10. Dorian

I amnothing more than a portrait on the wall, a mirage amongst goblins and creatures of lore at Shadow Locke University. As I watch from the shadows, they see me but overlook the truth of what I am. The corridors are steeped in the musky scent of age and secrets, the walls lined with whispers of those who passed before.

Professor Blackwood prefers it that way. He prefers no one sees me, yet he insists I observe everyone—their idle chatter, their pointless notes, their deceitful lying, and their transparent cheating. My ears fill with the dull hum of their mundane conversations, the scratch of pens on paper echoing like distant thunder.

I do as I'm told, watching and judging, my sharp gaze cutting through the pretense and facade.

That's when she prances in, with her slender form and long hair that absurdly kisses her thighs, swaying like silk in a gentle breeze. Her eyes are too big, too wide, and too bold as she stares at the classroom as though she is a gazelle utterly lost amidst a forest of knowledge.

She isn't lost. Oh no, she is precisely where fate mistakenly placed her.

Francesca Vale. She is the last in her class to comprehend who and what she is, and naturally, the professor has chosen to coddle her. He loves a challenge. She doesn't know this, of course, but she will. The air around her seems to shimmer with the faintest trace of unused potential, like heat from a dormant fire.

All through class, she diligently scribbles notes, focusing and nibbling on her garishly red lips—large, pouty, and constantly tortured by her own teeth. I imagine the taste of cinnamon and defiance on them.

I would teach her the proper use of those lips and force her to acknowledge their misuse.

I want to abuse her lips, force her to her knees, and wrap that long hair around my?—

"Class is dismissed! Francesca Vale, may I see you up front, please?" Professor Blackwood announces prematurely. It's just as well. Most of today is nothing more than a trivial handout of the syllabus and readings. "Dorian," he whispers to me.

I detach myself from the wall, observing as the little vixen slowly stands, squinting at the professor. Beside her, the boy's eyes narrow, but he remains planted firmly in his seat.

Looks like he will be staying for this particular charade.

"Professor." I position myself to the right of his desk. His eyes remain on Francesca. There's interest there, intrigue. It's a foolish notion to desire a student, but as I follow his gaze and watch Ms. Vale walk down the aisle, I can't help but understand why he finds her superficially attractive.

She is slight, more from a lack of proper nutrition than anything else, and she doesn't engage in sports, yet her long legs still have perfect curves, and her stockings draw my gaze like a moth to a flame.

She's a vixen and a nuisance, and I'm thankful I don't have to tolerate her more than necessary—like right now.

"Ms. Vale." Professor Blackwood extends his hand to her to shake. She hesitantly reaches out. I notice the slightest tremble in her fingers before she masters it, her chin jutting up in defiance of her own emotions. "I don't know if you've been informed, but I'm your academic advisor for the remainder of your time here at Shadow Locke."

Frankie, as she calls herself, snatches her hand back and wipes her palm on her skirt, uncaring of how disrespectful it appears—intriguing—and her little brow furrows. "I don't understand. What happened to my former advisor?"

"Leave of absence," he replies quickly.

I suppress a scoff. Sure, deceive the unsuspecting shadow. That's one way to build trust. I don't believe in lying. It's an awful habit, one that others will find themselves ensnared by.

I will never find myself ensnared.

"Right," she drawls, clearly unconvinced.

"This is my teaching assistant, Dorian." He looks over at me with that counterfeit smile, one he plasters on for everyone. It's a mask, of course. Our little unsuspecting vixen doesn't have a clue who surrounds her.

Yet.

Her large doe eyes look at me, and her lip curls in a sneer. Excellent. She remembers me. That will be to her disadvantage. "We've met," she states blandly. It's almost as though she's mocking the tone I bestowed upon her at our initial meeting.

I suppress a smirk.

"Wonderful." Professor Blackwood claps, emitting that artificial cheer that makes me cringe. "So no introductions needed."

She conceals her hands behind her back, clearly averse to physical contact. Fascinating. The subtle coolness of the room seems to magnify her discomfort, the low hum of the fluorescent lights above casting a pale, flickering glow that plays tricks on the eyes.

"Right. Am I free to leave?" Her voice, a delicate mixture of weariness and impatience, echoes in the now nearly empty classroom.

"In just a moment." He reaches down into his desk, extracting a business card that he hands over. "My personal cell phone number is on there. Call me anytime you need me." The card is pristine, its edges sharp enough to seem threatening in its formality.

She snorts, stuffing the card into her backpack, muttering, "Unlikely," under her breath. For a brief moment, Professor Blackwood's facade falters, and his face tightens. The slight twitch of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes betray a flash of genuine emotion quickly masked.

"I believe," I interject, "that Ms. Vale doesn't own a cell phone." My voice cuts through the awkward silence that has begun to settle over the room.

"Aren't you a cybersecurity major?" He recoils in surprise, his eyebrows arching in an expression of both curiosity and challenge.

Frankie merely sighs. "Exactly." She tightens her grip on her threadbare backpack, her large eyes looking between me and Professor Blackwood. "It's hackable." Her statement hangs in the air, a stark reminder of her prowess and the irony of her choice.

"Prove it." He throws the gauntlet, an academic confrontation in the making.

"Excuse me?" She blinks at him in astonishment, her expression a canvas of disbelief and intrigue.

"Here." He offers her his phone. "Prove it." His tone is casual, but there's an underlying sharpness, a test in the form of technology handed over as if it were a weapon.

"Is that necessary?" She tilts her head to the side, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders to tickle her waist. The movement is fluid, almost ethereal, contrasting her youthful grace with her sharp intellect.

"Not at all, but I am curious. If you are to be one of my students, I'd like to know where your strengths and weaknesses lie." He gives her a smile that she falls for. Everyone does. He's unassuming, warm, affectionate, and utters all the expected niceties.

Surprising both him and me, she snatches the phone from him while simultaneously dropping her bag at her feet. She focuses on his phone, her lips curling into a crooked smile. Behind her, I see the boy lean forward in his seat, intently observing the interaction. Her fingers dance over the phone, but it's what normal people—or rather, normal humans—would miss. None of us here at Shadow Locke are normal. Everyone has potential. If they unleash it, then doors will open. If they don't, they will remain forever closed. Under her fingers, where she taps on the screen, almost imperceptible to the human eye, darkness shoots into the phone and then back to her like tiny zaps of electricity.

Whether she is aware of it or not is the real question—one I shouldn't find as captivating as I do.

"How far do you want me to go?" she inquires nonchalantly, her eyes never leaving the phone.

"How far did you get?" he asks, bemused. He doesn't believe her, but I know better. It is always those who appear innocuous who harbor the greatest potential.

Snorting, she relocks the phone and hands it back to him. "Thanks for lunch," she mutters. "Can I go now?" Her tone is a blend of sarcasm and fatigue, edged with a defiance that's becoming her hallmark.

Professor Blackwood looks up at her, retrieving his phone and pocketing it. It's an oversight, and I recognize it, but he dismisses it as a trivial mistake.

"Of course, Ms. Vale. I'd like to see you on a biweekly basis just to ensure you are on the right track." He crosses his arms, his expression exuding a pretentiousness that doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain sharp and analytical.

She barely restrains from rolling her eyes at him. "I only ever had to meet with my academic advisor twice a year. Why do I have to see you every other week?" Her voice is steady, yet the slightest quiver reveals her irritation.

I nearly choke at her audacity.

Professor Blackwood, however, releases a strained chuckle. "It's mandatory for your junior year." His response is smooth, practiced, but there's a glimmer of something else—curiosity perhaps, or challenge.

She clearly doubts this. I can see it in her gaze. Her lips purse tightly, and she clenches her teeth to prevent herself from uttering anything regrettable. Clever girl.

"How about Tuesday afternoons? I believe you only have one class on Tuesdays," he proposes, trying to inject a note of casual authority.

"Of course. See you tomorrow." Snatching up her bag, she heads to the back of the class. Matteo slowly rises as she approaches him. I almost think she will acknowledge him, but she doesn't, instead storming out as if the professor ignited a fire inside her.

"What did I miss, Dorian?" Professor Blackwood gathers his papers, shuffling them into a neat pile.

"Regarding her or the class, sir?" I exhale, genuinely finding this entire ordeal tedious.

"Both." He smirks at me, gesturing for me to head to the office hidden behind the classroom.

"Half the class slept through your lecture," I respond in a monotonous voice, appearing detached and unamused, mostly because I am. "Only one used their shadows to flirt with a girl in front of him. They planned to meet up later."

The professor shakes his head, muttering, "Teens," more to himself than to me.

It's a sentiment I share.

I despise college. Always have, always will. If I had another choice, I never would have returned here, but my father demanded it of me for reasons still concealed from the professor. The bitterness in my voice could curdle milk, a reflection of the deep-seated resentment festering within me like an untended wound.

"As for Francesca Vale, she utilized shadows to unlock your phone. Whether she did it intentionally or not is beyond me." I open the door for him, following him into the office. I settle into my armchair, the leather cold and unwelcoming against my skin, massaging the tension from my temples. "It's a skill you teach in shadow techniques—one she learned all on her own."

"Hmm," he muses, tossing his books on the desk before perching on the corner. His casual demeanor contrasts sharply with the tension in the room. "Do you think she will cross the veil—the boundary that separates our ordinary world from the true Shadow Locke?"

"It's anyone's guess." I shrug, attempting to mask my interest, though I suspect I'm failing. The room feels smaller, the walls inching closer with each breath I take.

"She's behind all the others."

"All the others grew up aware of the veil's existence. She did not," I point out, my tone laced with a hint of disdain for her ignorance.

"True, true," he agrees thoughtfully. "Well, when she crosses the veil, I'd like you to tutor her and get her caught up on her shadow classes."

Of course that's where this conversation was headed. Wonderful. I'd much prefer to witness her flounder. The slight curl of my lips might be mistaken for a smirk, but it's nothing more than a poorly disguised snarl.

"Dorian." He elongates my name, his gaze laden with expectation. The weight of his stare feels like shackles on my ankles.

"If she crosses the veil, then yes, I will tutor her." I internally vow to ensure that she doesn't. Francesca doesn't comprehend that the shadows she toys with, which she believes elevate her, are mundane at best. Those shadows should have already dragged her into the realm they belong to.

She naively pushes undesirable humans through instead, believing she's purging them. Naturally, I withhold this delight from the professor. I derive a certain pleasure from watching them struggle, and I secretly relish the inevitable moment when she discovers she's not the prodigy she fancies herself to be.

"Do you hear me, Dorian?" The professor's voice snaps me back to reality.

"No." I blink at him, feigning distraction.

"It's just as well." He sighs, dismissing the lapse. "Alright, off with you."

I roll my eyes subtly as I stand, already dreading my monotonous shift in the office. This entire university stifles me.

"Dorian," he calls just as I'm about to exit.

"Professor." I turn, facing him once more.

The older man, with his dirty blond hair and black-framed glasses, steps uncomfortably close. "I want you to help me with an experiment."

"Of course, sir," I say, scrutinizing the man who stands barely an inch taller than myself.

Unexpectedly, he reaches out to brush a lock of hair from my forehead. I instinctively step back, out of his reach.

"Forgive me." He retracts his hand. "High-stress psychology." He smirks, retreating back to his desk. "Tomorrow, we're going to test how Francesca Vale handles stress."

Swallowing, I nod tersely and exit swiftly, not pausing until I hear the soft click of the lock. I linger for a moment.

"She locked me out of my own phone." His muffled voice floats through the door, his tone tinged with both irritation and a hint of fear. "If she can do this now, what will she be capable of by the semester's end?"

Yes, Francesca Vale is going to be a significant problem. The shadows whisper their agreement as I walk away, their voices a cold caress against my skin.