Enigma

Chapter 25 Salem

CHAPTER 25

SALEM

Mortimer was hundreds of years old, with a legacy of producing the brightest, most visible faces in the world across industries and fields—from

media to politics to corporate field to art, even crime, though the university didn’t ever want to associate its prestigious, elite reputation with the latter. There wasn’t a field untouched by those who graduated from Mortimer.

But there was a sect, a small sect of the uber-exclusive within the pool of the already exclusive, who also came to Mortimer and left with everyone else.

They were the truly powerful. Because they went under the radar completely. They knew how to keep low profiles, be the kingmakers instead of the kings, right-hand men of the media, politics, corporate, art, crime lords. These were the invisible shadows on their shoulders, puppeteering the entire world and shaping the destinies of the world.

And they were a collective.

Or so the rumors went.

It was impossible to be at Mortimer and not hear of the rumors hushed in low whispers instead of loud chatter. That was probably why it had taken so long for Salem to hear them.

It was said that no one left Mortimer the way they came.

Salem hadn’t understood what that meant until just three months into her semester, already changed so much from the girl she had stepped in as. Because the old her would never have asked her mother what she just did.

“What do you mean?”

It was the slight discomfort in her mother’s voice that tipped her off that she was on the right track. Nothing made Selina Salazar as uncomfortable as a hint of a potential scandal. Too bad fate had dealt her exactly that so often. Over the last few months, in talking every day with her mother, she had begun to understand her in a way she never had before. Her mother, having had a tumultuous early life, prized perfection and organization in every way. Her emphasis on politeness, on propriety, on manners and appearances that Salem had once not understood, she could grasp better now.

“I mean,” Salem continued, walking toward the Merlin Auditorium with the phone pressed to her ear. “Where are Great-grandmama’s things?”

She heard background noises of a party behind her mother and wasn’t surprised she was drowning her loneliness by surrounding herself with people. Maybe Salem shouldn’t have called her in the middle of the afternoon and stuck to their morning routine. But the thought had just popped into her brain and she hadn’t been able to control herself.

“I’ll have to remember,” her mother spoke distractedly. “Is it urgent?”

“No, it can wait.”

“Then, I’ll call you later, darling.”

And she hung up.

Her mother never hung up, not without saying a proper goodbye. In fact, how to properly greet someone and bid farewell had been a part of Salem’s and Olivia’s etiquette classes.

Salem stopped in the middle of the path and stared at her phone for a long second. As she’d made her way to her last class of the day, seeing the Merlin building and how old it was, she had suddenly remembered her great-grandmother—in her memory an old, wrinkled, strict but subtly sensitive woman—telling her about it when she’d been younger. Her grandmother had been a writer, and in an era where photographs and video footage were a rarity, she had copiously taken it upon herself to record memories in her own words. In fact, she had been the one to tell a young Salem that keeping records of her version of things would always be important and inculcated a habit of keeping records in her, gifting her a new journal on every New Year’s Day until she passed when Salem was eight. After that, Salem had taken it upon herself to do it, to the point that she now didn’t even think about it.

That was why it had taken her time, maybe, to remember that. Her great-grandmother’s journals. There was no way the older woman hadn’t recorded her time at the university, a significant event since she’d been in the first generation of women who had received a scholarship to the university and had met the love of her life on this very campus, eventually becoming a Salazar.

From what Salem remembered of her, she had to have kept notes of her time here. And though she didn’t know if she’d find anything helpful in them, the researcher in her still wanted to look for any new information, any new patterns, anything that could help guide her forward from the standstill she seemed to be stuck in.

The feeling of being stared at broke through her musings, making her aware of the multiple sets of eyes on her as she stood in the middle of the path.

That enigmatic, idiotic, infuriating man.

It was all his fault.

She’d been fine. After he had left her and dipped, completely disappearing on her for two days, she had come to terms with it and stabilized herself emotionally. Had it pinched? Yes. Had it felt like she’d never open herself up again? Yes. Had she wanted to stay holed up in her room and not leave it for a week? Also, yes. But life didn’t work that way. And it hadn’t been like she’d suddenly been left alone after always having someone, like her mother was.

Salem could understand why her mother was hurting—she’d never known loneliness, never been without her family, her husband, her favorite daughter, her circle of friends, and then one by one, they were all gone until she was left with Salem, the daughter she had never understood or tried to bond with, and now couldn’t avoid because she was the only one left for her.

Salem didn’t have that problem. She had always been alone. She knew how to exist with that loneliness—it was her constant companion. Everyone left, but it didn’t. It had been there with her when she’d been surrounded by family and social friends, and it was there when none of them were. When she was younger, she’d hoped that it would go away. But over the years, the hope had been slit open by the sharp blades of abandonment and ignorance, left on the floor alone to bleed slowly and painfully, until it had gasped its last breath when a man had chosen to stay with her. But blood loss made the brain delirious, and that’s what her hope had become, delirious right before it died. And it now lay decaying somewhere in a grave inside her.

And she was okay with that.

She knew she’d be fine. She just had to focus on the actual deaths in the real world and forget about the one inside her, just as she’d always done. It kept her relatively sane and ensured her survival, and wasn’t that the whole point of it?

So Caz disappearing on her, while devasting, hadn’t destroyed her. Or even surprised her, if she was being honest. And she didn’t blame him. Anyone would have freaked seeing the murder board, seeing the darkness inside her laid in display outside. She’d even expected that.

What she hadn’t expected, though, had been going to BBC to meet Aditi and Melissa, whose brother, Nathan, had come to town to see her. She hadn’t expected him to be nice and genuine, as she’d come to associate Melissa with as well. Evidently, that’s what children from loving, normal homes became—the Olivias and Aditis and Melissas and Nathans of the world. The world did need more of them than Salems, that was for sure. They were missed when they were gone. They had people who turned the world inside out to find why they were gone. Had it been Salem instead of Olivia who had died, she couldn’t say for sure anyone would have gone out of their way beyond a cursory investigation. Her father for sure would not have been devastated enough to go on a murder-suicide spree. Her mother would have definitely cried, and Olivia might have pushed for some answers, but that was it.

And no, this wasn’t Salem being self-deprecating. It was the truth and she knew it. She had evidence throughout her life to prove it.

That was why, when she’d caught a glimpse of Caz outside BBC, she’d been surprised but accepted it, because of course they would cross paths on the same campus. What she hadn’t expected had been for him to go still, for his eyes to catch fire the way they did when he was particularly pissed about something, for his body to suddenly be in motion and stalk into the small café. Her instincts sitting there had screamed for her to get up and run, knowing that he would catch her, and the lizard part of her brain had actually been aroused by the idea.

But she’d stayed frozen, not wanting to create a scene at Aditi’s workplace.

And then, after entering the place like he’d owned it, he’d just kissed her like he’d owned her too. She was mad, so fucking mad at him, like she had never felt. The sheer audacity of the man after giving her whiplash after emotional whiplash astounded her. But that lizard part of her brain? It was pleased, and she was mad at it too.

The result of that very public, very long kiss was the stares.

Salem wasn’t new to people staring at her and whispering, but never for something like this. She didn’t mind it for the kiss though. A part of her liked it, the public validation, the public claiming, the public proclamation a positive experience pleasing her inner self. Her kisses in the past had always been private. Her first partner had been her first consensual kiss, both of them in high school, and it had been a very secretive one-time thing behind the bleachers, and then they had amicably parted ways. Her only public experience had been the leaked photos and this was entirely different.

Even with Caz, their moments had always been private.

Validation in public was bizarre to her.

Her phone buzzed in her hand and she looked at it, grateful to be looking at anything but the stares on her.

It was her group chat with the girls, a first for her, which Melissa had titled NDA: No Daddies Allowed (Only Issues). Hilarious.

She swiped it open.

Aditi: @Salem, has it gotten better?

Salem typed.

Salem: Nope.

Aditi: Don’t worry, it’ll pass.

Melissa: Actually, it won’t.

Aditi: Why?! PDAs are nothing new on this campus. It’s college, for fuck’s sake.

Melissa: It’s simple. But don’t shoot the messenger *shrug emoji*

Salem: Meaning?

Melissa: Meaning Caz van der Waal is a mysterious mothereffer, has a reputation of being slightly crazy, and has never been seen even remotely interested in anyone romantically. People just put it up to him being in his “artist zone” and abstaining or something. Enter you.

Melissa: Now, we adore you, but you come with some seriously shitty reputation, dude.

Melissa wasn’t wrong. They adored her? Salem blinked at the screen. Melissa kept typing.

Melissa: You’re stunning, but the male population in this place won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. Most are trust-fund brats and can’t risk the hit to their reputation, and the few others who would have been told off by Mr. Mystery Artist for weeks.

What?

Aditi: I heard that too.

How had she never heard of this?

Melissa: Anyway, he sees you talking with my brother. He goes crazy, or crazier, and bam! Kisses you. And it was a HOT kiss, girl. Like I just saw the video and I was fanning myself.

Aditi: I was there and I was fanning myself. Man’s got moves for sure.

For the first time in a long time, Salem felt her cheeks heat. She looked around to make sure no one noticed, and aside from a few stares from some passing students, everyone seemed to be heading to class. She had to too.

Salem: Doesn’t explain why the staring won’t die down.

Melissa: Because, my dear friend who gets hot kisses, people are curious. They’re curious about A. Why he doesn’t care about his reputation, which is even more of a mystery with the way he just appeared out of nowhere. B. What is it about you that got his attention, that too in such a way that he had to make such a loud public statement, which by the way,

Melissa: *insert slow clapping gif*

Aditi: I agree. I like him. He wears that I don’t give a fuck attitude so good.

Melissa: I know right? You think he has any hot brothers?

Salem rolled her eyes and looked at the time. Shit, she was getting late. Locking her phone, she brisk-walked to the auditorium, entering behind the last of the students. Merlin wasn’t in class yet.

To not put any more attention on herself, she slipped onto a bench right at the back, in the last row in a shadowed corner, instead of the front where she had been sitting, and took off her coat, shoving it on the seat beside her.

The auditorium was warmer, so much better than the crisp chill outside.

Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she put her tote bag on the coat and took out her notebook, opening it on the table.

Everyone had settled into their seats, talking and chattering. Salem looked at the door connecting the lecture hall to the office at the back, remembering the way she’d stood there in the darkness with him, remembering the way his teeth had tugged at her neckline, the way his lips had almost kissed her, teased her, before devouring her. Her eyes flitted to the desk in the corner, where they had talked and she had passed out on him.

Had it only been a few days ago? It felt like a lifetime, the way things had changed inside her since more significant than the last few years of her life combined.

While she cherished the memories, there wasn’t any point thinking about it anymore, especially in class.

The office door opened and Merlin entered, accompanied by the dean.

That was surprising.

“Students,” the dean spoke in an authoritative tone, his eyes going over the class. “There was a break-in in Dr. Merlin’s office last weekend.”

Salem kept her gaze straight, not moving, not twitching, not daring to fidget to give herself away. Murmurs broke out in the room and amidst them, the entrance opened a bit, a figure slipping inside unnoticed, unlike how he usually arrived in class, striding down the steps to the desk in the corner like he owned the room.

Like the devil she’d been thinking of, he slipped in quietly, almost unnoticed in the murmurs, and took a seat at the back. To anyone watching, it would have seemed that he’d taken the nearest seat to avoid any disturbance while the dean was there. But she knew him better than that.

Caz van der Waal didn’t do anything without reason. There was method to his madness, which made him more dangerous in her opinion, since he straddled the line between both. There was a reason he strode and brought attention to himself every day, and there was a reason why that day he didn’t.

As he slid down the bench closer to her, she was suspecting it had something to do with her.

She ignored him.

Had he just come back and explained, she would have listened. But no, he’d gone barbaric on her ass and brought all the limelight to her in a way she wasn’t comfortable with, and not talked to her at all.

That was the main reason why they’d never have worked out anyway—not lack of chemistry or sexual tension or unattractiveness, or even trust which would’ve come organically eventually. It was communication—he didn’t talk to her and she didn’t know how to talk to anyone. They were doomed. Best lay it to rest.

“Something very important—” The dean’s voice took hold of her attention again. “—and very personal to Dr. Merlin was stolen.”

Salem felt a small furrow come between her brows before she ironed it out. While she had broken into the office, she hadn’t taken anything. She hadn’t even touched anything. The only other person who’d been there that night had been—

Caz.

She controlled the urge to turn and take him in. He’d been there that night, but could he have gone back into the office after she fell asleep without bypassing the alarm? If he had, then how?

She saw him take out the pencil he always had on him, his tattooed hand, the hand that had written his name in sin on her skin, coming into her peripheral vision. The pencil inched toward her open notebook, scribbling something in a slanted scrawl.

I want to tast e you again.

Was the man insane ?

He was acting as though whatever the dean was talking about was completely unrelated to him, as if she didn’t know that he had been there, as if she wasn’t done playing whatever game he was playing. Yeah, she was done. So she continued not responding, wearing the aloofness around her like a cloak.

He scribbled something again. She flicked her gaze to it.

Tell me you don’t wa nt me.

Salem picked up her pen and wrote, in clear bold.

Fuck off.

Then she underlined it for good measure, her gaze flickering to him for a split second.

The bastard was smirking.

Her palms itched with the urge to smack it. God, he made her so angry.

He would be the straw that broke her back and drove her to the actual murder that she’d never thought she would commit. She’d always known she was capable of it but it had been an academic interest, the actual act uninteresting to her. Not right now. Right now, she was imagining hitting him so that smirk would fall off his face. She was imagining biting it, making his lips bleed, so she could taste the iron and get high on the metallic tang like a vampire. She was imagining the bite scarring over his flesh, a mark for everyone to witness what she’d done.

She took a deep, slow breath to calm herself down.

He wrote something again.

Your nipples are hard. Fuck, I love your tits. Did you wear the white for me?

The white was the dress code. He was trying to provoke her into a reaction. She pretended not to be affected and listened to the men at the front.

“If anyone has any information, tell us within the day,” the dean said sternly. “You will remain anonymous and won’t be punished even if you’re involved.”

She felt a hand on her thigh.

A warm, large, tattooed hand with calluses that she’d never expected someone in their society to have. Men she’d known got manicures. Calluses were for those who worked with their hands. But he did work with his hands, so that explained it.

She didn’t dare look down, not with the dean looking around the class.

The hand moved over her thigh, and slowly, very slowly, inched under her teal tartan print skirt, sending shivers up and down her spine, leaving a wake of goose bumps on her skin, making her aforementioned breasts feel heavier, tighter with the increased blood circulation. A bundle of heat gathered and throbbed between her legs with the circulation, and as his hand moved closer and closer, memories of those fingers, of his rough voice rasping in her ear about owning her pussy, of his eyes flaring as her juices flooded her, all of it went through her mind like a kaleidoscope.

“But only if you tell us the truth.” The dean droned on, and Salem was hypersensitive, hyperaware that she was in a class full of her peers and faculty and all it would take was one turn of someone’s neck to suspect exactly what was going on at the back, especially with videos of the kiss already circulating around.

Thinking about the kiss had her feeling hotter. Her friends had been right. The man knew what he was doing.

“But if we find you—”

His fingers reached her panties.

“—it will go on your record—”

Pushed them to the side.

“—permanently.”

Swirled around her. With his pencil.

“Do you all understand?”

Heads nodded, and it took everything in Salem to fight the way her eyes wanted to roll back in her head, the feeling of the wood probing around her, flicking her clit in hard motions before lightly entering her, creating sensations that made her squeeze her thighs, trapping his hand in between. He inserted the pencil inside a few inches, pulled it back out. Salem gripped the table, her knuckles paling with the force it took to keep a calm, neutral facade when all she wanted to do was pant, uncaring of who saw or heard. The idea, that he could push her on the table and do it in front of everyone, sent a secret thrill inside her. He would do it too, not caring what anyone thought, and that kind of indifference, of indecency, of impropriety when all her life she’d been told to uphold it, was so tempting. At least in the freedom of her fantasies within the secret of her mind. She didn’t actually want that. The secret, being in public but having a private moment, that walked the rope between her fantasy and reality, that she liked.

At least she could be honest with herself. She liked his brand of unhinged. It attracted her, appealed to her, absorbed her in its vortex. She liked the things he did, liked being surprised and not knowing what he would do.

The dean left the hall.

Merlin turned to the class. “I would appreciate any help anyone could provide in this matter.”

His eyes came to her, hardening at the sight of the man beside her, who upon innocuous inspection looked to simply be sitting casually. Merlin looked at her again when he spoke. “The item in question holds great meaning to me. So please think and let me know after class. Caz?”

The man in question withdrew from her, leaving her panting on the inside, her walls weeping and soaking her underwear. He got up from the seat smoothly and went down to his own desk.

“Today, we’ll talk about group psychology.”

Caz leaned back on his table, similar to how they had been that night, and looked straight at her. Then, without taking his eyes off her, he brought the pencil up to his mouth, a pencil that was glossy in her juices.

He sucked on it, his tongue flicking out at the tip, tasting her, before licking it clean.

Her thighs clenched.

Good lord.

A few students turned to look at her—because he was looking at her or because he was doing so licking a pencil provocatively, she didn’t know. But it made her want to slide down and hunch slightly in the seat, turtling as if to prevent them from seeing her soft insides.

“Why don’t you start with explaining what it is, Caz?”

Merlin’s voice broke through her thoughts and brought her out of the fog of lust that seemed to envelop her brain. She shook it off and focused.

Caz spun the pencil in his hand as he turned to the class. “Group psychology basically deals with understanding what happens to your individual psychological functioning when you’re in a group setting.”

A girl at the front, a row behind where Salem used to sit, asked, “Would this class constitute a group?”

Caz tilted his head. “Yes and no.”

Merlin, leaning back on his own desk, chimed in. “You are all here in a group. You have a group identity of commonality, that you’re all freshman, all students, sure. But do you feel invested in the group enough to feel like you belong? Like you would contribute or take away something of value to it?”

The girl shook her head.

Merlin nodded. “Precisely. So, while this does constitute a group, psychologically speaking it doesn’t have as much impact on your individual identity as it would in, let’s say, a fraternity or a sorority like in some universities.”

Caz smoothly picked up from where Merlin left off after the man looked at him. “While Mortimer doesn’t have them, why do you think such groups have a hazing or an initiation type ritual?”

The guy sitting in the row below her spoke up. “Because it makes you feel like you belong?”

Merlin looked at the guy, then her. “Very good, Mr. Markin. Why do you think that is, Miss Salazar?”

Salem kept her face aloof, knowing he was watching her like a hawk for some sign of discomfort. “Because humans have an inherent need for inclusion, no matter what the cost.”

“What kind of cost are we talking about, Miss Salazar? Can you give us examples?”

Salem thought about it for a moment. “It can be anything, Dr. Merlin. People pay exorbitant membership fees for clubs just to have a place of like-minded people looking for inclusion. So, it’s a financial cost. Or the college hazing, where they pay an emotional price to let themselves be humiliated even though it goes against self-protective instincts, just so they can feel like they’re a part of something bigger than themselves.”

Merlin looked half-impressed, folding his hands over his chest. “You’re correct, Miss Salazar.” He turned to the class. “This is understanding how the ‘I’ becomes the ‘we.’ How the self takes a backseat to the collective.”

He turned to Caz again. “Anything to add?”

Caz nodded at her. “Adding to what Salem said—” He spoke in his raspy, rumbling voice, and she swore she heard a girl sigh somewhere in the room. “—there can be another kind of cost.”

She was surprised to see Merlin’s lips flatten, the side of his jaw clenching before he turned to the class again. “In that case, let’s move ahead.”

“What cost?” The words left Salem’s lips before she even thought about it, her eyes taking in both the men.

Caz’s eyes came to her briefly, then he looked at Merlin as though waiting him out and challenging him silently to address it.

The girl from earlier chimed in. “I’m curious too, Dr. Merlin.”

Merlin was pissed Caz had brought it up, she could tell. Nevertheless, he answered. “Secrets.”

Secrets.

That was definitely an interesting price to pay in a group setting. Salem frowned.

Another boy vocalized her question. “How can secrets be a cost, Dr. Merlin?”

“Would you like to explain this, Caz?” Merlin turned to the younger man. “Since you started it?”

Caz gave him the same smirk that annoyed her, except when it was directed at someone like Merlin, she was absolutely okay with it. “With pleasure.”

He pointed the pencil in his hand at the boy who’d asked the question. “Let me give you a hypothetical scenario. Go with me here, okay?”

The boy nodded.

“Let’s say you committed a crime,” Caz began. “Let’s say you’re a murderer—we won’t argue the how and why, just that you are.” Merlin cut a sharp glance at him before continuing his silence, his look pensive, as though wondering where he was going with this. Salem was interested too.

Caz continued, maybe realizing, maybe not, that the whole class was in his thrall. “You don’t get caught, but this crime you committed, it’s your secret right?”

The boy shrugged. “I guess.”

“And it’s a secret that eats away at you. So you find a gang of people who have committed similar crimes, you tell them what you did, basically mortgaging your secret for a membership to their group. As long as you remain a good member, your secret is safe. So, you become them. You become a criminal and do their bidding, even out of a false sense of loyalty and security. Sort of like a brotherhood, but it can never be that since they have the power now, don’t they?”

The boy nodded again. “That’s how criminal gangs work.”

Caz nodded. “It’s a collective. Individuals forget who they are when they’re in the collective. That’s why you’ll find that people in groups can behave much more dangerously than individually. Being in a group, especially in violent crimes, somehow absolves the individual of a sense of responsibility.”

A girl from the middle row exclaimed, “That’s why boys go wild on bachelor parties!”

The class burst into laughter while some of the guys said a chorus of gibberish in their defense.

Merlin smiled, looking much more relaxed. “Yes, but even then, there’s a difference when you study the impact of it with short-term and long-term exposure. Boys going wild on bachelor parties would be short-term verses them belonging to a gang.”

Salem raised her hand, and Merlin looked at her. “Yes, Miss Salazar?”

“Is duration the only variable in the equation?” she asked, her interest piqued by the subject.

“No,” Merlin said, not elaborating, moving the topic forward, clearly not interested in addressing it. Whatever it was about the question she asked and the example Caz had given, it had made Merlin uncomfortable. Anything that made a monster like Merlin uncomfortable warranted a closer look in her opinion.

She took a second glance at Caz, seeing him mindlessly spinning the pencil, his eyes a thousand miles away as the class continued.

Secrets, he’d said.

The man was full of them and so was she, and it seemed never shall the twain meet.

If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the Universe would turn to a mighty stranger.

—Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights