Page 29 of Love Immortal

Twenty-Eight

B y the time I return to campus, I feel like I’m walking on clouds, my body buzzing pleasantly. There’s a stupid grin on my face, and I don’t care who sees it. I climb to the third floor of West Hall, taking the stairs two at a time, humming under my breath, but I halt abruptly in the hallway when I see someone sitting cross-legged outside my door. There’s a heavy book in her lap, and she does not look pleased.

“Fiona? What are you doing here?” I ask, puzzled.

“Are you serious?” Her eyebrows furrow as she frowns. I blink at her. Fiona groans. “We were supposed to meet for a study session, remember? I waited for you at the library, but you never showed, so I came here.”

Oh shit. I feel like a bucket of cold water has been poured over my head. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I forgot,” I say guiltily.

Fiona sighs, closes her book, and stands up. “It’s fine, as long as you’re okay, I guess. You’ve been acting strange, Jonathan. You didn’t show up for dinner on Friday, and I couldn’t find you all day yesterday.” She mercifully doesn’t mention my complete meltdown during Gothic lit, but the implication is there.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble again, feeling thoroughly awful for ditching Fiona when she’s the only person who ever bothers to check on me. I don’t think I’m in the right frame of mind to study, but I do want to make it up to her. “How about we postpone the study session and go for pancakes? My treat.”

Fiona’s eyebrow quirks up. “Wow. You feel that guilty?”

I shrug. “I stood you up. And also, I’m starving.” As I say it, I realize how true that is. My stomach feels like an empty cavern. All the energy from the breakfast Dacian cooked for me has long been depleted, thanks to Dacian himself.

“All right,” Fiona says, stuffing her heavy textbook into her backpack. “I’ll allow you to work your way back into my good graces.”

“So…are you going to tell me what’s been going on with you lately?” Fiona asks once the waitress leaves with our pancake orders. We’re in a corner booth, away from prying ears, but I still feel like I’m sitting on needles. I have no idea what I can say to her that won’t implicate Dacian or put Fiona in danger from deranged soon-to-be vampires.

“Um…I can’t tell you because it doesn’t only involve me,” I say, stalling.

Unexpectedly, an amused little smirk appears on Fiona’s face. “Jonathan Evergreen, are you telling me you’re finally hooking up with someone?”

My jaw nearly drops. “Keep it down!”

“Oh my god, you totally are, aren’t you!” Fiona is grinning from ear to ear now, and I feel like my cheeks are going to catch on fire. She totally misunderstood what I was trying to say, but also somehow hit the nail on the head.

“H-how did you know?” I sputter.

“You have the look ,” she says, all smug.

“What look?”

Fiona rolls her eyes before leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, “The sexed-up look, Jonathan.”

“No, I don’t!” I say it so vehemently that someone three tables down gives me a side-eye. But my protest is futile. It only makes Fiona more convinced.

“Dude, you look exactly like my roommate did this morning when she stumbled in at six a.m. after being gone all night. The rumpled clothes, the messy hair.” She gestures vaguely at my body. “No smudged mascara, but ordering a double stack of pancakes with extra maple syrup is probably the male equivalent.”

There’s no denying that I’m still wearing my clothes from yesterday. And now that Fiona has pointed it out, my mind is flooded with images of Dacian’s swift hands taking them off and throwing them to the floor, in his bedroom, and then again in the kitchen just a few hours ago. My skin still burns pleasantly where he touched me. Dear heavens, I must get a grip on myself.

“So spill it. Who is he?” Fiona asks. “Is he not out? Is that why you can’t tell me?”

My stomach flips again. How is this girl so perceptive? She should switch majors and become a detective after she graduates. Being a lawyer is fancier, but I think she’d make a killer sleuth. Fiona is right—Dacian isn’t out, just not in the way she thinks. I hate to mislead her, but I don’t have the right to drag him out of the creature-of-the-night closet. Not to mention that he’s my professor.

“He isn’t out,” I say reluctantly.

She nods somberly. “Don’t worry, I won’t pry. Good for you, though.” She flashes a smile, all encouragement. “And if you or he ever feels like telling me, you know I’m safe. My lips will remain sealed.” She makes a zipping gesture across her mouth.

“I know.” I smile back. If only Fiona had any idea what she’s encouraging. Mercifully, our pancakes arrive just then, providing me with an opportunity to change the subject. “Enough about me. How was your weekend? Anything exciting?”

She chuckles sardonically and spears a piece of chocolate chip pancake with her fork. “The only excitement I’m getting these days is from my psych book. You’d be amazed at all the crazy shit this class is putting in my brain,” she says.

Somehow, I’ve already devoured half of my strawberry pancakes without even noticing.

I might need another double stack.

“Speaking of brains,” I say carefully as an idea arises, “can I borrow your deductive powers?”

Fiona tips her head, intrigued. “Fire away.”

I push a piece of syrupy strawberry across my plate to buy myself a moment to formulate a coherent thought. The night I spent with Dacian completely took over my mind, but now that I’m away from him, some of the unbelievable things he revealed are finally starting to sink in. I promised him I’d help look for his journal, and now that I know how serious the situation is, I need to make good on that. “So, remember how I told you about a missing book from the Rare Books Collection?”

“The one that seemed like an inside job? I remember,” she says.

I lower my voice and glance around to make sure no one is eavesdropping on us. “I think it’s connected to the murder of that woman from the cafeteria.”

Fiona’s expression darkens. “What makes you think so?”

I feel guilty that I’m about to lie again, but there’s no way I can disclose the actual truth, so this is the best I can do. “Apparently there’s a weird ritual in that book, one that involves draining a person of their blood.”

“You mean like a sacrifice?” she says uneasily.

“Yeah. Remember what they said about Ms. Hernandez’s body? I think someone might have been trying to do the ritual.”

“Jonathan, if you really think that, you need to go to the police,” Fiona says seriously.

Alarmed, I almost drop my fork. “Why?”

“Are you kidding? This is like those satanic cults they talk about on the news. A person is dead. It’s not some hobby investigation for a college kid.”

I panic. “I can’t go to the police.”

“Why not?” Fiona demands.

“Because—” I nearly trip over my words, trying to figure out how to dig myself out of this hole. “For one, I don’t think anyone would believe me. And two, if they did believe me, they might think I’m involved. I often work in the library alone. What if they think that’s suspicious?”

Fiona narrows her eyes doubtfully. “I don’t think they’ll suspect you of being in a satanic cult. It’s more likely they’ll write you off for lack of evidence. On the other hand, the police aren’t exactly known for being unbiased. I’m sure they’re looking for someone to blame, so maybe you’re right—it may be best to keep your head down and forget about it.”

“What if I can’t forget about it?” I ask.

Fiona gives me a warning look. “You shouldn’t be sticking your nose into something so dark, Jonathan.”

“Well, someone has to do something. How hard do you think they’re looking for the murderer? They don’t care about some immigrant woman. They’re probably happy to sweep it under the rug. But what if she isn’t the only victim? Wouldn’t you want to know if someone was out there planning to sacrifice more people in Camden?”

“That’s really far-fetched,” Fiona says skeptically. “We don’t know if it was a ritualistic sacrifice to begin with.”

“Let’s pretend it was, for the sake of argument,” I propose. “If someone did something so horrid, would they stand out somehow?”

Fiona takes a moment to ponder. “Not necessarily,” she concludes hesitantly. “It would be much easier to catch them if they did. But those who commit heinous crimes are often great at masquerading as regular people. They also tend to keep someone in their circle who’s willing to publicly defend them, or at least turn a blind eye to their actions—an enabler of sorts. Look at serial killers, for example. The Killer Clown was an upstanding citizen who volunteered to entertain hospitalized kids and had ties to local politicians. Even when his neighbors repeatedly heard screaming coming from his house, they didn’t call the cops. The Interstate Killer had a professor friend who paid his bail and rented out an apartment for him after his first arrest. Some are even willing to defend those murderers after they find out the full extent of their crimes. The Night Stalker gets piles of fan mail from his followers, even marriage proposals. That’s after he tortured and brutally murdered thirteen people in Los Angeles.”

“That’s sick.” I grimace. “Who’d wanna marry a convicted mass killer?”

“Humans are twisted,” Fiona replies with a troubled expression.

“Well, if murderers don’t stand out from a crowd and there’s no direct evidence pointing to them, what would you do to find them?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can.

Fiona stabs her fork into a pancake, musing. “Hypothetically? You would examine the circumstances under which the crime was committed, like if they used an unusual weapon or had access to a specific place where the murder happened. That could tell you something about the murderer. You can also investigate the motive and see if that produces a lead. But I’m sure the police have already gone over everything. The forensic scientists would’ve found something by now if they were going to.”

They would , I think, if they knew to look for people with fangs and a thirst for blood. Out loud, I thank Fiona for her thoughts.

“Please promise me you won’t go looking for satanic cults, Jonathan,” she pleads, exasperated. “If you’ve got time on your hands, spend it hooking up with your secret lover. You look happy. Happy is a good look on you. Good sex does that. Go have more sex.”

I stuff my face with the last bits of my pancake and mumble something that could be construed as agreement. Carefully, I file away everything she said to mull over later. I might not be Sherlock Holmes, but I have enough evidence to start putting this puzzle together.