36. Frankie

They are real.

All of it.

The whispered legends, the shadows flickering at the edges of my vision—everything is terrifyingly real. These words pound in my head, a relentless echo that refuses to be ignored or silenced.

I rush out of the building, the weight of my scheduled lunch with Dorian pressing down on my shoulders like a physical burden. My heart pounds out a frantic rhythm, syncing with the sun that scorches the campus, heating the pavement beneath my hurried steps.

Sweat beads on my brow, trickling between my breasts. I can't breathe. The air feels too thick with secrets and sudden revelations. Bishop knows. The thought hammers in my brain. Who else knows? Where am I in this web of hidden truths?

Grinding my teeth, I pivot sharply and head to the library. The structure is an imposing sanctuary of knowledge that now seems like a facade covering something darker. I see Dorian from a distance. He leans casually against the building, his back pressed against the wall and his legs kicked out in a relaxed pose. His gaze is fixed on the bustling courtyard, seemingly lost in thought or perhaps avoidance.

Bile builds in my throat. Does he know too? Am I the fool in a play where everyone else knows their part? Shivers race up and down my spine, a creeping dread that makes my skin crawl as I push myself to move toward him. I want to lash out, to unleash the swirling storm of questions and accusations building inside me, but as I draw nearer, an overwhelming surge of panic threatens to sweep me under.

My approach is swift, almost reckless, but as I near Dorian, the familiar sights of the campus—students lounging on the grass, laughing and chatting, oblivious to the storm raging inside me—feel surreal. It's as though I'm moving through a different dimension, one where the ordinary and extraordinary clash with silent ferocity.

Dorian finally notices my approach, his expression shifting from contemplative to alert, his posture straightening as he reads the turmoil written on my face. I close the distance between us, each step heavy with the weight of imminent confrontation.

I need answers, but I want to retreat and find a way back to ignorance. I know, however, that the path forward is the only option, through the tangled thicket of lies and revelations. As I stand before Dorian, the sternness in his gaze and the rigidity of his posture remind me painfully of another who once controlled my fate. I'm breathless and on the edge of breaking, bracing myself for how the answer will irrevocably change everything. My voice, when it finally emerges, is a whisper.

"Dorian, do you—" His expression, so reminiscent of Valerie's commanding sneer, sweeps me away from the library's quiet, spiraling me back to a dimly lit bar where another figure controlled my life.

Valerie's voice slices through the haze of my recollections. "You see him?"She swings toward me on the bar stool, her movements sharp and predatory. Her eyes, dead and gray, flicker with malicious excitement as she scans the dimly lit bar, the neon lights casting ghastly shadows over her face. Glasses of club soda sit in front of us—the contents untouched, fizzing softly.

She reaches out, trailing her finger down my arm in a mock caress that sends a shiver of revulsion through me. "Did you hear me?" she asks, her voice a low hiss over the murmur of the crowded bar.

"Yeah, I heard you," I respond, trying to mask my discomfort with indifference. I sip the club soda, the taste bitter and unappealing on my tongue, but I sip because I'm thirsty, and this is the first time Valerie has allowed me out of the house in almost a year.

Shackled, she has me shackled. There's nothing I can do but follow her orders. The chip implanted in the middle of my back ensures that. I swear, as soon as I can, I'm digging it out, but Valerie made sure it was placed in a spot I couldn't reach.

I have no choice. None. Either I follow through or I die.

"He's a good customer," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Always takes care of my girls."

Unease simmers in my stomach as my eyes drift across the bar. Hatred pours off me in waves. Suddenly, I can't swallow the drink. I almost choke on it. The man across the bar has a nice face, too nice—handsome in that daytime soap opera way with all white teeth and charming smiles.

I know looks can be deceiving, though, and he looks at me with disturbing interest. Fifteen. That's how old I am, and he is at least pushing forty.

"Go on, Frankie." Valerie leans in close, her wild curls brushing against my cheek as her breath tickles my skin. "Give him what he wants." She pauses, gripping my bicep, her nails digging into my skin. "Don't disappoint me, Frankie. There is nowhere you can hide."

I feel it then, the pinch in my side.

Looking down, I feel the burn of tears in my eyes as I see the syringe she pulls out of my side. In a few minutes, I won't have any worries, no more shame or feelings.

Just blessed numbness.

The bar's ambient noise fades into a distant hum as my senses begin to dull, the looming figure of the man blurring into the background of my foggy consciousness. My resolve weakens, the edges of my defiance softening as the chemical numbness creeps through my veins, stealing the harsh reality of my existence under Valerie's control.

"Francesca,"Dorian calls, pulling me from the swirling depths of my memories.

"Yeah, I'm good," I say, my voice a little rougher than intended. I clear my throat and sidestep him, wiping the sweat from my brow while carefully avoiding the look of pity in his eyes. "I'm hungry. Tell me you have something other than peanut butter and jelly."

Thankfully, he doesn't press further and turns on a heel, striding toward the library. I follow him inside, entering the old building that feels more like a cathedral with its high arches and echoing halls.

As we navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the library, the air grows cooler and mustier, imbued with the weight of ancient knowledge and hidden secrets. Our footsteps echo softly against the stone walls, a quiet reminder of the library's solemnity, as we move deeper beneath the surface, where few students ever venture. I trail behind Dorian, finding temporary solace in the silence, a reprieve from the relentless churn of my thoughts.

We reach our usual spot, a secluded alcove tucked in the basement. It's surrounded by books so old their titles have faded. I've spent countless hours lost in research here, amid the scent of aging paper and the quiet hum of hidden lives, but today, the cipher burns in my memory, its secrets clawing at the edges of my mind.

Dorian reaches the fridge and pulls out sodas and hoagies. He sets a sandwich in front of me while he casually tosses a few fruit snacks in the middle of the table.

He slides into the booth across from me, settling with a quiet sigh. He doesn't usually initiate conversation. We have an unspoken agreement of peaceful coexistence in our shared pursuit of knowledge. Today, though, his demeanor is different. There's tension in his posture, a deliberate pause before he speaks that sets my nerves on edge.

I'm worried he's going to ask about the game, about the beast—whatever Bishop called it—but I don't know if I can acknowledge it. My whole world is falling apart around me, and I find myself wishing for Dorian to revert to his usual distant self. I need him to be harsh and cruel, not kind. I can't have him save me again. I need the cruel normalcy, no matter how blunt it is.

"Frankie," he begins, trying for casual but not quite masking the undercurrent of seriousness, "Professor Blackwood wants to meet with us next week, during your scheduled advisory meeting, and he… he asked that I attend as well."

I stiffen, the seat's vinyl suddenly becoming uncomfortable against my spine. Professor Blackwood still gives me an uneasy feeling, and I can't quite pinpoint why. His request for Dorian to attend feels ominous, layered with unspoken implications. Usually, Dorian's presence creates a buffer, but right now, with everything unraveling, it only adds to my anxiety. My mind races with the implications.

"Why?" My voice is sharper than I intended, a reflection of the fear coiling tight in my stomach. "Why does he want you there?"

Dorian meets my eyes, his steady gaze revealing a solemn intent. "I'm not sure, but he mentioned it was important, that it concerned your research and… more." He hesitates, then adds, "He seemed to think it was imperative that we are both present."

The word "more" hangs between us, thick with unspoken meaning. My research, the sigils, these shadows—it could all be converging, and Professor Blackwood's sudden interest sends a chill down my spine. I wrap my arms around myself, as if I could physically shield myself from the encroaching dread.

Dorian reaches out, his hand hovering in the air between us before he seems to think better of it and pulls back. "Look, Frankie, I know this is all coming at you fast, but whatever this meeting is about, I'm sure it's nothing."

His words are meant to comfort me, but they feel like a promise too fragile to hold onto. As I look at Dorian—his earnest expression, the genuine concern in his eyes—I allow myself a moment of respite from my solitude, a fleeting sense of connection in the storm.

Just as quickly as the calm washes over me, it falls away like a wave, replaced by a surge of anxiety. My emotions are chaotic, swirling unpredictably, unsure what they want to do or how to feel.

"Thank you," I say, my voice soft and brittle, a thin veneer over the turmoil within. "I just… never mind," I mutter, picking up my backpack, the weight of it seeming to anchor me to reality for a moment.

Dorian nods, his expression understanding, perhaps too well, the turmoil roiling beneath my calm exterior. "Now, though" —he gestures around the alcove to the stacks of books and quiet shadows— "let's try to focus on what we can control."

I nod, more to convince myself than him, and pull out my notes, the scribbled translations of the cipher appearing more like a map to a minefield than academic intrigue. As we dive into the texts, the familiar work of decoding and discussion wraps around us like a cloak, shielding us, if only temporarily, from the uncertainties that await me.

While we work, my mind drifts, unbidden, to the meeting with Blackwood. What does he know? What has he uncovered? How, in the tapestry of conspiracies and secrets, do I find my place?

The questions swirl as the shadows in the alcove seem to deepen, almost as if in warning.

Tapping my pencil on my notebook, I look up at him. "Dorian."

"Francesca," he says without looking up from his notebook.

As I tap my pencil against my notebook, a restless energy builds within me, the kind that's fed by unanswered questions and unvoiced fears. I glance up at Dorian, who's absorbed in his own notes, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Dorian," I start, "I need to know?—"

"Not now, Francesca," he interjects without looking up, his tone dismissive, a sharp contrast to the brief glimpse of camaraderie we shared moments earlier.

The abruptness of his response stings, a harsh reminder of the distance that normally lies between us. It reignites the familiar spark of irritation that has always fueled our interactions, grounding me in our usual dynamic of reluctant allies at best, adversaries at worst.

Ironically, he is giving me exactly what I wanted.

"I think it's exactly the time," I counter, refusing to let him sideline my concerns. "Whatever is happening, it's big, Dorian, and it's not just academic curiosity anymore—it's about..." What the hell is it about? Maybe I'm delusional.

He sighs, finally lifting his gaze to meet mine. There's a flash of something in his eyes before he masks it with his usual indifference. "Francesca, we are here to work, not to theorize about doom and gloom. Focus on the cipher. That's all we can do right now."

"But—"

"No buts," he snaps, the coldness in his voice more biting than the chill of the library's basement. "You're letting your imagination run wild. Stick to the facts. Stick to the data."

I recoil, taken aback by his harshness. It's not just his words, but the way he says them, as if my fears are trivial and I'm a child lost in fanciful nightmares. Anger simmers within me, mixing with the knot of anxiety that has taken permanent residence in my stomach.

"Fine," I sneer. "Let's just pretend everything is perfectly normal. Let's pretend that every shadow peeling off the wall isn't filled with red eyes."

Dorian narrows his eyes, and for a moment, I think he's going to argue, but instead, he turns back to his notes, effectively ending the conversation. His dismissal feels like a slap, a reminder of our fundamental disconnect. It isn't just our views on the situation that are at odds—it's how we view each other.

I force myself to breathe, to focus on the worn pages in front of me, but each word blurs into the next, tainted by frustration and the echoing question of whether Dorian really believes in what he's saying, or if it's just another layer of the barriers he's built around himself.

We work in silence, the only sounds the scratching of our pencils and the distant hum of the air-conditioning. It's a cold, uncomfortable silence, one that stretches and twists around us like the shadows we both pretend aren't drawing closer with each passing minute. The chilliness of the room seeps into my bones, mirroring the growing coldness between us.

Every now and then, I steal a glance at him, noticing the way his jaw clenches when he's deep in thought or the slight frown that creases his brow when he encounters a particularly challenging piece of the puzzle. The dim light from the desk lamp casts deep shadows across his face, accentuating the stern lines of concentration. Despite my irritation, despite our disagreements, I can't help but admire his focus, his unyielding dedication to the task at hand.

As much as I try to bury it, though, a part of me longs to break through the barriers he puts up to reach the person beneath who must surely feel the same fears and impending darkness that I do. For now, that part remains silent, suppressed beneath layers of pride and a stubborn refusal to show vulnerability.

As the silence stretches between us, thick and fraught with unspoken words, my frustration slowly ebbs, giving way to reluctant introspection. Dorian's distant demeanor, while infuriating, also intrigues me, stoking a flame I'm disinclined to acknowledge. Despite the barriers he erects, his presence has always commanded my attention, perhaps even more now in his dismissals than if he offered comfort.

His avoidance of my questions, his refusal to engage with my fears, shouldn't attract me. It should drive me away, but here I am, drawn to the challenge he presents. In his rebuff, I see not just a dismissal, but a test, and in his focus, I find an escape.

As I pack up my notes, my gaze lingers on him. "Goodnight, Dorian," I say, my voice softer. He nods, not meeting my eyes, and I turn to leave, feeling the weight of the unsaid pressing down on me.

When I step out into the cooler hallways of the library, it's not the cipher or the shadows that occupy my thoughts—it's Dorian. As much as I tell myself that it's his paradox that pulls me in, I can't deny the budding interest that whispers just beneath the surface, growing stronger with every dismissal and sharp word. It's an interest laced with danger, with the thrill of the unknown, and I find myself unable to resist the pull. The echo of my footsteps in the empty hall seems to beat like a second heart, a rhythm of attraction and apprehension that I carry with me into the night.