging inferno. I feel exposed right down to my bones. The images from my dream spark in my mind: the silhouette watching me from the fog, the sensation of being caressed, of being wanted. The dream hid the identity of the person in the mist, but try as I may to deny it, I know exactly who I wish it was. And just that acknowledgment makes me want to crawl under my desk and die of embarrassment.

“Ms. Onayemi?” Dacian says, and with a jolt, I realize I’ve been released from the captivity of his gaze.

Beside me, Fiona asks, “How many pages should we write, Mr. Bathory?”

“Hmm,” he says, considering. “Five to ten will suffice. No more than that.” Despite the emotional mayhem in my head, Dacian appears absolutely nonplussed. It’s discombobulating. But why should he be rattled? He doesn’t have the telepathic powers to read my horny thoughts; it’s just me losing my mind over a dream. It’s so stupid, that it’s humiliating. I need to calm down. I won’t survive the rest of class otherwise.

I look down at my notes, trying to concentrate on my barely legible scribbles—unlike Dacian’s, my penmanship leaves much to be desired. But before I can stop panicking and get back to reality, Dacian adds, “I should also mention that some of you may choose to explore the subject of queer desire in this context—that would also be welcome.”

If before I felt like my body was melting from shame, now it’s like I’m about to be incinerated. How can he say that so openly? Why would he even bring that up? Perhaps, he really was interested in reading the missing diary. But if that’s true, then what does all of this mean? Could it be a coincidence he kept mentioning it to me, or does he know something about me that I’ve never said to him aloud?

My frenzied thoughts are interrupted by a sudden disgruntled outburst in the back row. “Are you seriously saying you want us to write about queers?” Eric Stockton rasps, sounding exasperated.

I whip my head around. It’s the first time he’s been awake in class, and this is what he has to say?

Immediately I turn back to Dacian, anxious to see his reaction. His beautiful mouth twitches as though he’s trying to suppress great fury. “Yes, I am saying exactly that, Mr. Stockton,” he replies. His tone is controlled and even, but there’s a current of danger crackling underneath. It makes the skin on my arms rise in goosebumps. “And why wouldn’t I? It’s as valid a subject as any. The queerness of many Gothic authors is well known. How can we judge these works if we disregard the lives of the people who created them?”

The class is utterly silent as everyone watches Dacian with stunned fascination. Most of the students seem uncomfortable with this topic; just the word queerness sends ripples of quiet gasps around the room. And yet Dacian delivers his speech with such bluntness and grace, like he’s completely unafraid of what anyone might assume about him. Maybe it’s my own history of being outed against my will, but I’m awestruck by him.

“William Beckford, the author of Vathek , one of the foundational Gothic texts, was chased out of England after his homosexual relationship became public,” he continues matter-of-factly. “Lord Byron, who was directly inspired by Beckford, was also known all over Europe for his amorous exploits with both men and women. And I haven’t even mentioned Oscar Wilde, who was forced to edit most allusions to homoeroticism out of The Picture Of Dorian Gray after its first edition was disparaged by critics for supposed moral corruption and ‘effeminate frivolity.’ Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla and Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca are other famous examples, full of repressed lesbian desire. Shall I continue?”

A heavy pause follows as the class processes what Dacian just said. Those are indeed a lot of notable works.

Then Eric shouts, “Who cares? I ain’t writing no queer stuff!”

I recoil. It’s always distressing to discover that the person next to you hates your very existence. Now that I have a few friends I can be open with, I sometimes forget what the rest of the world is like. Still, this level of disrespect is out of character even for Eric, regardless of what he believes.

If eyes could kill, blood would surely be spilled in Kinnell Hall this afternoon. “Mr. Stockton, you’re in a place of high education,” Dacian warns with unconcealed hostility. “If you cannot conduct yourself like an adult, I suggest you leave my class immediately.”

Shocked murmurs fill the room as the tension that’s been building between Eric and Dacian for weeks finally comes to a head. Behind me, I hear a loud screech of a chair’s metal legs against the wooden floor, then a furious patter of footsteps. As Eric storms out of the auditorium, he slams the door with so much force that it rattles the windows.

I stare after him, stunned and unsure of what just happened.

“Jonathan? Earth to Jonathan!” Fiona waves her hand frantically in front of me. I snap back to the present. We’re having lunch at the dining hall, but I have no memory of getting here or piling a bunch of cheese pizza on my plate. “What’s going on with you?” she asks.

“N-nothing,” I stutter, feigning ignorance.

Of course, that doesn’t work on her. “Right. You practically ran out of Gothic lit. Are you upset about what Eric said?”

“No.” I shake my head automatically, then reconsider. “I mean, yes, I hated that he did that. Even if he wasn’t talking about me, it still felt like he was. But him being a prejudiced asshole is old news. What I can’t believe is that Mr. Bathory would discuss gay authors so openly.” My cheeks flush again at the memory of the things Dacian said, the essay he assigned. I know he didn’t specifically say to write about queer desire, but now that’s on my mind, I can’t stop thinking about it.

Fiona’s eyebrows furrow. “I thought you, of all people, would be happy about that.”

“I am. I just…” I feel the heat in my face intensifying, spreading down to my chest all the way to my groin. I mentally kick myself. If I’m not careful, I’ll need a few minutes of privacy. “I had a weird dream last night. And this brought me right back to it,” I blurt.

Fiona narrows her eyes. “What kind of dream?”

I lick my lips, wavering for a moment. I shouldn’t have said anything, but it’s too late to backpedal now. “The sexy kind,” I admit in a hushed voice.

Fiona covers her mouth, trying to stave off a laugh. She quickly finishes chewing her spaghetti so she won’t spray it all over the table before replying with glee, “Jonathan, oh, Jonathan. I can’t believe you spent Gothic lit reliving your erotic fantasies!”

“Shh!” I practically jump out of my skin, waving my arms in an attempt to shush her and simultaneously checking if anyone at the nearby tables overheard us. I definitely don’t want people to know that Dacian Bathory arouses erotic fantasies in me.

Fiona only laughs at me. “It’s all good, dude. It’s important to have a healthy stress release from time to time, if you know what I mean.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and despite my embarrassment, I smile too. “Besides, I’m happy you’re finally getting ready to move on from your old flame. You can’t pine over someone forever. Life’s too short for that.”

My smile falters. I know Fiona only wants what’s best for me, but this catches me off guard. In the last several days, I’ve barely thought of Clay. Ever since that nightmare with the wolves, he’s stopped haunting my dreams, and my waking thoughts have been consumed by Dacian instead. I wonder if I should feel guilty about that. Am I using the first convenient excuse to get over Clay? Am I betraying his memory? But he’s dead, and we’ll never be together again. Maybe it’s okay to feel something for someone else, even if that someone is completely unattainable and just plain wrong to pursue.

I put that thought aside, not ready to delve into it in front of Fiona. But as the day goes by, it keeps coming back to me. Finally, when I’m alone in my room that night, fresh out of distractions, I realize I will have to face this question head-on eventually. So I flick the lights off, climb into bed, and open the floodgates.

Am I really attracted to Dacian Bathory?

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I try to give this question a thorough, critical examination.

Maybe I’m just projecting. Maybe it isn’t specifically Dacian that I want. It could be my loneliness manifesting. Dacian is new and handsome and has given me a little bit of attention. It would be easy for the feelings I’d shoved down for two years to latch on to him.

But even as I list all these things in my mind, trying to convince myself that I can’t possibly be feeling what I’m feeling, something inside me knows I’m lying.

I don’t really know Dacian?—

Lie.

During the moments we shared in the library and by the pond, I felt like he was looking right into me—like he could see inside my heart better than anyone I’ve ever met. And even though my understanding is nebulous and impossible to put into words, deep down in my core, I’m sure that I know him too.

But I can’t like him, because that would be wrong, and it couldn’t possibly go anywhere?—

Also a lie.

Since the moment I saw him in the theater, I’d singled him out. I knew he was special. So how could it be wrong if I felt what I felt before I found out he was a professor, before I even learned his name? And Dacian—if he doesn’t want anything to do with me, why does he continue to seek me out? Why speak to the library on my behalf? Why read “The Raven” to me?

Still, I should stop right there. This is a perilous path for my heart, and no good will come out of it?—

Another lie.

What good has ever come of my feelings? My heart can’t possibly get more broken. And even if I start trying right now to stomp my desire out before it blooms into something uncontrollable, that train left the station a long time ago. There is no chasing after it. I’m dangerously, hopelessly, and irreversibly falling for Dacian Bathory. And as I finally close my eyes, I wish the fog dream will return, and that the person hiding in it will reveal himself to me, and that it will be him.