Chapter 24 #2
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—the real world, as it was—but I could tell that she wanted to 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 the water in his lungs when he breathes, like the ocean never quite left him.”
“You’re insane.”
“Perhaps I am, but for other reasons.” I’d shrugged. “Besides, insane does not imply incorrect. Regardless, you will be more careful now, will you not?”
She had been. Grudgingly. But without evidence—without me somehow convincing a vampyre to bare fangs or a shifter to sprout fur—I couldn’t prove anything to her definitively. She relied on my word, which in itself felt significant given the fucked-up rebirth card she’d been dealt.
“Perhaps,” I whispered my reply, my breath moving the hairs near her neck, “Thornwood has had his own experiences with the supernatural world, and that is the reason why he has devoted his time to occult studies?”
She nodded, thoughtful as a flush crept on her face.
I looked around the room and assessed the class. Roughly one hundred fifty students, their heartbeats creating a symphony of rhythm around us. Steady pulses, normal respiration, the scent of caffeine, stress, and cheap body spray.
“Professor Wright should be here any minute. . .” someone said from a few rows down.
“You mean short king?” Her friend giggled as she threw out an elbow teasingly.
As if summoned by his name, the door beside the podium burst open with dramatic flair.
A man strode in with a hop to his steps, all theatrical energy and barely contained enthusiasm.
He was younger than I’d expected—maybe mid-forties—with round wire-frame glasses and a burgundy velvet blazer over plaid navy dress pants.
He waved to the room with both hands, his grin wide and genuine.
“Students! What a glorious day! Thank you to those of you who brought your partners as instructed.”
He dropped a battered leather briefcase on the desk with a heavy thud, pulled out his lecture notes, and turned to the chalkboard. His handwriting was surprisingly elegant as he wrote in large, sweeping letters:
Plato’s Euthyphro Dilemma
I shifted in my seat, unable to suppress a small smile. “Oh, this will be good.”
A favorite topic of Charlie’s and mine during long evenings when I was being homeschooled. I was curious to see how Professor Wright would approach it.
“What—” Violet started, but Professor Wright turned back to face the class and began speaking with the energy of someone who genuinely loved his subject.
“As you all know, philosophy and religion are often intertwined in fascinating, complicated ways. In keeping with this week’s theme of moral foundations, we are diving into Plato’s classical problem.
” He tapped the chalkboard with his chalk, leaving small white marks.
“So, students, here is your question: Is something good because God commands it, or does God command it because it is good?”
Murmurs rippled through the classroom, students leaning towards their partners.
“And we needed to bring friends for this?” Violet asked, genuinely confused.
“I want you to turn to your partner,” Professor Wright continued, his voice carrying easily through the space, “and explore this question together. What better way to bond than to discover your fundamental differences or surprising similarities? Create a Venn diagram with your answers, see where you overlap and where you diverge.” Even from our distance, I could see Professor Wright waggle his eyebrows with theatrical mischief. “Let the philosophical chaos commence!”
Violet turned to me, clearly put out by the assignment.
She pulled out a sheet of notebook paper and a pen, drawing two overlapping circles with quick, efficient strokes.
I watched her work, noting the way her hair fell forward as she concentrated, the way light from the windows caught on her crimson streaks and turned them to fire.
I fought the urge to brush her hair away from her face, to tuck it behind her ear just for an excuse to touch her.
“So. . .” She tapped her pen against the paper. “Thoughts?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, settling back in my seat, enjoying her discomfort with this assignment. “You tell me first.”
She rolled her eyes—a full, exaggerated rotation—and wrote next to the left circle two words in large bold letters.
No God.
“There is no God,” Violet said. “Therefore, by default, morality is not tied to some type of divine command. We create morality through social contracts and our shared survival needs.”
“Interesting.” I leaned forward, reading her neat handwriting. The letters were precise, controlled, each one perfectly formed. “And where does that leave room for absolute moral truths?”
“It doesn’t. Morality is relative to culture, time period, and circumstances. What’s ‘good’ in one context might be ‘evil’ in another.”
“Then explain this,” I said as I leaned forward.
“If gods exist—and they do, Violet—and they created the concept of morality to benefit themselves, then what is ‘good’ is defined by whoever holds the most power at any given time. Divine command theory, but applied to polytheistic reality where gods war with each other and use mortals as chess pieces.”