Enigma

Chapter 6 Caz

CHAPTER 6

CAZ

Serpents danced in the wind, wild and untamed and lit by the fire, looking for their next prey, ready to sink their fangs into unsuspecting victims who fell under the spell of golden eyes.

It had been her hair that had called him like a beacon that night at the beach, lit up by the flashlight in her phone as she hunched over the corpse. She had looked like a goddess, a mystical creature hovering over the dead, come to life from the sea behind her.

And in that one instant, she had become his muse.

A muse he had lost in the last few years, under the weight of pretending and the weight of obligations, under the weight of things bigger than he was. He had lost the spark, the passion that had driven him to become the best this godforsaken university had ever seen. He had lost too much.

But it was time to find it again.

He hadn’t made a thing in the last year. Everyone thought he was secretive about his art, and he had been when he was making it. But they were thinking he was making a masterpiece, hoarding it in private like an erratic maniac, when he hadn’t done a thing. He had tried and destroyed canvases, burned and tore them apart in his frustration. For a year, he had struggled to come up with the masterpiece everyone seemed to be waiting for from him, a masterpiece so striking it would emblazon him to glory so he could leave behind the ashes of who he used to be and fly like he was meant to.

He just had cages to break first.

And she, knowingly or unknowingly, had become his first tool.

“They’re reopening applications for the awards again,” Baron announced, bringing his attention back to the group Caz was standing with, a group he had infiltrated slowly, methodically, fueled by the fire of answers.

“Fuck.” Eric gritted his teeth, his blond hair looking almost white in the firelight. Caz took a sip of his water—he knew it was water because he carried his own tumbler but nobody else was wise—and looked at the older boy, their last interaction a week ago in the forefront of his mind. It had taken him a lot over the years to control his anger, his mental circuit always so close to being blown it hadn’t been funny at one point in time. There was a time when a threat like the one Eric had made would’ve had Caz putting him on the ground. He knew his own strength, knew what he was capable of, knew what was at stake, and that was all that was holding him back and keeping him in check.

He focused on Baron’s words.

“When?”

Baron leveled him a look. For all his attitude, the guy wasn’t an idiot. He knew something was up with Caz, and he was right. Caz had always watched his step around him for this very reason.

“Next week.”

Caz nodded. The applications reopening meant only one thing—there was going to be a group meeting soon.

Blood rushed through his veins, a heady feeling coursing through him.

This was it. This was what he’d been waiting for. An opportunity, a last-ditch effort before he had to leave and lose all chance of finding answers.

He had to succeed.

The music that had been playing in the background suddenly cut off. Everyone turned to see Derek, one of the douchebag seniors, waving at the crowd.

“Welcome to bonfire night, first-years!”

Everyone in the crowd hollered.

Fuck, he felt too old for this shit, though he wasn’t much older than them. He was just twenty-six on paper according to the university. In reality, he was two years younger. But compared to the crowd, he felt ancient. The only reason he had even come to the bonfire had been because Baron, another postgrad, same age as him—on paper at least—had wanted to go for some reason.

And a part of him had wondered if she would be there. His distinct-looking little asp goddess. The one who had somehow ended up in a class he had threatened his way into for reasons of his own.

Salem Salazar.

A girl who liked science, wasn’t scared of dead bodies, and was very new and very na?ve about what she was doing. It wasn’t that hard to guess, not with the way she announced who she was everywhere. Names were nooses, and she held hers close to her neck.

Little fool. He shook his head.

Derek waited for the noise to die down before he shouted again. “This is an old tradition every senior year does for the first-years. At Mortimer, we are a family.”

Caz almost rolled his eyes at the sheer douchebaggery slipping out with every word. He knew the only reason Derek liked to host parties was to cop a feel from the girls, the ones with stars in their eyes, thinking they were kissing a prince. Derek had a whole power trip going, wooing girls, making them fall for him, and then dumping them like trash. It wasn’t any of Caz’s business, but he wished one of them would knee him in the balls one day and make them useless.

“Let’s play a game to get to know each other better. Who’s in?”

Caz watched most of the girls raise their hands. Only his muse and a dark-skinned girl with her stayed put. That oddly pleased him.

“C’mon, girls, pick one from the bowl,” Derek ordered, pointing to the bowl of folded notes in front of him.

“Not this idiocy again,” Baron mumbled at his side and he had to agree. This was juvenile, but maybe that was to be expected from first-time college students mostly from rigid, socially disciplined backgrounds, even at one of the most meritocratic institutions. He knew because he had seen it time and again.

The game, as stupid as it was, was the most fun for this fresh-faced bunch.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.” Derek and his group cheered as a few girls went forward and picked out papers. “There are dares on them, nothing too wild, don’t worry. Just do the dare and have fun. Don’t do the dare and we’ll pick something else for you, but it could be so much worse. Everyone who does theirs is invited to an exclusive party at my place.”

Guys around him hollered. Caz took a sip of his water, keeping his boredom to himself and focusing instead on her.

“Salem Salazar,” Baron said from the side, evidently following his gaze.

He knew her name already. But he didn’t like that the others did too.

Fuck.

“As in Olivia Salazar?” Eric asked from his side, as if to confirm.

“Yes, but don’t even think about it. She’s off-limits.”

Double fuck.

She was off-limits. It wasn’t that he was interested in her, but knowing she was off-limits didn’t sit well with him. He’d never been able to do well with being told what to do and what not to do.

“Why do you think they haven’t already lapped her up?” Baron chuckled, his tone dry. “Her sister made sure she remains untouched.” The family of the deceased weren’t to be touched.

Caz kept his gaze steady, watching her as she watched the girls perform various dares, her eyes flitting to him from time to time, locking with his briefly before she moved on to dare-watch again.

Around them, girls were stripping off top layers or giving lap dances or walking into the woods alone or even kissing someone, basic college dare level stuff, all part of the game. Derek typically picked one of them out for himself, manipulated the game so she’d have to kiss him, and played her all the way home.

The girls completed their dares and moved on, one by one, guys whistling and clapping, and a tightness formed at the base of his spine as the realization that there weren’t many girls left for Derek to play took hold. He moved his gaze to the boy, watching him silently, and with one flick of a betraying glance, Caz knew.

The douchebag was going to make a move on her.

His little muse.

Hell no.

He didn’t understand the intensity of his rejection of the idea. He didn’t even know her, nor was he interested in her in any way outside of his art. But his feelings resembled how he felt about his art—a desire to keep secret and private and away from prying eyes.

His fingers itched with the need for a pencil or a brush, something, anything, to get rid of the tension mounting inside him as one by one, the number of girls dwindled down to a few. Had she been anyone else, he would’ve easily made it clear that she wasn’t to be played. Just walking up to her and wrapping his arm around her shoulders would’ve sent the message straight and clear. For all the power and influence in this place, the students didn’t mess with him.

But he couldn’t do shit, not with the cage keeping him locked as he growled away on the inside.

One by one, the numbers fell lower and lower, until only she and her friend were left. Derek approached the friend first with the bowl. The smile on his face was one that Caz wanted to punch, so the blood splattered on a canvas to create a painting that Caz could display in the halls as a warning.

From the looks of his little muse, she wasn’t impressed either. But that was how she looked at most things. It was hard to tell with her. From the little he’d observed, she seemed closed off, almost icy in her demeanor, examining life like she had the corpse he’d seen her examine—clinical, detached, indifferent. He wondered if that was a facade, or if she truly had more to her than that.

Salem’s friend picked out a piece of paper reluctantly, opened it, and sighed. “Dance sexy for a boy for thirty seconds.”

He watched Salem pat her back in support. The girl looked around for the right guy, her eyes coming to a stop by his side where Baron stood drinking whatever he was drinking.

Eric whistled softly as the girl, who looked like a petite fairy, walked up to Baron with little confidence showing in her posture. She stopped in front of the guy, straightened, and began to move. Caz watched from the side, not her but him, watched the tight clench of his jaw, and felt a small smirk pull up his lips. Baron, cold and aloof Baron Nathaniel Whitmore, was affected by this little dancing fairy. A chink in the armor.

How interesting.

It could come into use sometime.

The dance ended and the girl all but ran back to her friends, who watched her with slight surprise, and everyone clapped.

Caz watched Baron school his features, then focused back on the huddle. Derek’s face gleamed with triumph as he turned to the next and final girl left.

“Thanks, but I’m not playing,” Caz heard her say quietly. If temperatures could drop with voices, they would all have shivered. There was nothing warm about hers. It reminded him of the dead body they had met over, cold, still, unwelcoming.

Otherworldly.

Fuck, he needed to sketch.

The crowd booed and cajoled her. But it was her friend, the dancing fairy, who whispered something in her ear that had her exhaling. She nodded, sending the serpents attached to her roots dancing, and picked out the last piece of paper.

She read what was on it, and looked coolly at Derek. “No.”

Derek smiled, as though he had been waiting for that and she’d walked right into his trap.

Caz mentally calculated how much blood splatter could paint half of a canvas.

It was ridiculous. He didn’t know this girl, he shouldn’t feel what he felt. But she had sparked life back into his dead creativity, become his inspiration beneath his fingers, her coldness stoking the fire inside him more and more.

“In that case.” Derek grinned. “Kiss a guy with an ear piercing who’s not a first-year.”

Derek was the only non-first-year in the clearing with an ear piercing, and knew what he was doing.

But he didn’t know what Salem was doing.

She didn’t even look around, didn’t even hesitate.

Her eyes came right to Caz, striking him like a bolt of lightning, freezing him on the spot, and he saw the vision of her in his mind painted on a giant canvas, an icy goddess with eyes of molten gold, brought back to life, one who had serpents for hair and could turn men into floundering fools with a gaze.

Eric whistled at his side again, and Baron uttered a “shit.” Derek’s smile finally fell off his face as she walked around the fire, straight to him, coming at him like a storm in the ocean, ready to drag him underneath with or without his want.

She walked right into his personal space, and he realized how small she was, the top of her head reaching the edge of his chin as she tilted her head back, the curls in her hair almost brushing against his chest. He had to fist his hand to control the urge to bring it up, the desire to touch her curls and feel their softness against his fingers becoming a need that left his fingers twitching.

But he didn’t move.

The bright gold in her eyes, a shade he’d never seen on anyone else, a shade he wanted to replicate, held him captive.

Before he could react, she stretched up on her toes and smacked a peck on his unsuspecting lips. A split second of soft, pillowy lips, a fruity taste, and tingling before it was gone.

Their eyes never closed as he licked his lips, tasting the berry flavor she had left behind as her feet went flat again.

“That’s not a kiss!” someone yelled from the distance.

She didn’t say a word, but that look in her eyes was a cold promise that just invigorated, inflamed, infected him even more.

She was playing games she didn’t understand, with players she couldn’t see and moves she didn’t know. First the picture on the beach, then this.

He had asked her to stay away and she had deliberately not.

She’d thrown the gauntlet, and fuck him if he didn’t pick it up.

The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,

Which hurts and is desired.

—William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra