Page 3 of Love Immortal

Two

D ay one of the fall semester is nothing like the pandemonium of my first day of freshman year. To avoid the student stampede at the registrar’s office, I took care of my class registrations back in April. My major is self-designed, and I tried to squeeze as many courses as I could into my schedule, which was one hell of a logistical nightmare.

Now, the only thing that remains unsolved is my work-study arrangement. I’ve left multiple messages for my advisor, Dr. Kowalski, but I haven’t heard back from him, which is unusual. I don’t know how old he is—he’s gotta be in his eighties at least—but he always answers questions about class assignments and my major promptly. I hope he’s all right. Although it’s possible that he simply couldn’t reach me since my shitty apartment had no landline.

In any case, I’ll see him later today in my Gothic lit class. And there’s a chance I can catch him even before that—the dean of the School of Arts and Sciences is giving her annual address at noon. All students are required to attend, and most professors show up as well. I head there after intermediate Latin, which is my only Monday morning class.

The Royall Tyler Theater, where the assembly is being held, is one of Camden’s landmarks from the mid-1800s. It’s gone through several major renovations since then, but some elements of the original decor remain. The lobby is dark, illuminated only by the glow of two brass chandeliers. It gives off a very New England vibe. The walls are painted a deep oxblood, and the ceiling is supported by rows of ornate mahogany beams and pillars.

The auditorium is nearly full by the time I make it through the crowd of chattering students. The inside is a sea of red velvet—the heavy curtains framing the stage, the runners, and even the seat upholstery are the same invitingly plush scarlet fabric.

I don’t see Fiona, so I take an empty aisle seat in the back row. It’s not that I’m poorly socialized or don’t know how to make friends; it’s just that I prefer to be alone. Fiona is the only person I’ve allowed to get close to me. We both took Dr. Kowalski’s class during our first semester and bonded quickly over our mutual love of books. But it’s more than that. Fiona’s parents are hugely successful lawyers in upstate New York—unlike me, she doesn’t need scholarship money to attend Camden—but being the only Black student in the entire prelaw program doesn’t exactly make it easy to fit in. It’s the unspoken knowledge that neither of us will ever belong in the rich boys’ club that makes us allies.

Still, Fiona does most of the work to keep our friendship alive. I know it’s unfair. She deserves better, and I feel guilty about it, but I don’t know how to change.

Ever since Clay, there’s been a crack in my world: me on one side and everybody else on the other. Although maybe it was there even before him, and I just pretended not to see it. After him, I simply stopped trying. I don’t trust people anymore. It’s futile trying to connect when you’re forced to hide major parts of yourself. Although in that regard Camden is much safer than a small town in North Carolina. We even have a Gay and Lesbian Alliance. Fiona goes to their meetings sometimes—she’s interested in advancing equality for every Camden student. She tries to get me involved, too, but I always find reasons to politely decline. The thought of cracking open my chest and pouring out my life story to a bunch of strangers makes me want to run as far away as my legs will take me, no matter how sympathetic Fiona promises they’ll be.

Instead, I prefer the company of books. It’s a perfect relationship, really. A book will always open and let you in. You can close it anytime you wish. There’s no need for awkward social interactions, and the words inside won’t judge you or ask more of you than you can give.

I suppose books can lie or mislead, too, but you can’t blame them for it. It’s the fault of the people who wrote them—or edited them, especially after the fact. We form our opinions on books based on their most recent available edition, even when those editions might differ greatly from what the author originally intended. Books aren’t really written in stone; they change all the time. That’s why conservation is so important. It’s the only way to preserve all points of view, to protect narratives from meddling by anyone with a quill and an agenda. An archivist wields a lot more power than people realize. While they cannot travel back in time, they can change the way history is viewed by future generations, elevating certain figures and their accomplishments and completely erasing others, like their existence doesn’t merit even a footnote. Sadly, all too often, the same kinds of people get pushed beyond the margins of history, their stories truncated, their identities rewritten. Without our society putting in the extra effort to protect them, nothing will change.

Speaking of protecting books, I scan the crowd for Dr. Kowalski—I really need to talk to him before all the library jobs are filled. But I don’t see him. Instead, my gaze is drawn to a solitary figure standing by the wall at the far end of the theater, half engulfed in the shadows. I squint, curious.

He looks to be in his mid-twenties—a new grad student, maybe? Camden is not a big school; after a while, most faces become familiar, and I wouldn’t have forgotten his. There’s a sharp grace to his features, like that of a wolf. An untamed wildness that doesn’t belong here, which creates the illusion of movement even though he’s standing still.

His right shoulder leans against the wall as he gazes into the crowd, seemingly searching for someone as well. For a moment, I have this deranged idea that it might be me.

Just as that thought crosses my mind, as though I’ve pulled some invisible string, the stranger’s head whips in my direction—and no matter how embarrassed I should feel for being caught staring, I can’t look away from him. A peculiar feeling whispers across my skin, a hushed sigh against my throat.

The shadows must be playing tricks on my eyes because it feels like the distance between us has shrunk, and I find myself impossibly closer, pulled toward him by an irresistible force. I can even make out his features as though someone had magnified them. Dark eyes, slender nose, a wisp of jet-black hair grazing his high cheekbone. His lips part in silent surprise, and he tilts his head, birdlike, examining me. His stare is so intense that I wonder again if it’s me he has been searching for this whole time—although of course that isn’t possible because I don’t know this out-of-place, strikingly beautiful person. How could I know him?

Suddenly, the house lights go out, and his face is obscured. Distracted, I glance at the stage; Dean Wilkins is walking up to the lectern. I turn back, wanting to sneak another look at this strange man, but with profound disappointment, I realize that the space where he stood is now empty.

I exhale with a shudder, weirdly dizzy. What the hell was that? I feel like I just had a particularly vivid daydream.

At the lectern, Dean Wilkins tests the microphone by tapping it unnecessarily loudly. The resulting shrill makes me wince.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” she says cheerfully, satisfied that the microphone is indeed capable of damaging the hearing of the entire school. “Let me start by saying how excited I am to welcome both our new and returning students, as well as our esteemed faculty, back to Camden, our elite institution and the top university in the state of Vermont. For two hundred and three years, Camden has been home to generations of scholars and researchers aspiring to reach new frontiers of knowledge. But of course, while academics are important, they aren’t everything. We want you to have a fulfilling experience in your studies and extracurriculars during your time with us.”

Occasionally interrupted by applause, Dean Wilkins prattles on about the events the school has planned for the fall semester, such as homecoming, family weekend, and a variety of academic competitions. Most of them are the same as last year. Few things change in a place where even the walls are older than the state of Vermont. I can’t help but tune out the twenty-minute speech, letting my thoughts drift back to the mysterious man. Who is he? He certainly looked too young to be a professor. If he’s in grad school, chances are I’ll see him on campus again. We might even be in some of the same classes.

I shake my head. Why am I suddenly so excited about the prospect of being in the same room as some guy who caught me staring at him? I tell myself that would be awkward, that it would be best to avoid him. Or I try to, but it doesn’t work because when I recall his gaze, the space-warping intensity of it, I feel a shiver at the nape of my neck.

“And last but not least,” Dean Wilkins says, finally wrapping up her speech, “student safety remains this institution’s utmost priority. Drinking on campus will not be tolerated. Buying alcohol with a counterfeit government ID is a federal crime and will result in expulsion.” The message seems to be aimed mostly at the crop of wide-eyed freshmen, away from their parents’ supervision for the first time and ready to party till they’re dead. But nobody seems to take the dean’s words seriously. There’s a reason Camden is known as a party school. What else is there to do when you’re surrounded by mountains with no entertainment and no major cities within an hour’s drive? Campus security never does anything worse than wag their fingers. Mads Jr. and his cohort are prime examples of that. If Camden ever got serious about enforcing the no-drinking rule, they’d put every liquor store in the valley and the sole bar downtown out of business.

“And,” Dean Wilkins continues, “I strongly urge you not to throw any parties in the woods, either. I know some of you have romantic notions about escaping into the wilderness to have private intimate liaisons”—several students snicker at that choice of words—“or to partake of illegal substances, but I must remind you that black bears are very active during the fall. Local authorities are still on high alert after a hiker went missing in the mountains last week. We will keep that person in our prayers, but for the sake of yourselves and this school’s two-hundred-year-old reputation, do not get mauled by a bear.”

Some students begin to whisper, disturbed by the news of a person going missing near Camden, but quite a few of them laugh as though getting eaten by a hungry bear is hilarious. Dumbasses.

After Dean Wilkins dismisses the assembly, I finally link up with Fiona on my way to Gothic literature. Sadly, it’s the only class we’re taking together. I have too many art history courses to get through, and her prelaw curriculum is insanely packed. Together, we cross the large green space in the center of campus until we reach Kinnell Hall, which houses the humanities departments. It has a copper roof, bright green with a patina, and a maroon brick facade, although most of it is invisible under vast swaths of verdant Boston ivy. There’s a bit of a commotion in the adjacent parking lot. Several students are eyeing a brand-new car, a Jaguar blacker than a raven at midnight. Even I do a double take. Given the number of wealthy students here, there’s no shortage of cool cars in Camden. Mads Jr. drives a Firebird, and his buddy Grady Callahan has a fiery-red Testarossa. But honestly, both of those look cheap and pretentious compared to the timeless elegance of this Jag.

Fiona snorts beside me, and I realize I’ve totally frozen on the steps of Kinnell Hall, ogling the car. “Didn’t know you cared about fancy whips.”

“I don’t,” I say, making a show of hurrying to the massive green double doors under a white gabled portico. “I’ve just never seen one of those before. I wonder who it belongs to.”

“Some privileged asshole,” Fiona replies sardonically.

My admiration for the Jag deflates a little. She’s probably right. Still, I sneak one more glimpse at it before pushing the doors open and stepping inside.

We look for the room for Gothic lit, which turns out to be a big amphitheater-style auditorium on the first floor—way bigger than needed to accommodate the dozen or so students. Gothic lit is an elective, and no major is required to take it. Only language geeks and people who like Dr. Kowalski will have signed up for it. It’s strange that they put us in this room. I honestly prefer the smaller and cozier spaces most of my other classes are in, with oval tables and wood paneling on the walls and old paintings of people in ridiculous white powdered wigs.

As Fiona and I decide where to sit, I spot a familiar figure in ripped jeans and a varsity jacket all the way in the corner of the top row, slumped in a chair and dozing off. Eric. Fucking. Stockton.

Anger flares up in me. “What is he doing here?”

Fiona frowns. “I don’t know. But don’t let it rattle you, Jonathan.”

Don’t let it rattle me? Like that’s possible. Eric Stockton is the number one reason for the utter misery that was my summer.

The story goes like this: Camden’s Rare Books Collection has a prestigious internship that takes place during the historic research symposium that is held every summer. I became eligible for the position after finishing my freshmen year, so of course, I applied immediately. It wasn’t just perfect for my résumé and my future career; it also—amazingly—paid money. Book conservation is largely an apprenticeship-based industry. It’s hard to find jobs without knowing the right people—collectors, researchers, and museum curators. The internship would’ve been a great way to start making those vital connections.

Dr. Kowalski assured me that the job was all but mine. I was the most qualified candidate, and I had his recommendation, which was key. Or so I naively thought. Because then, at the last moment, the internship went to Eric Stockton, a mind-boggling travesty of a choice. Eric couldn’t care less about any books, let alone rare ones. There was absolutely no way he was qualified for the internship, and yet…

“Why?” I asked Dr. Kowalski, shell-shocked by the news. I was sitting across the desk from him in his office.

Dr. Kowalski shuffled the papers in his hands for a moment, then glanced at the door to make sure it was closed. Looking apologetic and uncomfortable, he said, “I’m sure you know that Eric’s parents are major donors to this institution.” He let the sentence hang in the air meaningfully.

I let out a bitter huff. Who could miss the giant bronze plaque with their name on it hanging right by the entrance to Kinnell Hall? It was just the tackiest possible thing to stick next to the name of a Pulitzer-winning poet.

Dr. Kowalski continued, “I hope I can count on your discretion, Jonathan. Please don’t repeat this to anyone, but Mrs. Stockton thought spending a summer surrounded by books would do Eric a world of good.”

I nearly choked on a laugh. Being near books doesn’t make you smarter! You have to actually read them, which wasn’t something I’d observed any of the legacies do during my tenure as Mads Jr.’s roommate. They partied, they drank themselves into oblivion, and they slept with every pretty girl who sought to improve her social standing by hooking up with elite jerks.

I hung my head but couldn’t muster anything to say.

Dr. Kowalski’s voice softened. “You’re right to find this unfair, Jonathan,” he said in a way that felt more parental than anything I’d heard in a long while. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. But it’s done; we can’t change it. Take this advice from someone who’s been steeping in academic circles for half a century—not everything is based on merit. There’s always money and internal politics at play. You’re going to have to navigate both if you intend to continue on this path. You understand?” He waited until I slowly quelled the raging storm of resentment inside me and nodded.

“Don’t take any of this to heart. There’s always next year. I’ll certainly recommend you again, and I can help facilitate a work-study arrangement with the library in the fall semester. You will be eligible for it based on your financial situation. I know it’s not quite as prestigious as the internship, but it will look good on your résumé and will get you closer to your career goals. All right?”

I nodded again and tried to be a little more optimistic. But by the time I lost the internship, all the decent summer jobs in the valley were already spoken for. That’s how, instead of living my dream, I spent last summer behind a register at a grimy gas station, consoling myself with hopes of a brighter future. Next semester. Next year. All I had to do was wait for my second chance…while the rich pricks of the world took whatever they wanted from whomever they wanted.

“Why the hell is Eric here?” I repeat through gritted teeth as Fiona and I claim two neighboring chairs in the middle of the second row.

She shrugs. “If I had to guess, the same reason I am. It’s an elective, and Dr. Kowalski teaches it. Stockton probably thinks he can coast through his class.”

Unlike Eric, Fiona doesn’t expect an easy A from Dr. Kowalski; she genuinely likes his classes. That’s why she added Gothic lit as an elective, even though her schedule was already full. I really like Dr. Kowalski too. The man knows endless obscure literary anecdotes, making books seem less like out-of-context abstract creations and more like extensions of the authors’ lives. Not like Eric Stockton cares about that. Even now, he’s still passed out in his chair. Probably partied all weekend. I grimace at the gross injustice of it all but bite my tongue and pull my notebook out of my backpack.

For the next five minutes, more students trail in—as expected, there are just over a dozen of us total. I thought Dr. Kowalski would be here by now, but when the clock above the blackboard ticks past one p.m., the professor’s desk remains empty. I start to feel a little nervous.

Then, moments later, the auditorium door swings open, but it’s not him who walks in. I gasp—it’s the strange man I saw in the theater earlier. He looks even more striking in broad daylight. He’s wearing all black, a chic tailored ensemble that looks like it’s come straight off the cover of GQ . His sharp cheekbones, raised chin, and confident stride all contribute to his air of prideful authority.

“Who is he?” I whisper to Fiona.

“No idea. A student?” she suggests, a curious wrinkle between her eyebrows.

Except the stranger doesn’t take a seat among us. First, he goes to one of the big, sashed windows on the left side of the room and opens it. The old wooden frame creaks and a cool breeze rushes in, carrying with it the smell of early fall. Then, still without saying a word, he glides over to the blackboard, picks up a piece of chalk, and writes a name in the most exquisite, elegant cursive I’ve ever seen.

“Good afternoon,” he says, turning around to face us. There’s a melodic, almost noble quality to his voice, and an accent—British, I think, though it sounds mixed with something else. Wait… Why is he introducing himself? Briefly I wonder if maybe he’s Dr. Kowalski’s graduate assistant. That would explain his presence here. But then he continues, “My name is Dacian Bathory. I will be teaching Gothic literature this semester.”

My jaw drops. Did I miss an instructor change announcement? But how could that be? Dr. Kowalski has taught this class for years! Shocked, I glance at Fiona, but she only shrugs, not nearly as surprised by the situation as I am. Meanwhile, Mr. Bathory strolls over to the professor’s desk, takes a sheet of paper from his shiny black briefcase, and begins roll call.

A din of worries erupts in my mind. Did something happen to Dr. Kowalski? He never picked up the phone, even though I called his office several times. I haven’t seen him around campus today, and now he’s not even teaching his class. This is not good news for me. With difficulty, I force myself to calm down. No point in agonized speculation—I’ll just have to find out after class. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation for this.

I shift my attention back to Mr. Bathory as he makes his way down the list of students, calling each name and then staring at each face for several uncomfortably long seconds in an apparent effort to memorize who is who.

Despite my sudden despair, there’s also a part of me—a small, treacherous part—that is unexpectedly delighted by the chance to be near this man. We ended up in the same class after all, just not the way I thought. And I’m not the only one who’s feeling this way. Three girls whose names come before mine on the roster don’t even bother to hide their excitement from him as they chime, “Here!” and “Present!” It’s like their interest in Gothic literature has suddenly quadrupled because of the hot new professor who is a lot younger and more attractive than Dr. Kowalski.

To his credit, Mr. Bathory doesn’t dignify the extra attention with any kind of reaction. He doesn’t even appear to notice it. Despite the quiet, unbreakable intensity of his gaze, there’s an air of aloofness about him. Although it’s not that he seems arrogant or bored; it feels more like an intentional barrier, like a moat around a medieval castle. You can come in, but only if you’ve been invited by the lord. Otherwise, into the water you go.

It won’t be long before he gets to my name. The inexplicable thrill at the prospect of him saying it, of him looking at me, catches me off guard. My cheeks heat in anticipation. Why am I reacting to him like this? He isn’t the first good-looking guy I’ve met. Although, to be honest, good-looking is quite an understatement. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone this attractive before. To my embarrassment, Mr. Bathory’s gaze flickers to me, just for a breath, as though he somehow knows what I’m thinking. Of course, I realize that isn’t possible, but my pulse flutters nonetheless. Our eye contact is brief, and then he looks down at his paper.

He pauses. He stares at my name for several unbearably long seconds, and then, for some unfathomable reason, his striking features form a grimace of displeasure as though my name has deeply offended him. The hostile reaction is so obvious and swift that it completely takes me aback. I am instantly confused and self-conscious.

“Mr. Evergreen?” he finally says without looking up at me, sounding like he’s struggling to hold back anger. No Jonathan . Just Mr. Evergreen , even though he called everyone else by their first and last name.

A heartbeat passes. I squirm in my seat like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over my head. I can’t believe this. He still won’t look at me. What on earth did I do wrong? Is he allergic to my name? Beside me, Fiona nudges my elbow to bring me out of my spiraling thoughts.

“I’m here,” I reply belatedly.

Mr. Bathory schools his expression into something neutral, but he still doesn’t glance at me before moving on to the next student, as though he doesn’t need to remember my face. I wrack my brain for what I could’ve done to provoke such an unkind reaction. Did I anger him when he caught me staring in the theater? He didn’t seem to mind it at the time. He even held my gaze. Like we had a moment. I recall that strange whispering sensation that swept over my skin. His eyes felt like they were so close to mine. I was completely enthralled, like I could’ve fallen into them with the slightest push, eager to enter his abyss…

Now I’m mortified. I don’t know what came over me. I guess this is what happens when you read too many books: your imagination spins out stories that have no basis in reality, and then they come crashing down like a house of cards. How long could we possibly have stared at each other across the giant orchestra section, anyway? I was just caught up in my own musings, and he probably decided I was rude to gawk at him like that. Or worse, he was bothered because, well, I’m a guy. Still, isn’t it a bit much to not even call me by my name? There is no way he isn’t used to people’s attention with the way he looks.

As I stew in my ruined expectations, Mr. Bathory goes through the rest of the class roster like nothing has happened. Like my very existence is insignificant to him. Finally, he calls on Eric, who has yet to lift his head off his desk. “Mr. Eric Stockton?” For a second, there’s no reply, only a muffled giggle in the row behind me. “Mr. Stockton?” Mr. Bathory repeats louder, directing his words at Eric’s slumbering shape.

One of the students hisses, “Hey, Stockton, wake up.” More giggles follow.

That jerks Eric out of his afternoon siesta. “What?” he drawls, his voice grating. He pushes his spiky blond hair, à la Billy Idol, out of his barely-awake face. With nearly comedic slowness, his eyes focus on Mr. Bathory, and a realization dawns. “Who’re you? Where’s Dr. Kowalski?”

Unbelievably, Mr. Bathory remains impassive at Eric’s complete lack of decorum, save for a tiny sharp glint in his eyes that’s gone as quickly as it appears. “Dr. Kowalski has retired,” he informs the class in a flat tone.

Eric’s mouth drops open. “No freaking way!”

And as much as I detest him and his entitled attitude, I can’t help but agree with the sentiment. What the hell? How could Dr. Kowalski retire? Why didn’t he tell me he wasn’t planning to come back? He was my advisor! Come to think of it, the dean mentioned nothing about this in her speech, either. She always gives honorary send-offs to retiring faculty members, especially those who’ve been with the school for several decades. Maybe Dr. Kowalski’s retirement was sudden, and no one was expecting it. But what could’ve brought it on? Is he ill?

Ignoring Eric’s rudeness and maintaining the same aloof demeanor, Mr. Bathory confirms my suspicion. “From what I know, it was a last-minute decision motivated by personal reasons that I am not privy to. I was merely invited to teach this class in the wake of Dr. Kowalski’s departure. Now, if there are no more questions—” he stands up and rounds his desk as his dark gaze sweeps over the auditorium with the authority of a ruler establishing his domain “—I shall begin. Gothic literature has fascinated readers since the late eighteenth century, with its looming castles, haunted red rooms, and inescapable dungeons, its ghostly apparitions, flying helmets, and monsters born and made. But why are we so drawn to stories of the macabre? Is it the mystery of the unknown? Of supernatural occurrences our rational minds cannot explain? Is it the pleasure of a thrill that makes the hair on your neck rise with a tantalizing shiver? Or is it perhaps the allure of the darkness, the secret desire for the forbidden that mesmerizes the soul and ensnares the heart? ‘Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.’”

Mr. Bathory leans against his desk, effortlessly quoting famous literary works and authors in that melodious voice of his, but I’m having a hard time following. My mind is in a tailspin. Dr. Kowalski is gone. My one faculty ally at this institution is no more.

I sink deeper into my chair. This year was supposed to be different, a new beginning for me. I was supposed to get my foot in the door and get my dream internship and a work-study job at the library. But once again, my plans crumble before I can turn them into reality.