Page 9 of What Happened on Roslyn Street? (Strode University #1)

Chapter Six

A glance at my phone tells me it’s only five o’clock in the morning. The sun is just rising. I could turn around and go back to sleep. Instead, I bolt out of bed and scramble to our shared desk. The pocket watch is sitting on the wooden surface, taunting me.

Caldwell already told me too much about himself and nothing at the same time. He’s slippery, weaseling his way out of questions and pinning them on me.

I have one thing that gives me an edge over him: his precious watch.

I need to figure out what’s so important about this thing. It’s likely sentimental, but… nothing at Strode is as it appears.

Margaux doubted me, but I know this watch belongs to Caldwell. I can tell by the way it reacted to his presence. It wants to be with him, but I won’t give it up until I’m certain it’s not a clue… and that it’s not dangerous.

It may be dangerous for me , but I shake off the worry. I need to activate whatever magic it possesses.

Turning the watch over, I inspect it, my fingers moving over the cool metal. My nail traces along the engraving. Nothing happens. I open the watch and stare at the moving hands. When I lift it to my ear, the ticking is… completely normal. No secret messages. No morse code.

“I know you’re keeping secrets,” I whisper to the thing, setting it down. “I don’t know how or what you do, but I’m going to?—”

“Can you please be quiet?” Margaux presses a pillow over her face. Her next words come out as a muffled mess. “You would think you’re the nocturnal one with your godawful sleep schedule.”

“Sorry.” I slip the watch into my pocket. “It’s a big day.”

“No, it’s not,” she says. “It’s Wednesday. Nothing grand has ever happened on a Wednesday.”

I stand, moving to my suitcase. I haven’t unpacked yet, something Margaux will probably pester me about. I should do something about it, but I don’t, rummaging through my suitcase and throwing clothes on my bed.

“Then, today will be the first memorable Wednesday.” I lift off my pajama shirt and smoothly change into my daywear.

“Why is that?” Margaux asks.

“Today”—I slip into my skirt—"is the day I learn more about Caldwell. Is that exciting enough for you?”

“No.” She yawns, sitting upright. “It will be exciting when I can drive a stake through his dead heart. Until then, this is all rather boring.”

A thought comes to me.

“Have you ever”—I swallow—“killed one of your kind?”

“No,” she says. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Not even in a feeding incident?”

“No!” she snaps. “Control is easier for dhampirs. We’re taught to resist our thirst from a young age. It’s the turned ones you have to keep an eye on… especially when they’re newly turned.”

“Noted.” Mentally, I file it away with the other vampire facts I’ve picked up. Bloody tears, dhampirs versus vampires, stakes, and immortality. Anything to help me find the killer. “Which do you think Caldwell is?”

“He’s likely a dhampir,” she says. “Most vampires on campus are. Full vampires are either old enough that they already have a degree, or they have other things to worry about. The undead have lives, too, you know.”

The more I learn about Margaux’s secret life, the less I like it.

“That’s all it takes?” I ask. “A stake?”

“Yes,” she says. “Before you berate me about it being a cliché, please know it’s too early for me to care.”

I sit at the edge of my bed and slip on my socks, then my boots. “Go back to bed, then.”

“You cannot go out this early!”

“They’ll open for breakfast in…” I take out the watch. “Thirty minutes or so.”

“What will you do until then?”

“Investigate.” I smile cheekily.

Margaux inspects me through narrowed eyes before flopping onto her bed and rolling over on the other side. “Don’t die.”

“I can’t promise that.”

She lets out a loud, frustrated groan, but she doesn’t stop me as I leave.

Margaux is right. I should have some kind of defense. I don’t have a stake, but I stow a freshly sharpened pencil in my pocket alongside the watch. It’ll have to do.

Later, when she’s had more sleep and a cup of coffee, I’ll ask Margaux if a ruler would be a better weapon .

I return to the scene of the crime—still blocked off by yellow tape, of course.

The nearby greenhouse is blocked off as well, and I fight the urge to sneak inside.

The last thing I need is to draw more attention to myself.

Professor Sexton has already seen me disappearing after a murder. It can’t be good for my reputation.

I look for clues until the sun rises. Other students are meandering around campus. Despite the time I put in, I don’t find anything. No trinkets, no footsteps, and no blood. Everything returns to normal.

I guess I’ll have to return to normal, too.

My body is heavy as I carry myself to the dining hall, filled with the sting of failure. Finding the watch was enough to make me buzz, and I had hoped to keep the trend going. The watch in my pocket grows heavier along with me, but I ignore the feeling as I enter the room.

It’s surprisingly empty. I can’t blame the others for hiding.

There is a small scattering of students sitting about… including Caldwell.

His head lifts, and our eyes meet. Again, the watch in my pocket is hot, warmth radiating through the thick fabric of my coat. I inhale, attempting to summon my courage. There are a lot of empty seats, an entire table I can have to myself, but I make my way toward him.

Without asking if the seat is available, I sit across from him, embracing his penetrating stare.

“Good morning,” I say with a forced smile.

“And good morning to you as well,” he drawls. “You’re up early. Any particular reason for that?”

I try to be subtle as I make my observations. Caldwell doesn’t drink from the bottles of blood the way the other vampires do, perhaps because he’s had his fill in other ways. He may prefer fresh, like Margaux.

His plate is full of the usual things—sausage, scrambled eggs, and two pieces of toast. A cup of black coffee sits in front of him. It’s half-empty. His plate is full, but he does not look well-rested or well-fed. There are dark circles under his sunken eyes, and his complexion is sallow.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, squinting as if he’s observing me in return.

“I have early classes,” I say. “I registered late, so it was impossible to avoid.”

“Mm…” He looks down at his plate, cutting one of his sausages into quarters. “The vampires and demons snatch the night classes up quickly.”

“Is that so?”

“It is,” he says. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not the best company. I’m not a morning person myself.”

Of course, he’s not. He’s a vampire.

“I figured,” I say. “Why are you up so early, then?”

It feels like a safe question, one that couldn’t possibly be prying, except it is . I need to know more about him.

He meets my gaze, eyes clicking into place again. “I couldn’t sleep. Could you?”

“I fell asleep eventually.”

“You seem like the morning type,” he says, with little inflection in his tone. “I can see you… sitting on a balcony with a cup of black coffee and a newspaper. Accurate?”

It’s accurate enough to make me blush. I hate being an open book, and Caldwell certainly makes me feel like one.

“Why does it sound as if you’re painting me as a middle-aged dad?” I ask, lifting a brow.

“Is it true?”

I roll my eyes, reaching for the pot of coffee. It’s a confirmation to his assumption, but I add a cube of sugar, a small deviance from the image he painted.

“There’s no balcony in my dormitory,” I say .

“What a shame.” He smiles that tiny, rare, secret smile. His eyes crinkle in the corners. “There’s nowhere to drink your coffee and read the newspaper.”

I’m not here to answer his questions, but I feel like it’s the right thing to do. If I question him without answering anything in return, it may come off as strange. If I let him ask his silly little questions, it’s an ordinary conversation.

“How did you spend the rest of your evening?” I lift the white mug to my lips, watching him over the rim as I sip.

The coffee warms me to my bones, enough to stop the nervous chill running through my body.

“The same as everyone,” he says. “I’m sure we all spent the night ruminating on the horrors.”

“Ah…” I laugh. “Yes. The horrors.”

He wets his lips, fixated on me as he leans closer. “You’re braver than the rest, though, aren’t you? You keep walking around campus alone.”

“You saw me?” My voice falters toward the end.

“Yes,” he says. “From my dormitory. You were wandering in circles.”

“It’s the same way you smoke your cigarettes.” I offer no further commentary, thinking of our conversation the night before.

As bleak as it may sound, it’s difficult to care about my life now that Poppy is gone. If I die in the process of avenging her, it will be a good death.

“You think you understand me so well,” he says.

“I do.”

It’s a bluff. He continues to rattle me.

“I had you figured out the moment I met you,” I say.

“And you seemed to like whatever it was you saw,” he says bluntly, leaning back into his chair.

Each time he shows a bit of ego, it’s more shocking than the rest. He’s soft-spoken and mild one moment, and then he says something like that .

“I don’t know what you?—”

“Yes, you do,” he says, cutting me off with soft words. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. I feel it, too.”

I’m supposed to continue denying his assumptions—because I do not feel anything for this man aside from professional curiosity and mild annoyance. He’s no different than anyone else on this campus. They’re all suspects and nothing more, but…

He doesn’t need to know that. I don’t want to be close to him, but he may have the information I need. The closer I am, the more likely I am to find it.

“You fluster me,” I mutter—a truth, without denying his hefty accusation.

His eyes sparkle, lips twitching at the corner. “I would apologize, but you look very sweet when you’re flustered.”

What am I supposed to say to that?