Page 4 of Love Immortal
Three
“ T hat was amazing,” Fiona says as we exit the auditorium after class.
“Was it?” I say dejectedly.
“He was quoting entire passages from memory . I don’t even think he had notes. I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Mr. Bathory didn’t have notes. He spent an hour talking about decades of Gothic works like he’d memorized entire texts. When someone asked him about the reading list for the semester, he was surprised, like he didn’t know we needed one—then made one up on the spot. It was like this teaching job had been sprung on him at the last moment. Maybe the school has had a hard time finding a replacement for Dr. Kowalski.
“He might have a photographic memory,” I say, unimpressed, as we continue down the hallway toward the back exit, which is closest to the dining hall. I’m done for the day, while Fiona has a free hour before her next class, and neither of us has had lunch yet. Although I really don’t feel like eating right now. I’m just tagging along until I figure out what to do with my life.
“What was he quoting, anyway? I think I caught something from Jane Eyre ,” Fiona says.
I furrow my eyebrows. “The first one was Poe. But I’m not sure about the others.” There were too many quotes and literary references to keep track of, and I was too distracted to pay attention.
I open the doors, and we step out of Kinnell Hall.
“Mr. Bathory has gotta be some kind of literary genius,” Fiona muses as we weave through crowds of students, following a tree-lined path toward the dining hall. “He seems so young, too—not to mention hot.”
“I knew it!” I say accusingly. “It’s not his intellectual ability you’re really impressed by, is it?”
“Who says one has to negate the other? You can be both hot and smart.” She grins.
I sigh. Everyone in the class, even her, is fawning over Mr. Bathory. I would be, too, if it wasn’t for his intense, inexplicable dislike of me. And I’m still thinking too much about him when I should be preoccupied with my employment prospects.
My gloom must show on my face because Fiona asks, “Are you worried about Dr. Kowalski?”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that he retired so suddenly?”
“Well, he is old,” Fiona says, not overly concerned.
I frown. “But shouldn’t he have said something to me? He’s my advisor.”
Her tone turns sympathetic. “I know you really like him. I’m gonna miss him too. But if he decided it was time to go, there’s nothing we can do. I’m sure the department has assigned you to someone else by now.”
They probably have, but that offers little consolation to me. Fiona doesn’t understand how big of a deal this is. It will be a complete clusterfuck trying to explain my self-designed major to whoever takes over for Dr. Kowalski. Besides, he was supposed to help me land the work-study at the Rare Books Collection. Without his help, I’ll probably end up working in the cafeteria again, or in the mail room. Neither of those will do anything for my résumé, or my post-graduation employment prospects.
But the work-study isn’t the only reason I’m so upset. Dr. Kowalski was more than an advisor to me. He knew my situation, and I thought he genuinely cared. When I told him about my dreams of working in book conservation and that I had no family to fall back on, he seemed really moved by it…but now he’s gone without a word.
Why am I even surprised? Doesn’t this always happen to me in the end? People I care about just leave.
Fiona adds, “I’m sure whoever your new advisor is, they’ll help you figure it out. It’s their job.”
I nod without conviction.
So much for trying to avoid the registrar’s office on the first day. When I arrive there after lunch, the line stretches out the door and loops around the building. After half an hour of trying to stave off a headache from the crowd’s noise, I wait at the counter as a tired-looking lady quickly flips through my file. Then my already-bad day goes completely to hell.
“Looks like you’ve been assigned to…oh, there it is. Your new advisor is Mr. Dacian Bathory,” she says.
The room tilts sideways.
“What?” I ask, not comprehending.
“Dacian Bathory. His office is in Kinnell Hall, room 207. Would you like directions?”
I shake my head numbly. I don’t need directions to that room—he even took Dr. Kowalski’s office!
“This has to be a mistake,” I plead, leaning on the counter. “Mr. Bathory can’t be my advisor. He just started teaching here.”
The woman’s face turns annoyed. “I’m sorry, but we don’t make these decisions. If you have concerns, you should take it up with your department.” She shuts my folder with a little too much force and shouts “Next!”
There is no point in arguing with her. I swallow my objections and force out a bitter thank-you before shuffling away.
Dismayed, I cut through the crowds and march out of the building to get some fresh air. What am I going to do now? Keeping Mr. Bathory as my advisor is out of the question. He doesn’t even know the school, let alone my curriculum. But replacing Dr. Kowalski’s replacement means I’ll have to make an appointment with the head of the department or the dean. Either option will take days, if not weeks—at which point I can pretty much say goodbye to work-study at the library. With a sour feeling in my stomach, I realize that I don’t have much choice. I’m going to have to deal with this new professor. But remembering the barely-contained anger I felt from him makes me want to shrink inside myself. What are the chances I just imagined it, or that he’ll treat me differently if he knows he’s my advisor? I’m not bursting with hope, but I’ll have to try.
I trek all the way back to Kinnell Hall and climb the stairs to the second floor, where Dr. Kowalski’s office is. As luck would have it, Mr. Bathory is still around. I find him standing by his office door in conversation with the Dean. He doesn’t see me immediately, his black-clad shape turned away from me, a striking vision against the plain whiteness of the walls. It would be rude to interrupt them, so I wait just out of earshot.
I lean against the wall, trying to keep my gaze on an old portrait of some guy in a gray wig—probably one of the school’s first professors—but it fails to hold my attention. It’s like trying to ignore a ringing phone; all I can think about is picking up the receiver. I give up resisting and once again find myself drawn to watching Mr. Bathory.
His body language is approachable but reserved, like it seemed in class. He’s listening to Dean Wilkins intently, and there’s a polite, exquisite smile on his face, expertly placed there as though to entice the dean to tell him everything. And the dean…well, Dean Wilkins is having the same reaction to him as every student in class, including myself. I wonder if Mr. Bathory knows hypnosis. Or does he command such rapt attention simply by being so attractive?
Or is it something else, something deeper? Even though I’m not his intended audience, the more I watch him, the harder it is to look away. It’s like I’m being pulled toward him by some sorcery. My gaze traces the lines of his mouth, the sharp angle of his chin, his long, dark eyelashes. The oversized cut of his blazer, although stylish, somewhat obscures his physique, but it’s still easy to imagine the lean muscle underneath that silky black fabric, the strength concealed within. Unmoored, my thoughts drift to him, seeking, wandering?—
I snap out of it once I realize that a pair of dark intense eyes is now boring into mine—the same eyes that just a moment ago were focused on the dean. While I was daydreaming, Dean Wilkins left, and for the second time today, I’ve been caught unabashedly ogling Mr. Bathory. A swift succession of emotions flashes across his face, too quick and complicated for me to decipher. It doesn’t warrant the labor anyway because he presses his mouth into a hard, furious line, slams the door to his office, and, without saying a word, strides down the hall away from me.
For a heartbeat, I’m too stunned to say anything. What on earth did I do? Why is he so mad at me? My lips open and close soundlessly like a fish as he continues to move farther from me. But then I remember why I came to his office in the first place and take off after him.
“Mr. Bathory, I need to talk to you,” I say to his back. But he doesn’t slow his step. It’s an effort to keep up with him.
“I have an urgent matter to attend to,” he says brusquely.
“It’ll only take a moment!” I plead, but it’s in vain.
His shoulders stiffen as though he’s holding back some unspeakable anger, and he just keeps walking. “Not now,” he grits out, seething. Then he rounds the corner and patters down the stairs, the hem of his silky blazer fluttering behind him, while I’m left to watch his disappearing silhouette, utterly speechless.
If I had any doubts left after class, they’ve now been burned in a blaze and turned to ash. For reasons I can’t even begin to comprehend, Dacian Bathory positively hates my very existence.