Page 23 of Love Immortal
Twenty-Two
October 1987
Vermont
T he four days that follow my midnight rendezvous with Dacian are unsettlingly normal. He doesn’t visit my dreams, and Gothic lit meets only on Mondays, so I don’t see him again other than once by accident in a hallway. We’re walking in opposite directions and don’t approach each other, but he glances my way and nods briefly, his expression unreadable. And then he disappears into one of the auditoriums while I continue on to art history, still seeing the afterimage of his enchanting eyes as though it is burned into my retinas.
The only thing that is markedly different from any other week is that Eric Stockton is still missing, and everyone is acting like nothing has happened. How can the son of a prominent businessman disappear without anyone looking for him? Especially after what happened with Anita Hernandez. But Eric does skip class often. Maybe that’s why no one has sounded an alarm yet.
Neither of his legacy friends come to accounting on Tuesday, but the professor doesn’t address their absence, either not caring that they ditched or not bothering to take points off because he’s “obligated” to give them a passing grade. Despite how I feel about them, it’s too bad—I want to see how they’re reacting to Eric being gone. My time to make a decision about whether to join Dacian for a ride or heed his warning to stay away is running out, and I need to gather as much information as possible. What was so dangerous about Eric that Dacian had to eliminate him? And what did he take from Dacian that was so important?
The opportunity to dig a little deeper presents itself on Wednesday.
“So, are you cool with Mr. Bathory again?” Fiona asks as we exit the dining hall and head to our afternoon classes. She’s checked on me several times since my breakdown on Monday, and I apologized for my behavior, weaseling back into her good graces by taking her out for late-night pancakes. I honestly needed some myself after the week I’ve had.
“Yeah,” I reply, skirting the truth but sounding as upbeat as I can. “I talked to him after.”
“Oh, good for you,” Fiona says, surprised but genuinely relieved that I’ve gotten my act together.
“Yeah, he was very understanding. It’s all resolved now.” I don’t tell her that my talk with Dacian may or may not have been a dream, and that I still have no idea if I can trust him.
As we take the bridge over the small brook shaded by the golden maple trees, I spot the fiery red of the only Testarossa in Camden sitting in the parking lot across from the green space, its owner and his legacy buddies standing beside it. An idea strikes me. “Wait,” I say, stopping abruptly. “I just realized I left my art history textbook in my room. I’ll catch you at dinner, okay?”
I don’t think my bullshit acting skills are convincing, but Fiona doesn’t call me out. “Sure, I’ll see you then,” she says, continuing down the path through the green as I turn around and wait for a few moments before darting across the lawn.
It’s easier to be rational in the daylight, away from Dacian. No matter how much I’m compelled to believe him, I can’t let him be my only source of information. I need to get to the bottom of what happened with Eric. But as I get closer to the legacies, I hesitate, remembering the night I saw Mads Jr. refusing to give Eric a ride back to their house. Eric seemed upset for days afterward and was completely deranged when he accosted me in the vault. What brought that on? Maybe the legacies had a falling out, and that’s why they haven’t bothered to report him missing. I might implicate myself by alerting them now. I’ll have to be clever.
I clutch my backpack’s strap as I approach Mads Jr., Callahan, and Alessandra, who’s hanging on Mads Jr.’s arm like an expensive human accessory. I don’t know if it’s the drugs and constant partying or what, but the two guys have been acting more and more unhinged lately. I haven’t exactly forgotten how they almost ran me over the night they ditched Eric. My stomach knots at the sight of the Testarossa. Grady straight-up growls when he sees me, his mullet so unkempt it looks like a crow’s nest. His eyes are shaded, as they usually are these days, but I’ve no problem imagining him glaring at me from behind those black Ray-Bans. “What do you want, Evergreen?” he snarls.
I have to suppress the instinct to shrink into myself. Just the height difference between us is enough to intimidate me, but I’m not turning back now.
“Chill, Grady,” I say. “I have no interest in talking to you either. I’m looking for Eric. He’s my project partner, and I don’t intend to fail Gothic lit just because he’s decided to start ditching class.” I’m surprised by how easily the lie comes and how calm I feel saying it. I’m banking on the fact that neither of them is in Dacian’s class with me and that I doubt Eric ever talked about his homework.
I expect some kind of nasty remark from Grady, but the moment I mention Eric’s name, I see alarm flash over all three of their faces. The panic doesn’t linger, however, and Mads Jr. covers it up the fastest like the born-and-bred politician he is.
“Eric is sick. Cooped up at home on doctor’s orders. Your professor should’ve told you,” he says with an air of aloof arrogance, like talking to me is beneath him.
It’s an effort to keep my face neutral. Eric is sick? With what? An acute case of blood loss? Even if Eric survived the encounter with Dacian, he would be in the ICU, hooked up to blood bags and recovering from the multiple surgeries it would take to reconstruct the chunk of meat missing from his neck. I struggle to tuck those horrible images into a tiny corner of my mind. I can’t blank out here.
“It would’ve been nice to hear that from him,” I say, feigning anger. “But I guess I should know better than to expect common courtesy from the likes of you.”
I turn around to leave, not giving them an opportunity to respond. I desperately need a moment to process what I’d just heard. From the corner of my eye, I see Mads Jr.’s arm shoot out to stop Grady from lunging after me like a monster who has smelled blood. My whole body shudders. Mads and Alessandra mutter something to him urgently that I can’t make out, but it’s barely enough to restrain Grady. That guy needs a rehab facility and a psychiatrist. As I force myself to keep walking instead of breaking into a run, I can practically feel three pairs of eyes boring holes into my back.
I don’t know what the hell just happened. But if these three have nothing to hide, why would they lie about Eric?