Page 5 of Love Immortal

Four

I have a recurring dream that started after Clay’s letter went missing.

Although maybe it’s more accurate to call it a nightmare.

I’m asleep in my bed when I feel someone’s cold presence beside me. When I open my eyes, my room is dark, but I can see Clay standing quietly at the foot of my bed, his beautiful silhouette framed by a translucent glow. My heart twists, and I want nothing more than to reach for him, to tell him how much I miss him, how some days I want to howl from all the emptiness in me, a human-shaped crater in my soul. But Clay doesn’t see me. His gaze is stubbornly fixed on the box of letters on my bedside table. His letters. That’s what he’s here for. Then, slowly, without saying a word, he turns to face me. I shudder. His eyes, which used to be so warm, are now lifeless and utterly devoid of emotion. Like there’s barely any Clay left in them.

I wait, my body leaden, even though I already know what’s coming.

The most unsettling thing about this dream that haunts me night after night is that Clay never says anything to me. He just stares. And stares. And stares. And the box continues to lie on the table between us, an all-seeing judge in this silent standoff, as minutes tick away, swallowed by the void of eternity.

It’s me who eventually breaks. Always me.

“I’m not giving them back!” I tell him for the millionth time. My lips tremble. But he doesn’t take no for an answer. Instead, the room becomes so cold that my breath turns into clouds of icy vapor. Tremors rattle my body as I press my back into the headboard, but there’s nowhere to hide from him. A chill starts to crawl across my neck like someone is winding an invisible rope around it with gentle but determined fingers—not tight enough to choke, but firmly enough to remind me of the price of keeping these letters. The price I didn’t pay.

I wake up. My mouth is open, and my throat aches as though I’ve been screaming for hours. For one blurry moment I swear he’s still standing there, right by the foot of my bed, watching, waiting. I snatch the box with letters off the bedside table and cradle it in my arms. “I won’t burn them. I won’t,” I repeat over and over again.

I keep my eyes on the box and count my breaths until they slow, until the mad thrumming of my heart ebbs. Only then do I dare to peek at the space in front of me. I exhale. Clay is no longer there, just the moonlight streaming through the window. It was only a dream , I tell myself as I work on unclamping my arms from the box. Gently, I place it back on the side table next to my clock radio.

It’s barely past five a.m., but I doubt I’ll be able to fall back asleep. So I flick the lamp on and drag my sluggish body to my desk, where I pull my heavy art history textbook off the shelf and open it to the first chapter. I need a distraction. I rub the last dregs of sleep from my eyes and force them to concentrate on the lines of text, trying not to glance at the spot where Clay stood earlier.

“Argh, I feel like my brain is melting,” Fiona grouses, shutting her gigantic psychology textbook with a thump. We’re sitting on a blanket on the university’s big green, the grass a soft cushion underneath. There’s an early autumn bite to the breeze coming down from the mountains, but the afternoon sun is warm on our faces. Fiona likes to take advantage of this space to have lunch or catch up on reading before the weather starts to turn. There won’t be any studying outside once there’s a foot of snow on the ground or buckets of rain pouring down every day.

“Do you wanna go scope out the library and the bookstore to see which books from Mr. Bathory’s reading list we can find? Whatever the library doesn’t have we can split—you buy half, and I’ll get the other half, and we’ll trade. We always read ahead anyway. I think it’ll be easy to coordinate,” Fiona says.

I can’t help but feel moved by Fiona’s valiant attempt to help me. She knows that buying a dozen books for an elective class is not financially feasible for me. She really is a good egg, but…

“I think I’m gonna drop out of his class,” I say, keeping my gaze on a couple of students playing Frisbee by the large maple tree in front of us. Its canopy is already covered in splotches of bright red, a sign that there won’t be many more sunny days like today.

“What? Why?” There’s shock in Fiona’s voice.

“It’s just…” I pause, unsure how to explain without sounding too melodramatic. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like me,” I confess.

Fiona’s eyebrows rise. “You think Mr. Bathory doesn’t like you? Based on what?”

I repress the sudden urge to curl up on the blanket, squeeze my eyes shut, and forget the world exists. “A lot of things. He didn’t call me by my name. He said everyone else’s first and last names when he took attendance, but he only used my last name.” I feel slightly ridiculous admitting that out loud. “Then, when I went to talk to him about being my new advisor, he totally blew me off.”

Fiona rolls her eyes in disbelief. “That’s it? Are you serious?”

I nod.

“He was too busy to talk to you and stumbled over your name, and now you’re convinced he hates you?”

When she puts it that way, it sounds rather insignificant. But it wasn’t. I was there. I saw the way he regarded me like he could barely stand the sight of me, like he found my presence deeply offensive.

Fiona sighs. “Ever tried having a Nigerian last name?” she deadpans. “Do you know how many people get it wrong or just downright refuse to try and pronounce it? If I assumed they all hated me, my life here would be exponentially more difficult, not to mention miserable.”

I feel a stab of guilt. Fiona’s mother, Angelina Onayemi, kept her last name after marrying Fiona’s father and insisted on passing it on to her daughter because she wanted Fiona to grow up a strong, independent woman who was proud of her Nigerian heritage and took no shit from men. My parents’ only inspiration for my name was the Bible, unless you count Uncle Jon on my mother’s side, whom I personally never saw sober. And my last name is as straightforward as you can get: Evergreen. We’re named after a tree.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “Mr. Bathory pronounced it right, though.”

Fiona huffs out a laugh. “And he’s literally the only professor who has gotten it on the first try! So by your logic, the entire Camden faculty hates me.”

“Of course they don’t,” I say. I should have known not to debate with Fiona—she always wins. And she doesn’t even have her law degree yet. I’d be terrified to encounter her in the courtroom.

“Then why would you make assumptions about whether people like you?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” I shrug dejectedly.

“I’m guessing you haven’t tried to talk to him since?”

“Nope,” I say. In fact, I’ve spent the last couple of days avoiding the section of Kinnell Hall where his office is like the plague.

Fiona lets out a long sigh. “Jonathan, I swear, you’re hopeless sometimes. I know you’ve got a lot going on, and you’re basically starting your life over, but it doesn’t benefit you to be so defeatist when it comes to people and their opinions of you. You can’t just bury yourself in books and assume that nobody likes you. Books are great, but they don’t talk back. You have to talk to people.”

“Yes, Coach Onayemi,” I agree with a mock salute.

“Then start with Mr. Bathory,” she says, not letting me off the hook so easily. “You want that library job, and you need an advisor. You’ve gotta go talk to him. I promise he isn’t gonna bite you.”

“You don’t know that,” I protest weakly.

“Yes, I do. If he tries, he won’t keep this job for very long.”

I chuckle at the silly turn our conversation has taken. But Fiona is right. I can’t let something I worked so hard for collapse just because Dr. Kowalski left.

“Thanks,” I say, grateful for the mental shake-up.

Fiona offers to walk with me to Mr. Bathory’s office so I don’t chicken out, but I swear to her that I won’t. Of course, that’s easier said than done. I avoid going there for at least another hour after we part by coming up with various errands that I absolutely must do right this second, filled with the anxiety that Dacian Bathory’s wicked glare induces in me. But in the end, I run out of both excuses and time if I want to make it before his office hours are over. So, with dread, I trudge over to Kinnell Hall.

It’s an unsettling feeling, approaching Dr. Kowalski’s office but knowing that he isn’t there. It’s like déjà vu with a surprise twist ending. They haven’t even changed the name plaque yet.

The office door is open a fraction, and I peek inside. Sitting at Dr. Kowalski’s desk, clad in another black, tailored suit, is none other than Dacian Bathory. The top button of his shirt is undone, revealing his graceful throat and Adam’s apple. Dangerously, my eyes want to linger. At this point, I’d wager his entire wardrobe is black, not that it doesn’t look exceptional on him. Black is such a strange color—people wear it both to blend into the background and make themselves stand out. I wonder which one Mr. Bathory is trying to do. Although I can’t imagine any circumstance in which all heads in the room wouldn’t immediately turn toward him, whatever he wears.

His dark gaze is fixed on a book. My eyes widen in surprise—it’s Ursula K. Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea . I suppose just because he teaches Gothic lit doesn’t mean he can’t read fantasy. And that story has plenty of Gothic elements too. It’s about a man with great magical powers whose own dark shadow chases him across the world. Mr. Bathory is so engrossed in it that he doesn’t even notice my arrival. I’m awfully tempted to just watch him read for all eternity, but I know better. So I knock.

“Mr. Evergreen?” His eyelashes flutter—I’ve caught him off guard, and for a moment, he doesn’t seem to despise me at all. Or maybe he’s just forgotten that he does, distracted by a good story. But that moment doesn’t last. He tears his gaze away from me and closes the book with a tense, controlled motion. “May I inquire what brings you here today?”

I can’t help but feel that he’s holding back anger again, and I have to suppress a desire to run away and avoid this baffling standoff with him. But I can already hear Fiona’s voice, chiding me and reminding me why I came here. So I step inside.

The room is emptier than I’ve ever seen it. Gone are all of Dr. Kowalski’s family photos and the framed articles that used to hang on the wall. The air is unusually crisp too. I swear Dr. Kowalski always kept his office at ninety degrees—old people and their arthritis. But now, the big window behind Mr. Bathory is propped open a few inches, letting in the late afternoon mountain breeze. Open windows seem like a quirk of his. I wonder if he does this in the dead of winter too. I clear my throat; I need to focus and not let myself wonder about Dacian Bathory’s odd habits.

“Hi, Mr. Bathory,” I say, battling to keep my voice steady. “You’ve been assigned to be my academic advisor.” Whether he likes me or not, advising is part of his job, so I’m hoping he’ll at least hear me out.

His perfect dark eyebrows arch slightly. “Have I?”

My stomach quivers. “Yes,” I say, trying to not panic. “There should be a folder with my records in one of the drawers over there.” I point at the shelves in the lefthand corner, hoping that since they haven’t yet changed the name plaque next to the door, they haven’t moved Dr. Kowalski’s files either.

“Let me take a gander. Do sit down,” Mr. Bathory says. He puts aside his book and stands up to search for my records, pointedly avoiding looking at me.

I shuffle to the cushioned chair in front of his desk as his long fingers flip swiftly through the rows of folders. I can’t help but release a shaky breath of relief as he retrieves mine. I know Dr. Kowalski took detailed notes; there should be enough in there to fill Mr. Bathory in until I can get a different advisor.

The atmosphere couldn’t be more awkward as he returns to his chair and studies my folder. It’s strange to be in such close proximity to him. The Gothic lit auditorium is big; there were a good twenty feet between the second row, where I was sitting, and the front of the room. But now, even though I am close to him, it still feels like there is a chasm between us, one he always seems to keep between himself and other people. Even when he was talking to the dean, I could sense it. He’s like a dark castle at the top of a snowy mountain, so high that the sun never melts the ice caps, no matter how warm the summer’s day. I might as well be gazing at him from another jagged peak. I can almost sense the coldness emanating from his skin. I shiver. I can’t make sense of him at all. Where did he come from? Why was he chosen to replace Dr. Kowalski?

I stare at the gold signet ring he’s wearing on his left pinkie finger—it’s engraved with a figure that has the head of a wolf and the body of a dragon. Such a peculiar symbol. It seems like something that belongs in a fantasy book not unlike the one he was reading before I interrupted him.

“Old family heirloom,” he says in his melodic voice as he notices my curiosity.

My gaze snaps up, and his eyes catch mine. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” I don’t finish the sentence because there’s no denying that I am staring. Sometimes, I find it difficult to maintain eye contact, especially with strangers. But for some reason, it’s impossible to look away from him. In his eyes, there’s an absence of light that I like. It calls to me.

“Your records show that you have a self-designed major. What does this mean?” he asks, not releasing my gaze.

“I—” I feel suddenly tongue-tied, like I’m wading through fog. It takes a moment to hunt down my scattered thoughts and form them into sentences. “I want to preserve and restore rare books, but no U.S. college offers a major in that for undergrads. So Dr. Kowalski helped me design my own curriculum.”

As I explain this, something sparks in Mr. Bathory’s lightless eyes; the ice caps still don’t melt, but for the first time since I glimpsed him in the theater, he looks genuinely curious. “Is that so? And what made you wish to preserve books?” he asks, leaning in.

Something happens then. Maybe it’s the quiet, overwhelming intensity of his voice. But I feel lightheaded, like the whole room has blurred and slowly begun to spin, all except for him and me, inexplicably tethered to him.

I don’t usually talk about why I chose to pursue book conservation. Only a few people have cared enough to ask, anyway. But for some reason, I want to tell him . I want to tell him all my secrets.

Words pour out of me. “Because truth matters. It gets lost if we don’t protect it. Books are fragile things, and we must carefully choose who we put in charge of keeping them safe. If an archivist has biases, facts can be distorted or omitted. I want to help preserve the truth, even if what’s written in some books is ugly, I want all sides of every story to be represented, not just a privileged few.”

“That is…admirable,” Mr. Bathory says slowly. It feels like my skin is being wrapped in velvet. Admirable. Dimly, in the back of my still-spinning mind, I realize that no one has ever called anything I’ve done admirable.

“I—” I lick my lips, which are suddenly dry. But before I can utter anything coherent, he looks away again, and just like that, his hold on me is broken.

“So, what advice might you need from me in this noble endeavor, Mr. Evergreen?”

With surprise, I realize that he’s giving me an opening and that he isn’t going to come up with some crazy excuse to boot me out of his office. Dare I claim victory? I clench my fists, battling anger and embarrassment as I recount the story of the stolen internship and explain how much my future employment depends on having a work-study job at the Rare Books Collection.

A frown creases Mr. Bathory’s eyebrows. “If you don’t mind my asking, who received the internship in your stead?” I sense a note of discontent in his voice—and more genuine interest.

“Eric Stockton,” I reply.

“The one I caught sleeping in my class?” he asks, baffled. “The gentleman who thinks that reading a book a week is too great a burden?”

“Yes, that’s him,” I confirm with a sigh. “His family wanted him to have the position,” I add by way of explanation. I don’t repeat what Dr. Kowalski told me about Eric’s mom thinking that being surrounded by books would make him smarter, but it’s clear Mr. Bathory understands the forces at play.

He glances down at my records again, deep in thought. When he finally sends me off, he no longer sounds like he’s holding some terrible, unforgivable grudge against me. “I understand. I will see what I can do,” he promises.

Dismissed, I stumble out of his office, still feeling oddly dizzy. My heart is hammering. That wasn’t the horrible disaster I thought it was going to be. Maybe I’ve even managed to convince him to help me.

I feel so hopeful that I go to the bookstore and fork over four bucks for a new paperback copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe, the first reading assignment for Mr. Bathory’s class. All the library editions are checked out, and there’s no way Fiona and I can manage with just one copy. It’s a massive, six-hundred-page tome. Usually, I wouldn’t agree with Eric Stockton on pretty much anything, but it is a big book to finish in just one week, especially considering my late start. So I dive in immediately, trying not to think about what’s going to come of my meeting with Mr. Bathory. I don’t expect that one conversation has reversed his uncomplimentary opinion of me, but on Friday morning I get a surprise when I check my campus mailbox. In it, I find a letter addressed to Mr. Evergreen, rendered in the most beautiful handwriting I’ve ever seen.