35. Bishop

She's waking up…

The words flashon my phone screen from an unknown number, but it's unmistakably connected to one of the people lingering around Frankie lately. Urgency knots my stomach—this has to be about Frankie, my firefly, stirring from her slumber.

Nerves flip over and over in my stomach as I pocket my phone and step out of the dorms for instructors and into the courtyard. The air is crisp, each breath a visible puff in the chilly morning. Fall showed up with a vengeance as the semester bleeds deeper into the year. Leaves, painted in fiery shades of orange and red, crunch underfoot as I make my way across the cobblestone path. One thing I've learned about the northeast is that the winters show up early, and they are brutal.

Flipping the collar on my tweed jacket, I pull the end of my scarf snug against my neck, creating a shield against the cold that bites through the fabric. I quicken my steps, partly to ward off the chill, and partly due to anxiety as my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I greet a few students with a nod and a tight smile, the familiar faces providing a brief distraction from the unease twisting inside me. I pull my phone out, seeing my mom's pale face on the screen. Clearing my throat, I answer because I know the consequences if I don't—she won't call again. Oh no, she would show up in my classroom, claiming I need an audit.

I love my mom, not just for the stability she provided after years in foster care, but for her relentless dedication to our people. As a dean at one of the esteemed shadow universities—colleges dedicated to safeguarding our kind—she's been at the forefront of efforts to locate and protect lost shadow shifters. These efforts are critical now more than ever. Our numbers are dwindling, a decline that threatens the very fabric of our realm. This has had dire consequences, including our diminished ability to shift forms in the human realm, a skill once taken for granted among us.

I'm thankful she found me, thankful she chose to adopt me, but the woman is hard, choosing our fate instead of allowing nature to take its course. With shadow shifters becoming endangered, and women even more so, she made it her mission to form perfect packs.

I haven't told her about Tori yet.

As I swipe to answer the phone, my stomach tightens into knots. My footsteps echo heavily against the stone as I tread the leaf-covered path, the sound a somber drumbeat to my troubled thoughts. "Good morning, Mom. How are you?"

"Bishop," comes her soft voice. I'm not fooled. No one is fooled. She's a hard woman, making important decisions to keep us safe. That means she isn't always popular. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

No, but there is no way I'm about to tell her that. "Of course," I lie smoothly, my voice steady despite the tremor I feel.

She hums as though she doesn't believe me. I don't blame her. I wouldn't believe me either.

"Bishop," Mom repeats, her voice knitting through the chill that bites around the edges of the courtyard. "Tell me about your classes. Are your students keeping up this semester?"

"They are," I reply, my words paced as I navigate the path, the rustling sound of dry leaves underfoot mirroring the restlessness in my voice. "Actually, I'm planning a new project for them, something that involves real-time data analysis. It should be engaging."

"That sounds wonderful," she says, though her tone suggests her mind is half on another topic—likely my personal life. "And how is Tori doing? It's been a while since you brought her up in our conversations."

I hesitate, the words catching like thorns in my throat. My hand tightens around the phone, the plastic cold and slick against my sweaty palm. "We, uh, we haven't been seeing each other for a while now."

There's a pause. "Oh? And why is that?" Her voice is soft but insistent, pressing for an answer she knows I'm reluctant to give.

"It was mutual," I start, knowing full well it wasn't. "We realized we were heading in different directions. She's focused on her career, and I have my responsibilities here."

Or maybe because you are in love with another woman.

"Bishop." She sighs, and I can almost see her sitting at her desk, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. "It's important to have someone by your side, someone who understands the complexities of our kind. You can't keep shouldering your burdens alone." Her voice carries the weight of a deep, resonating fear that shadows might fade into oblivion.

That's one way of saying I need to form a pack and find a mate.

"I know, Mom. I know." The admission is a weight off my shoulders, but it also reaffirms the isolation that has started to seep into my bones like the cold of the oncoming winter. The breeze that rustles through the courtyard seems to whisper secrets and warnings, as if the wind itself converses with the shadows.

She changes topics, her voice warmer now, threading comfort through the phone line. "Have you been taking care of yourself? Eating well?"

I chuckle, though the sound is tinged with bitterness. "Trying to. I miss your cooking though. Nothing here comes close to your gumbo."

"You're always welcome to come home for a good meal. Maybe this weekend?" Her offer is tempting—a brief respite from the scrutinizing glances and whispers shadowing me lately. As the dean, she should be in the faculty dorms, but she spends most of her time at her cottage in Morrow Bay. There's no reason not to accept her offer, unless she decides to surprise me in my classroom instead.

"Maybe," I murmur, the word nearly lost beneath the rustle of dry leaves. "I'll think about it."

"Good,' she says, a decisive softness in her tone. "And Bishop, we need to talk about Frankie?—"

She knows.

My heart skips a beat. "What about her?"

"There's talk, son. Rumors are swirling that the shadow beast went right to her. People want to know why she's garnered so much interest." Her voice drops to a whisper, heavy with a dread that chills me more than the autumn air. "Be vigilant, Bishop. The full extent of what's at stake remains shadowed in mystery."

I nod despite her inability to see it. The air seems to thicken around me with her warning. "I understand. I'm piecing it together. They are elusive, but I'll uncover why she's central to their plans."

"And when you do, report back to me immediately. You hear?"

I don't know if I can do that.

"Loud and clear, Mom. Always."

As we say our goodbyes, I pocket my phone with a lingering sense of unease. The mystery surrounding Frankie deepens with every passing day, pulling me in like an inevitable tide. I approach the tech building, taking a deep breath because I'm heading in to see Frankie.

My stomach does a summersault just thinking about her, thinking about spending time with her.

I know our time is running out when it comes to Frankie.

She will wake up soon and see everything around her—all the little inconsistencies and shadows—but I'm not willing to give up the facade, not yet.

I am a selfish bastard.

I also worry. Frankie hides her trauma well, but I can see what those years after I put her on that train did to her. It made her believe she's alone, that she needs to navigate life on her own. I worry how she will react when she knows she isn't alone anymore, that what she believes makes her special just makes her another shadow shifter, but she is special.

For years, none of us had enough power to shift in the human realm, let alone raise a shadow wolf, but Frankie can, and they know.

The game… They were hunting her. They came to her.

None of us know why.

As I push open the heavy door to my office, the sight that greets me causes the taut strings of tension in my chest to loosen and then tighten all over again. Frankie is here, standing by the window, her silhouette framed by the gray light filtering through the pane. She turns as the door creaks, and her face pulls at something deep within me.

My firefly.

"Hey, Bishop," she says, her voice a gentle interruption to the unrequited feelings brewing deep inside me. She offers a small, tentative smile, but her eyes are full of excitement over the cipher. She adores puzzles.

She just has no idea she's working on deciphering ancient texts about shadow shifters we have been trying to decode for centuries. She has no clue that she's helping our kind live to see another day.

"Frankie," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. I close the door behind me with a soft click, the finality of the sound echoing in the quiet room. Taking a moment to observe her, I notice the way the light dances in her eyes and the slight tension in her shoulders as if she's bracing against the weight of her discoveries. She's an enigma, but she's so blatantly transparent to me in this moment, a paradox that both confounds and attracts me.

I walk past her to my desk, feeling the intensity of her gaze as it follows every step I take. "Did you find anything new?" I ask, trying to anchor myself to the reality of our work, anything to distract me from the way my heart skips when she's near.

She nods, approaching the desk with a stack of papers. Her movement is graceful, almost careful, as if she's walking through a minefield of data and theories. "A few patterns I think we missed before. Here." She hands them to me, her fingers brushing mine, sending a jolt of electricity through me. The touch is brief but potent, a fleeting connection that seems to draw us closer than mere physical proximity. I almost pull back, but I don't. Instead, I focus on the papers, on the ancient symbols and coded lines.

As I look over her notes, I'm acutely aware of her watching me, her analytical mind likely running through scenarios, but all I can think about is how much she has come to mean to me. It's a terrifying thing, to feel so deeply about someone who is still, in many ways, a mystery. Frankie, with her strength and vulnerability, her brilliance and hidden scars, is a mosaic of contradictions and truths.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" I say without looking up, my voice laced with an admiration I no longer bother to hide. She chuckles softly, a sound that stirs warmth in my chest, a contrast to the cool academic air that surrounds us.

"I just see things differently, I guess," she replies, her modesty as genuine as everything else about her. That's just it. She sees the world differently, sees through the facades and masks, but she doesn't see how she's transformed my world and become the axis on which it turns. Her resilience and determination challenge me to be more than I thought I could be.

Once again, a trickle of fear worms its way into my chest. What if she runs when she realizes what surrounds her? It's one of the reasons I didn't push her to see.

"We should probably get started," she suggests, pulling a chair up next to me. As she settles in, I catch her scent—something floral mixed with the crispness of autumn air. It's grounding and disarming all at once. I don't want the semester to end, and yet we only have a week left in the semester. Not enough time.

We lean over the documents, our heads close, our shoulders occasionally brushing. Each touch is a spark, each glance a story. I want to tell her everything, how she's changed me, but the words lodge in my throat, unspoken because now isn't the time for such revelations. Now, we have a puzzle to solve.

The hour slips by as we delve into the cipher, decoding, theorizing, and arguing softly over meanings and interpretations. The world narrows down to this room, the two of us cocooned in our quest for answers. Beneath the surface of our focus, though, there's an undercurrent of something more, a connection that weaves through every look and word.

I know I should keep my feelings locked away, keep the professional distance that my role demands, but with Frankie here, so close and integral to every part of this life I'm navigating, it's becoming the hardest thing I've ever done. As our time fades, I realize that my own secrets—my feelings for her—are becoming harder to guard.

I swallow them down.

I vow not to touch her until she knows.

"Wait," she says almost too quietly for me to hear, then louder, she adds, "I have it."

Frankie's hand hovers above the paper, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as if the very act of touching the symbols could burn her.

"Wait," she whispers again, her voice steadier now, but layered with a tremor of something unspoken. She straightens the document, her eyes scanning the lines until they pause. Her breath catches. I watch her closely, the subtle shift in her demeanor like a cloud passing over the sun.

"I have it," she declares, but the triumph that should lace her words is absent. Instead, there's a hint of dread, a flicker of fear that she quickly masks behind a clinical expression.

"What is it?" I ask, leaning closer. The air between us crackles, thick with the weight of impending revelations.

She points to a sigil, its lines harsh and angular, depicting a creature with eyes that are unmistakably red. "This," she says quietly, "is ancient, older than any text we've studied before."

I study the sigil, recognizing the depiction of a beast from the lore of our kind—a creature of so much power and ferocity, that it was said to be the guardian of the shadow realm, its eyes capable of piercing through the veil that separates our worlds. The tales are old, often dismissed as myths even among our kind, but seeing it here, detailed with such precision, sends a chill down my spine.

"It's Eredar," I murmur, the name tasting like dust on my tongue, a relic of stories my mother whispered to me as warnings. The dim light of the room casts long shadows that seem to flicker at the mention of the name, as if stirred by the power it holds.

Frankie doesn't respond immediately. She just nods, her focus still on the sigil. I watch her, noting the pallor of her skin and the way her hands now lie flat against the desk, pressing down as if to steady herself against the room's swirling energies. Her fingers tremble slightly, betraying the calm she attempts to project.

"This beast," she starts, her voice faltering for a moment as she gathers her thoughts. "It says it's linked to shadows. To their protection?" Her eyes are wide, reflecting the flicker of the overhead lights.

"Yes," I confirm, my voice a strained whisper. "It was believed to be a protector, a sentinel, until it turned on the shifters. No one knows why, but why is it in this text?" My voice trails off, the implication hanging between us like a thick fog that muddles thoughts and cloaks the dark corners of possibility.

That's it, firefly, keep going.

She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine for something I'm unsure I can give. Reassurance, perhaps, or maybe a dismissal of her fears as irrational, but I can offer neither. "Bishop, why would this sigil appear now? What does it mean?"

She decoded a section that speaks about Eredar coming to the human realm when theirs is threatened, and they leave to seek out one who can call to them. That explains why it was at the game.

Did Frankie call to it?

I wish I had answers. Instead, I only have the same gnawing unease that seems to have taken hold of her as well. "I don't know, Frankie, but it's no coincidence. It's here for a reason."

Her gaze drifts back to the paper, to the red-eyed beast that almost seems alive beneath the strokes of ink. "I feel like it's watching me," she confesses, her voice a mere whisper. The chill in the room deepens, as if her words invite the cold to wrap around us, a tangible dread that settles in the air we breathe.

"I'll keep this safe," I say, my decision firm. I reach out, gently taking the document from under her fingers, careful not to disrupt the delicate balance we tread between curiosity and fear. "We need to understand more before we can determine what to do next."

She nods, wrapping her arms around herself as if to shield her body from the chill that neither of us can deny. "Yeah, we do."

We sit in silence, the weight of our discovery settling over us, heavy and oppressive. The sigil feels like a harbinger. For what, I can't say, but as I lock the document in my desk, I catch Frankie's eye. There's resolve there, an acknowledgment of the path we have inadvertently chosen to walk together.

She rises to leave, pausing at the door before she turns to me, her profile etched against the dimming light. "Bishop," she says, her voice steady despite the shadows in her eyes, "I need to go."

She doesn't wait for my response before stepping out into the corridor, leaving me with the echo of her words and the unsettling feeling that the eyes of Eredar are upon us, watching and waiting from the shadows. As the door closes with a soft click, the silence it leaves behind is louder than any words could be, a haunting reminder of the secrets that bind us and the truths yet to be uncovered.