Chapter 12
Dark clouds chased away the light of the sun.
The trees rose around me like the ribs of some ancient creature still breathing despite its untimely demise.
I jogged faster, trying to focus on the steady thump of my tennis shoes on the dirt path and not the heavy tree limbs overhead knitting together so tight they obscured the sky.
The perfume of recent rain and wet loam filled my nose and throat, slowly choking me, breath by breath.
Footsteps crashed after me, and the world closed behind me like a throat swallowing the last traces of light. The hair rose on the back of my neck from being watched.
A blip of light appeared.
A flash of yellow.
Watching eyes blinked in and out of the dark.
There and gone.
There.
Gone.
Following, chasing, hunting.
I ran and ran and ran.
My breath sawed out of me, burning my lungs as I pushed myself harder and faster.
Each inhale tasted like the bile at the back of my throat, and liquid fear scalded the blood in my veins.
A gust of wind buffeted me, and I stumbled as a massive wing swung overhead, nearly clipping my ear.
My stomach sank and curdled while I tried to propel myself over unsteady ground.
“No, no, no—fuck!” Roots pushed up through the soil like the hands of the dead rising from the grave. They grasped at my ankles, scratching and snapping.
A branch cracked as sharply as bones breaking, and the visceral tension in the air shifted. It was there again—the monster.
Not behind me, no, but everywhere. Multiple yellow orbs glared from the dark. A fully formed silhouette, larger than a bear, prowled between the trees. The surrounding air was brittle with something other than the chill of a fall night. Something palpable that sent a nasty shiver down my spine.
It moved with impossible silence, hunched and shoving its way into the path.
One blink—and the creature lunged at my face.
A bloodcurdling scream rose in my throat—
I jerked awake, and the terrified shriek rising to my lips garbled into a pitiful whimper and died.
Moonlight slanted through a crack in the curtains. My heart bullied my ribs and sweat trickled down my temples. For several whooping breaths, I grasped for reality while the residue of the nightmare clung to my skin like a film.
Yellow eyes had etched themselves into the tender meat of my brain, and my skin felt flensed from my bones. The owl-beast’s face had been so close in the dream. Far too close.
Even as I sat there with my face between my knees, I swore I felt the presence of something a hair’s breadth from my nose. It took longer than I wanted to admit for me to ground myself in the waking world, to latch onto the little domestic sounds of the house around me.
By the time I finished my shower and stumbled into the kitchen, I was desperate for an obnoxiously large cup of coffee. I sat at the island, warming my hands on the mug and breathing in the delicious aroma of roasted beans while watching the first traces of dawn paint the sky in blush light.
Or as much as it could. Rain had returned by the end of the weekend, and it poured on and off as if the weather couldn’t decide if it wanted to drown the world in sudden deluges or simply weep in scattered bursts.
Feathered memories wedged in the tender parts of my brain like splinters. I tried to dislodge them with logic. Monsters weren’t real. I was under a lot of stress. My mind was playing tricks on me.
I hadn’t stopped dreaming about the avian-adjacent creature all weekend.
Instead of monsters or the possibility I was losing my mind, I forced my attention to the email I’d received from Professor Quinn the same night I’d come home drenched in sweat and fear.
The encounter had hooked its talons in me, but I was determined to move past it.
His email provided a needed distraction, and I spent the rest of the weekend thinking about my looming role with him.
His email had arrived close to midnight, when I was still winded and shutting all the curtains around the house like a paranoid nut.
One simple message, polite and clipped, asking me to meet him in his office at seven-thirty.
Ungodly early, but anxiety needled the back of my neck, and I wanted to get out of the house.
I wore a safe outfit that day. An oversized olive sweater, khaki trousers, and brown boots from the thrift store.
A coal-colored coat with deep pockets shielded me from the gray gloom breathing through the trees and coating the roads in vaporish fog.
I drove carefully, admittedly still on edge.
During the short ride, I rehearsed what I might say to Professor Quinn.
I would speak in a neutral, professional tone and ask about grading rubrics, confirm my availability, and not stare at his stupidly mesmerizing eyes.
The clouds opened and exhaled a thick shroud over the campus. Few maneuvered within the mist, and from the parking lot they looked like ghouls shambling through the dreary haze.
Somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted.
I rushed across the quad like a bat out of hell.
The professor’s office was in the basement of the History Hall.
Warm despite the location and a welcome respite from the insidious chill outside.
I ambled down the long hall of dark wood and stone, hugging my coat tighter around me.
The entire corridor felt tucked away from the present, embodying the heart of another world, another time.
A splinter of light spilled across the floor from a cracked doorway. A rush of nerves skittered over my skin, and I took a steadying breath before lifting a fist to knock.
“Come in,” he called out.
My heart skipped at the sound of his voice.
I licked my lips and swallowed hard before pushing into his office.
A subtle tilt of the world sent me forward, and the air changed, thick and heavy, wrapping me up like a warm blanket on a cold day.
The smell of leather and sweet pipe tobacco welcomed me, but it was the state of the office that halted me just inside the door.
Professor Quinn’s office was a study in organized chaos.
A high-backed chair sat behind a massive mahogany desk; shelves climbed almost every wall in an indulgence of historical records, paperbacks, and folios; low lighting from a vintage green glass banker’s lamp painted the room in a cozy, gentle glow.
A worn leather loveseat adorned the corner, bearing an overspill of books rather than people.
There were so, so many books that seemed to have been placed with a sort of careless deliberation. The breadth of history contained in one room made my heart palpitate.
Professor Quinn had his back to me, re-shelving a thick book with a faded jade-green cover. I was staring at his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows when he turned to me. My eyes snapped up to meet his gaze, and the world shrunk to the distance between us.
“Good morning, Miss Ashcroft,” he greeted. An aura of authority clung to him like a second skin, and every cell in my body wanted to submit.
“Right, good morning,” I managed, voice breathier than intended.
His jaw tensed before he turned his head, indicating the small chair across from his desk. “Sit.”
My legs obeyed his polite command, and my breathing refused to return to normal. He sat behind the desk without looking up, which was a slight relief. I struggled to control my expressions at the best of times.
Professor Quinn unfolded a black leather binder with a rehearsed flourish that spoke of experience. He had done this a hundred times before, and the memory of his actions were engraved into his muscles.
“You’re available for five hours a week, correct? Two of those during office hours, the rest for grading and one tutoring session.”
“Ye–yes sir.” My reply was stuttered but carefully neutral. The part of my brain that dealt with logistics kicked in and saved me from further mortification. “I’ve organized my schedule so I can be present during your office hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
He nodded once, then allowed his eyes to drift across the desk as if he were confirming that I wasn’t plotting my escape. There was a pause long enough for me to wonder if I’d missed something crucial in the silence, long enough for the air to stifle.
“You’re efficient,” he said finally, the assessment not entirely complimentary and not entirely impartial either.
“Practicality is needed in thesis season,” I replied, using a small smile as a mask.
“Indeed.” He tapped his pen against his lower lip. As if I needed another reason to blatantly stare at his mouth. “Are you sure you can handle the disruption this role will bring to your coursework?”
“I can handle disruption,” I assured. But I was lying. I loathed it.
“You say that now.”
“After my family’s public scandal, not much rattles me.” My statement rose between us as a shield meant to keep him from seeing the dark bruises under my eyes from sleepless nights, the stress of my personal life, and school, clashing with what I presumed to be delusions.
He studied me. “Are you sure? You sound tired, Miss Ashcroft.”
My hand curled into a fist on my lap. “I get my sleep when I can.”
“You’re going to need it.” His mouth quirked at the corner. “Kilbride has a way of overwhelming its inhabitants.”
Images of news articles about a dead student flashed like a warning in the back of my head. “It’s been doing a good job,” I muttered.
He watched intently, ocean eyes as wild as a storm swelling all around me.
One look would drown the weak, and I got the feeling he liked it that way.
But I couldn’t drown, not now when I had come so close to achieving academic success.
He rose from the tide as a challenge, and I needed to keep my head above water.