30. Dorian

The steady tickof a clock echoes in my head, seemingly louder than it truly is.

Ticktock.

Ticktock.

Ticktock.

My nostrils flare with determination as I slink down the corridor of Aurora University, a place reminiscent of the haunted halls back at Shadow Locke. This university, one of three prominent institutions on the East Coast, pulsates with academic and arcane energy. Tonight is the only chance I have to access their ancient library—a sanctuary of forgotten lore—but the book I desperately need isn't there. Worse, it isn't even cataloged in their system.

The feeling of floating in stagnation overwhelms me as I watch other students meander through their college lives, oblivious to the weighty battles against curses and darkness.

Dorian Gray.

Thinking of my father conjures up images of a mythical man woven into the tapestry of literature—a man who was unaware of my existence until his final breath. My mother, ever the unsuspecting soul, let me believe my name was merely a coincidence linked to a legend, but she eventually revealed her own heritage to me.

She was a shadow shifter, gifted with the ability to blend into darkness or light with a seamless, ethereal grace—a gift I partially inherited. Her world was woven from whispers and shadows, thriving amidst the secrecy that veiled her incredible powers. I can still recall the cool, marble-like smoothness of her hands as they caressed my cheek in those fleeting moments of maternal tenderness.

Now, walking through the dimly lit aisles of the university library, I let my fingers trace the spines of ancient tomes, each a silent sentinel of esoteric knowledge and hidden power. The book I seek—a rumored collection of insights into cursed artworks, possibly holding a clue on how to unravel the curse of immortality passed down by my father—eludes me.

My search is jolted by a subtle rustle of movement behind me. Whirling around, I find a late-night student, her nose buried in her studies, oblivious to my turmoil. The shiver of paranoia never fully leaves me, though, the gnawing sensation of being perpetually watched clinging to me like a second shadow.

"Apologies," I whisper to the empty space between us, even though she remains engrossed in her academic world.

Exiting the library, I step into the crisp night air. Under the ghostly silver light of the moon, the shadows are long and eerie over the quiet campus. Here, in this spectral luminescence, I often feel an eerie kinship with my father's tormented spirit. His immortality was a prison, a relentless erosion of time that didn't spare his soul nor his sanity. Unlike him, I have no portrait to bear the burden of my age or sins. I was born beneath the dark veil of his curse, conceived at a crossroads where the supernatural became my only inheritance.

As I walk back toward the university gates, my mind wanders to the countless other relics and tales of cursed objects I've studied over the years. Each relic held a key to its own undoing, a way to break the ancient spells cast upon it. My own curse, however, feels as though it's woven into the very fabric of my soul, inescapable and unbreakable.

Surrender is not in my nature though. Not yet.

Perhaps the answer lies within my own blood—the shadowy heritage of my mother and the tragic legacy of my father. Maybe, over winter break, I will journey to the place where he met his end, where his portrait, his soul's last custodian, was destroyed. Maybe there, amidst the scattered ashes of his final moments, I will uncover the key to liberating myself from this eternal night, and perhaps, I will finally step out from under the oppressive shadows and into the light.

Unlikely.

As I exit the gates, the sudden roar of a crowd startles me back to the present, tearing through the silence like a crack of thunder. Floodlights bathe the rugby field in white light—a vivid contrast to the dimly lit library I just left. I pause, my heart thumping a bit louder in my chest, debating whether or not to turn away. In my preoccupation with ancient curses, I'd almost forgotten about the game, the whole reason I had the opportunity to sneak into the school.

Feeling an inexplicable pull in my gut, I step through the gates and head toward the raucous stands. I deftly sidestep a visibly drunk college student just as vomit splashes onto the ground where I would have been. My intuition, it seems, remains sharp despite my distractions. Clearly, there's no real reason for me to linger here among the revelry and chaos. Breathing through my mouth to avoid the stench, I turn to leave, only to come face-to-face with her.

Her and her hypnotizing hazel eyes, eyes that seem to change with her mood, flickering with flecks of gold and green. She is the one who has been my constant, albeit forced, lunch companion. I have diligently avoided her for weeks, and yet here she is, unexpectedly before me. Small and dressed in an oversized jersey, she looks momentarily overwhelmed, her large, owlish eyes wide, but almost instantly, a spark ignites in her gaze, and she glares at me with a fire that belies her diminutive stature.

"I didn't think you left the library," she remarks, her voice laced with a mix of surprise and a challenge as she crosses her arms defensively.

"And I didn't think you knew about rugby," I retort more harshly than intended. How did she get here? Unlike Shadow Locke, Aurora University exists completely in the shadow realm, a place not easily stumbled upon by the uninitiated.

Does she even realize where she is? No, I don't think she does. This realization dawns on me slowly. Francesca Vale just became the most compelling creature in my eyes.

She stares at me with her incredibly expressive, unknowing eyes. "Walk with me," I command abruptly, turning on my heel. She will either follow or she won't.

"I'm here with Tori," she calls after me, her voice tinged with hesitation.

I don't stop. Whether she stays or follows is of no consequence to me, and if she were truly concerned about her friend, she wouldn't follow, but she does. She runs up to me, falling into step beside me as we walk back toward the university casting its grand shadow over the stadium.

"Aren't you worried about Victoria?" I probe, unable to resist poking at her apparent indifference.

Her sigh is laden with resignation, yet there's a hint of defiance in her voice. "I came with Tori, but when we got to our seats, she found her old friend group there, and I'm not about to sit with Chloe or Amanda."

"So she chose them," I say, glancing down at her with a mixture of curiosity and an unexpected twinge of empathy, "over you."

"No," she whines, her frustration evident. "I told her I was going to find the bathroom and the snack bar," she mutters, nibbling on her cheek in a telltale sign of anxiety.

"You're waiting to see who she chooses," I surmise, pausing only to turn around and face her. What an odd girl. She looks like she could slit your throat in your sleep, and yet here she is, entangled in worries about someone who never gave her the time of day.

She shrugs noncommittally, avoiding my gaze and instead looking up at the university, her expression contemplative, faint lines of concern etching her brow. She's an enigma, and despite myself, I want to unravel the mysteries of Francesca Vale—Frankie.

I hate that my curiosity about her is so consuming.

"Don't you want to watch your boyfriends?" I ask, a touch of irony in my voice. Even worse, a flutter rises inside me, anticipating her answer. Why do I find pleasure in the fact that she is here with me and not them?

She turns her head to face me, her expression one of surprise. "Who?"

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, the familiarity of our banter oddly comforting. "You are wearing his jersey."

"Oh," she says, a humorous laugh escaping her lips, soft and unguarded. "They aren't my boyfriends."

"No?" I remark, my tone laced with curiosity and challenge. "Then what do you call it?"

"Fucking," she states flatly without an ounce of shame or even a blush. Interesting. She can talk about sex with the confidence of a grown woman.

The depth of her character continues to intrigue me. What events led her to a place where she can say "fucking" in public without a care in the world? My curiosity about her grows with each bold statement she makes, peeling back layers of her facade.

I hum under my breath and point to an old iron bench nearby, its peeling paint giving it a weathered look that somehow fits perfectly here. "Sit with me," I suggest, inviting her into a quieter, more private space away from the chaos of the crowd.

She turns around to look for Tori, but it's clear she's nowhere to be seen. Knowing for a fact that Frankie doesn't have a phone adds a layer of complexity to her situation. With a resigned sigh, she sits beside me, stretching out her legs. I seldom get to see her in anything other than her school uniform, so seeing her in an oversized jersey and leggings feels almost scandalous—as though I'm privy to a glimpse of her private life.

I look away, giving her a moment of privacy, letting the silence grow between us. The distant cheers rise and fall from the stadium, a backdrop to the intimate scene unfolding between us. I turn to Frankie, watching her as she takes in the surroundings.

Her profile is illuminated by the stark white light, casting half her face in deep shadow while the other half glows ethereally. Her eyes, wide and reflective, absorb the scene, and I find myself captivated by the myriad of emotions playing across her features. It's a rare moment of vulnerability, one she seldom allows others to see.

In this quiet interlude, under the stark contrast of light and shadow, Frankie seems less like the tough, unapproachable enigma I've come to know, and more like someone searching for where she truly belongs.

The once vibrant cheers of the crowd are swallowed by an unnerving silence, and a chilling tension descends over the field. The contrast between the boisterous noise just moments ago and the sudden hush sends a shiver cascading down my spine. Frankie, still alert, turns to me, her expression etched with confusion and a hint of fear. Although we are neither near the uproarious field nor the sanctuary of the library doors, the silence encases us, complete and unyielding.

"What happened?" she whispers, her voice faint, as if the very act of speaking might shatter the fragile stillness that has cocooned us.

Before I can formulate a response, a cold, unnerving breeze sweeps across the field, carrying with it a whispering echo that seems omnipresent, emanating from both nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. The floodlights above flicker sporadically, casting ghostly shadows that dance macabrely across the grass. Frankie's hand finds mine, her grip tight and her fingers cold with dread.

"Dorian," she murmurs, her gaze darting toward the darkened edges of the field, "something feels wrong."

She's right, something is wrong. This is no mere power outage. We are deep within the shadow realm, where normalcy is warped and twisted, and she remains blissfully unaware of the lurking dangers inherent to this darker part of the world.

As if drawn by our collective trepidation, a low, menacing growl rolls across the field, intensifying as it draws nearer. A form begins to materialize out of the encroaching shadows—a hulking, dark figure with eyes that glow an ominous red.

A shadow beast on university grounds.

Frankie stands abruptly, her body coiled with tension, poised either to flee or fight, yet utterly unprepared for the true nature of the threat before us. From this vantage, all she can discern is the looming shadow, an irony not lost on me.

"Stay behind me," I instruct, positioning myself between her and the danger as the beast lunges from the tree line.

My options are rapidly narrowing—keeping Frankie in the dark about the true nature of this world or ensuring her safety. It's a choice that's becoming harder to juggle as each second ticks by.

I push her gently behind me, then I point urgently toward the library doors. "He won't follow us into the light," I say, my breath visible in the chilly air. "Walk slowly toward the doors."

Frankie casts a fleeting glance back, her eyes wide with fear and awe. "What was that thing?" she stammers, her mind struggling to make sense of the nightmarish vision.

"Doors," I repeat firmly, nudging her gently but insistently toward the safety of the library.

I hear the door swing open before I see it, the rush of air-conditioned air brushing against us. As Frankie steps inside, I follow quickly, securing the door behind us.

"Dorian," she says again, my name on her lips stripped of the immediate fear, replaced instead with a burning curiosity. "What the hell?"

"It's a long story," I reply, casting a cautious glance back through the door's small window to ensure the beast hasn't pursued us into the light. "One that goes beyond CliffsNotes."

In the distance, the beast's growls diminish, swallowed by the shadows from which it sprang.

"I'll explain everything," I promise her, the weight of my own secrets and the hidden dangers of the shadow realm pressing heavily upon me. "But first, we need to leave." We need to move farther into the safety of the light, away from the thresholds where shadows grow bold. I turn to Frankie. "We need to go."

"No," she states and juts her chin out. "Explain."