Chapter 28 Deirdre
Deirdre
“There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute.” Edgar Allan Poe
The shrill buzz of my alarm shrieks through the quiet dorm room, dragging me out of the last seconds of sleep.
I smack at my phone until it finally gives up the nagging call, then collapse back against my lumpy pillow.
My eyes blink, trying to adjust to the dark room as the rising sun tries to peek through the blinds.
Monday.
Again.
This weekend felt like a fever dream—being back at work at Salvation, the air heavy with the scent of spilled whiskey and sticky mixers, purple neon lights bathing every swaying body and crystal chandelier.
Claire had been there beside me the whole time, her blonde hair gleaming under the lights as she balanced tray after tray of sweaty pint glasses like she’d been born wearing an apron.
Every shout of laughter, every thump of bass against the walls, had left me bone-tired but alive.
Normal, in a way I hadn’t felt for the last two months.
Now it’s the second week of the spring semester.
Week two as Kieran’s teaching assistant, Claire and I have fallen back into the rhythm with ease.
From sitting in lecture halls to me sneaking into his office after classes, to steamy Starbucks cups sitting on our desks as we pore over the reading materials for each class, and then we disappear into the secretive world of the exclusive gentlemen’s club that pays our bills.
I kick the blanket off and let the dreary draft slap my skin awake.
Claire is sprawled under a mound of quilts, her chest rising and falling in soft snores, golden strands brushing her cheeks.
It’s nearly seven thirty, so I quickly tug on a fitted black turtleneck, smooth the ribbed fabric over my shoulders, then zip up a high-waisted plaid skirt that brushes my knees.
My boots—matte leather, steel hooks glinting—hit the floor with muffled thuds as I lace them tight.
Cross-body in hand, I lean close to Claire’s ear. “Rise and shine, Miss Thompson,” I murmur with a grin. She shifts, mutters something indecipherable, and buries her face deeper into the pillow. I reach over, grab a throw pillow, and chuck it at her face before I slip out the door.
“Bitch.” I hear her mutter as I quietly step out into the hallway and walk to Scholar’s Auditorium.
Outside, the courtyard air is a blade. Each breath blossoms into mist that hangs in the air before dissipating, frost patterns lace the stone benches, and the skeleton branches of dead maple trees scratch the sky. Tugging my turtleneck higher, part of me wishes for a balmy California winter.
Students drift past, gripping steaming paper coffee cups and their faces shoved into their scarves as if it’s their saving grace.
I turn onto the slick cobblestone pathway, admiring the picturesque view before me.
The gothic spires crown the auditorium, carved gargoyles stare down looking evil like the ones in Beauty and the Beast before the beast turned human.
Then my heart stutters just like it does every time I approach those heavy glass doors.
Behind them, Kieran waits for me just like every morning.
Looking around before I step into the lecture hall, I see students emerging from their dorms and shuffling to their classes.
A few heading the same direction I just took, but instead of looking excited, they look defeated and exhausted.
No doubt from adjusting to the rigorous workload that Kieran and the other professors dropped the first week of classes.
Stepping through the glass doors, the lecture hall is already buzzing with the sound of students as I slip in with the crowd.
The hum of their voices, the shuffle of backpacks, the rustling of papers—it all blends together, just the familiar sounds of Monday morning chaos.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and slide into my usual seat near the front, pretending like I’m just another student and not the professor’s teaching assistant.
My phone buzzes before I can even set my bag down.
Kieran: Where are you?
I bite my lip as I think of a response. Normally, by now I’d be perched on the edge of his desk in his office, either sipping the coffee he always has waiting for me or anticipating which new way he will torture me in class.
But not today. Today, I let the clock tick closer to eight and joined the swarm of undergrads funneling into the auditorium instead.
I type quickly.
Deirdre: In class, Professor.
The reply is immediate.
Kieran: Why are you not in my office, Miss Ravencroft?
I glance toward the door at the front of the room. Any second now, he’ll stride in, collected and calm in his usual dark suit, while I’m out here playing student. The thought makes my pulse skip.
I smirk and tap out a reply.
Deirdre: You’re the one who’s going to be teased today.
For a moment, there’s nothing, and then my screen lights again.
Kieran: Careful, Miss Ravencroft. I don’t take kindly to being toyed with.
Heat curls in my stomach. Without replying, I turn my phone face down on my desk just as the side door opens and Kieran enters, his presence slicing through the chatter instantly. Every girl in the room seems to sit a little straighter. Every boy quiets.
And me?
My heart pulsates through my ears as his gaze sweeps the room, pausing for the briefest moment on me before he sets his papers down at the podium like nothing is out of place.
Except I know better.
Once he has set down his briefcase and a stack of papers on his desk, he turns to the black chalkboard and begins writing the title of one of Poe’s classic works.
The Masque of the Red Death.
A small gasp escapes my lips when my mind recollects the piece.
The story emphasizes that no matter one’s social status, wealth, or who they know, they can not escape their own mortality. That death is a part of life, it’s inevitable.
Trevor.
Then, before Kieran turns around, his voice booms throughout the auditorium.
“Poe understood something that many of his contemporaries did not,” he begins as he turns to face his audience and begins to pace slowly across the front of the room. “That death is not simply an ending. It is an intruder. Unavoidable. Uninvited. The one guest none of us can refuse.”
He pauses, letting his gaze sweep across the rows. His eyes skim over the crowd of restless students, but when they land on me, the air in my lungs goes thin. He lingers a beat too long before taking his place behind the podium.
“In The Masque of the Red Death, Prince Prospero walls himself inside an abbey, indulging in decadence while the plague ravages the countryside. He throws a masquerade ball—rooms filled with color, music, and desire. Yet, even in his sanctuary, he cannot keep death from entering.”
His hand slides along the edge of the podium, fingers brushing wood in a slow, deliberate movement.
“The final guest always comes. And when it does, no locked door, no costume, no distraction of pleasure will stop it. Poe is not subtle here. He’s reminding us that death penetrates all illusions of control. ”
A nervous laugh ripples through the class. He ignores it, leaning in slightly over the podium, his voice lowering just enough to make us lean closer.
“Why, then, do we chase it?” His knowing gaze flicks to me again, like he’s baiting me. “Why surround ourselves with danger, with temptation, with things that can destroy us?”
The room is silent. My pulse is in my throat. I know he’s not just talking about Poe anymore.
Finally, his lips curve, faint and wicked. “Ravencroft.”
My head jerks up. “Yes, Professor?”
“Interpret for the class the line: ‘And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night.’“ His tone makes the quote sound far more intimate than it should. “What does Poe mean?”
Heat flushes up my neck as every head turns toward me. My fingers tighten around my pen, but I force myself to meet his eyes.
“He’s saying…” I swallow, my voice steadying. “That no matter how much we distract ourselves with pleasure, indulgence, or even love, death is inevitable. It comes when we least expect it, without warning, and it strips us bare.”
Approval flickers in his expression, but his eyes hold something darker too. He nods slowly, gaze holding mine until I feel it everywhere on my skin.
“Good,” he says, finally breaking away to address the rest of the class. “Remember that. Poe doesn’t romanticize death. He eroticizes the fear of it. The inevitability of being undone.”
The lecture continues, but I barely hear it. Every nerve hums with awareness, every word he speaks threading through me like a secret message. By the time an hour has passed, I’m wound tight enough to snap.
As he begins to wind the lecture down to a close, the rhythmic scratching of pens fills the auditorium as students hurriedly try to hang onto every word he has said.
“Remember,” he announces, sliding his hands into his pockets as he strolls the edge of the stage, “your Poe analysis is due Wednesday at the start of class. Not at eleven fifty-nine p.m. Wednesday night. If it’s not in my inbox before I walk in, it’s late.”
There’s a collective groan from the students, which only earns a faint, satisfied smirk from him.
“Or we can make it due in the next five minutes, eh? How many of you would be prepared?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought.” He continues, “I want you to go beyond surface-level summary. Dissect him. Explore the intersection of obsession, madness, and grief—where his genius lived. Use quotes sparingly. Think critically. I want you to bleed into your work.”
His eyes flick briefly to me when he says it—bleed—and I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. It’s like he knows exactly how to thread his words through my ribs and tie knots.
“Questions?” he prompts, gaze sweeping the room.
More silence.