Chapter 14 #2
“It’s okay if you’re not ready to date. Don’t push yourself right now. You’ve been through a lot.”
“You’ve been through it too,” I say, “but you still have Caldwell. Why is it messing with me like this?”
“I don’t know. Trauma impacts everyone differently. Don’t judge yourself.”
“I’ll try not to.”
It’s easier said than done. Lately, I feel like I don’t know myself at all, and I certainly don’t like myself very much. Talentless. Stressed. Who am I?
After a moment of silence, Tobey says, “If you ever need someone to feed from…”
“Are you offering your neck?” I let out a boisterous laugh, pulling my hand from theirs. “Absolutely not.”
“And why not?” They narrow their eyes. “Should I be offended?”
“No. You shouldn’t.”
“Do I smell bad?”
“No, stop.” My laughter continues. “Feeding is intimate. At least, it is for me. When I feed from someone, I link with them. I can feel everything they’re feeling.”
I press my lips to keep from going into details. The bliss and intimacy—most don’t understand unless they’ve experienced it. Every link is different, of course. It’s not always romantic, but it opens up a new connection.
My connection with Tobey is already changing so rapidly, and I don’t know if I’m ready to deepen it like that.
“Right.” They shake their head. “I guess I’ll never understand.”
“And that’s fine. I don’t want you to understand these things.”
“Why not?”
“Because”—I sigh—“you were never supposed to be a part of this. I want to keep you separate… and safe.”
“It’s too late for that. I don’t want to be separate from that part of you. I don’t think I ever would have wanted that.”
“Maybe it is too late, and I’m happy to have you here now… but there are still some things we can avoid.”
They smile softly. “You’re right. I guess this makes sense, as far as boundaries go.”
“It’s a good boundary to have. I’m sure you don’t want me feeling everything you have going on in your head.”
They pile their plate up, surely a sign that our stress is behind us. “Probably not.”
They’re eating. I’m drinking. Everything is as it always was.
“I’ll figure something else out. I always do.”
I pass Professor Connolly in the hallway.
She’s strong compared to my weakness; her head held high as she dons a bright smile.
While the rest of the campus is silent and shaking, she’s the picture of bravery.
She was one of the first to teach me that demons aren’t all intimidating—not as much as Jun is—and the warmth in her expression speaks to that.
Some consider me intimidating, so if someone is daunting by my standards, that’s saying something. But Professor Connolly isn’t. She has been kind to me since we met, and it’s because of her that my performances have improved.
It makes her current treatment of me jarring, but I don’t think she means to be unkind. If anything, giving me a smaller role is the perfect opportunity to enrich another student. I understand and support it, but the part of me that longs for the spotlight does not.
“Are you all right?” Professor Connolly asks, stopping in front of me.
I’m not expecting her to stop and chat. She has places to be, and I’m not her only student, nor am I her favorite. Recent occurrences prove that.
“I’m great,” I say, forcing a smile.
“That’s wonderful to hear.” Yet, she lingers. “And how is your father?”
Small talk—easily my least favorite thing, including the pungent scent of garlic, but I’ll bear it for her.
“He’s doing well, but I’m sure he’ll be better once my mother arrives—which is soon. The mood around the manor is always glum when she’s away.”
“Then her return will be a good thing. I’ll have to send her flowers, or perhaps a fruit basket. Flowers evoke memories of funerals, don’t they?”
I tilt my head to the side, considering her words. “I suppose they do.”
And no one wants to remind a Turned vampire of their funeral. Of being buried in the ground, only to dig their way out.
“Well, I just wanted to stop and catch up. While you were initially unhappy with the casting, I can see the work you’re putting into the play. I welcome it.”
“Working this hard for a minor role is admirable, don’t you think?”
She chuckles. “It is. Perhaps next semester’s play will go better for you.”
“I hope so. I don’t have much time left at Strode, and I need to make my mark before I go.”
“The casting was never meant to deter you from doing just that.” She pats my arm briefly. “It was supposed to light a fire in you, similar to the one I saw when you first enrolled. I hope it’s doing the trick.”
I press my lips together. “How?”
She squints. “Elaborate.”
“How does anyone have a fire under them when our lives are at risk? I don’t even understand how or why the play is still happening.”
Students have been leaving the campus, but many remain in the play. To my great disappointment, Charlotte is still here as well.
“Art and theater have always been a joy for those going through the bleakest parts of life. Whether for the performers like you, or the patrons who come for entertainment, art is supposed to comfort in times like these.”
“I suppose…”
“Some of the best art comes from pain—widespread pain, mind you. When Shakespeare was alive, death rates were astounding.”
“And the musicians were still playing when the Titanic sank.” My smile is dry, but it’s there. It’s something.
“Exactly.” She chuckles. “Lighting the fire is difficult in these conditions, and not everyone can do it, but it’s possible. The flame of creativity burns eternal. People have been lighting it since the dawn of entertainment—no, since the dawn of humanity.”
“I guess I’ll need to find the fire for myself.”
“Precisely.” Her eyes sparkle, and she walks away. “Have a good day, Ms. Cruz.”
I’m left alone, but her words light something in me after all—a fire to perform diligently, not only in the school play, but in my other role.
The role I’m playing for the Order of the Bitter Hunt.
After my classes, I return to my dormitory to find a letter slipped under the door.
The black envelope and gold stamp tell me it’s a letter from my father. I know his stationery well. I open the envelope with shaky hands, and my weary eyes scan the loopy cursive.
The inside lacks the formality of the outer layers. There are only two words written on the thick parchment: Midnight. Dowry.
“Hell,” I mutter, slipping the invitation into my bag.
I suppose this means it’s time.
The instructions are simple enough. The Dowry building is one I know well—it’s the one our theater is in, after all. Tonight will be a performance, indeed.
I perch on the edge of my bed, drawing out my phone to text Jun.
Margaux
Did you get an invitation?
Jun
I did.
Margaux
And I assume we’re going?
Jun
Obviously.
And we’re going together
Before you ask another unnecessary question
I roll my eyes.
Being on friendly terms with Jun is strange—but moments like these remind me we’re not friendly. Not really.
Margaux
Wear black.
Jun-seong
I always do.
Margaux
Good. If we’re mates, we’ll have to match.
Jun-seong
How cute.
Margaux
I hate you.
Jun-seong
Hate you more.
I’ll pick you up at midnight.
On the dot.
We’ll want to be fashionably late.
Margaux
Whatever.
He’s right. I do want to be late, even if it frustrates my father.
It’s not the best look for our first meeting with the Order, but it would be out of character for either of us to arrive early. My father invited us without question, but I’m still on edge. I need to seem natural.
Everything is going according to plan, but it doesn’t put me at ease.