“Yeah,” she said as she struggled to zip her bag closed. “A colleague of his who studies and writes about the occult. Thorngood or Thornwood or something? Whatever. A lot of the kids were looking forward to his lecture.”
Given the nature of this guest speaker’s studies, I had to admit that I, too, was disappointed, and I’d only just found out about him. “Why postpone then?”
“Well, given the higher than normal number of unsolvedmurdersthis semester,” she said, “I think the school decided to postpone having a famous professor give a lecture on the occult until after Halloween.”
“That seems oddly prudent of the school.” I kept my tone light, but the observation was genuine.
Twenty-one days since the murder. Twenty-one days without answers, without arrests, without any indication that the campus police or Atlanta PD had a single lead. The investigation had gone cold, and students were beginning to relax back into their routines despite the curfew still in effect. Charlie had also not been able to find much of anything on thePax Tacerethe vampyress mentioned.
“Ah, yes, the other variable that seems to complicate my peaceful school life.” Violet’s tone dripped sarcasm as she balanced the overstuffed bag on her shoulder, her body tilting slightly under its weight. “Allegedly, the school administration believes things are safe now.” Even her voice held disbelief, the words flat and unconvinced.
The dark circles under her eyes, faint but present, served as evidence of too many late nights at the club combined with maintaining her pristine grade point average.She has been ploughing like a horse, I thought as I reached out to lift her bag from her shoulder. “Allow me,volchok.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is this some new chivalrous manservant duty you feel obligated to start doing?”
“Obgligated?” I asked as I opened the door for her, and lowered my head in a mock bow. “It brings your servant joy to be of assistan—”
She cut me off with a playful punch to my stomach that shouldn’t have set my skin on fire the way that it did. “Come on,” she said as she marched out the door, “let’s get this over with.”
The walk to her class was insightful in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I enjoyed surveying the campus architecture with the eyes of someone who’d spent a previous lifetime cataloging potential shelter, potential weapons, potential escape routes. Ancient walls of stone and slate rose around us, some buildings dating back over a century. Old tapestries still hung in certain corridors—faded medieval scenes depicting stories of rage and death, religious iconography mixed with mythology that most students probably walked past without a second glance.
We crossed a sun-drenched courtyard where oak trees provided scattered shade, their leaves rustling in the warm October breeze. Students clustered on benches, textbooks open, taking advantage of the pleasant weather. The scent of cut grass and approaching autumn hung in the air—earth and decay and the promise of coming cold.
We entered a large lecture hall through heavy wooden doors that creaked on old hinges. The room was designed in classic academic style—tiered seating arranged in a semicircle facing a podium and chalkboard, the space able to accommodate maybe two hundred students. Violet chose a seat in the back row, as far from the podium as physically possible while still remaining in the room.
I settled beside her, immediately cataloging exits as I set her bag down. Two doors at the back where we’d entered. One at the front beside the podium, likely leading to faculty offices. Windows along the left wall, too high to be practical escape routes, but possible in an emergency. The room’s acoustics would amplify sound, making quiet conversation difficult.
The space simmered with unspent energy, students filtering in with unusual enthusiasm for what I’d assumed would be a dry philosophy course. I listened to their whispered conversations, picking through the noise with my enhanced hearing.
“Professor Wright is supposed to be amazing. . .”
“I heard he makes you question everything you believe. . .”
“Sarah took this last semester and said it changed her entire worldview. . .”
“Sucks that Professor Thornwood bailed. . .”
“Did you see that Thornwood video? The one where he’s talking about demons. . .”
Violet leaned towards me, her shoulder brushing mine, as she whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “Do you suppose Professor Thornwood knows about the world beyond your veil?”
I knew that part of her was asking in jest, but a small part was asking in earnest. She still did not believe everything I had told her about the supernatural world—therealworld, as it was—but I could tell that shewantedto believe. As I sat and pondered her question, I recalled the conversation we’d had when I first explained what little I knew of supernaturals.
“You’re telling me vampyres are real.”Violet had stared at me from across my kitchen table, her hazel eyes narrowed with suspicion and disbelief in equal measure.“Actual vampyres. Not just stories.”
“That is what I am telling you.”I had done my best to keep my tone matter-of-fact.
She’d laughed, the sound slightly manic, and shook her head. There was, I’d suspected, a hint of disbelief in that movement.
“I am serious, Violet.”I’d leaned forward, needing her to understand.“The world you think you know is a veil hiding what truly exists beneath. Vampyres. Shifters—werewolves, werecats, other forms. Demons of various hierarchies. Gods who walk among mortals playing their games. Creatures from every mythology you’ve ever read, existing in spaces just beyond human perception.”
Her silence pushed me forward.“There are four reigning families, Violet. We must take care to never run into one of them. The most dominant family being Wallachia in the pharmaceutical industry.”
Her skepticism had warred with something else. Perhaps the fact that she’d already caught a glimpse of the impossible through her rebirth? I couldn’t have said for certain.
“And you know all of this. . . how?”she’d asked.
“Because I have encountered them. Survived them. Learned to identify them.”I’d held her gaze.“The bartender at Oubliette? Andy? I suspect he is a siren. I can hear thewater in his lungs when he breathes, like the ocean never quite left him.”
