Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The library of Greyson Academy might be the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen—and the creepiest. Soaring gothic arches support a ceiling lost in darkness, with stained-glass windows depicting angels and demons locked in eternal battle.
During the day, they cast jewel-toned light across ancient wooden tables scarred by centuries of student use.
Now, well past midnight, moonlight filters through in pale blue streams, illuminating dust motes that dance like spirits in the silence.
The air smells like old parchment, candle wax, and something indefinably ancient that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
I’ve claimed a secluded corner table hidden behind towering shelves of leather-bound books that creak and whisper when the wind moves through the building.
The library is technically closed, but Iris showed me the trick to the service entrance— ”They never lock it because the night owls would riot” —and I desperately need answers more than I need sleep.
My back aches from keeping my wings bound for hours, and my head throbs from the constant effort of controlling my shadows.
Four massive tomes sit open before me, their yellowed pages covered in languages I shouldn’t understand but somehow do.
Each one tells slightly different versions of the same story—the Fall, the schism between light and Dark Nephilim, the millennia of conflict that followed.
The ink smells metallic, like dried blood, and some illustrations seem to move in my peripheral vision.
None mention Ascendants specifically, though one references “abominations of mixed essence” that were “purged for the safety of all bloodlines.”
Fucking comforting.
I rub my eyes, feeling the strain of hours of reading by candlelight.
The library’s ancient chandeliers were extinguished at closing, leaving only the moon and scattered candles in ornate holders for illumination.
The flames flicker constantly, casting dancing shadows that make my shadows restless and eager to join the movement.
As I reach for the next volume, my shadows suddenly still, then stretch toward the darkness between two distant shelves like hunting dogs catching a scent.
Something’s there. Someone’s watching. The temperature in the room drops several degrees, and I can smell something that reminds me of winter nights and danger.
I freeze, keeping my eyes on my book while extending my awareness through my shadows. They sense a presence—familiar, powerful, with shadows that respond to mine like magnets of opposite polarity. The recognition makes my pulse skip and my skin prickle with electricity.
Bael.
I pretend to turn a page while scanning the area through my peripheral vision, my heart hammering against my ribs.
At first, I see nothing. Then—a subtle movement, a deeper patch of darkness detaching from the general gloom.
He’s using the shadows to conceal himself, but mine can sense his like they’re old friends.
“I know you’re there,” I say quietly, closing my book with deliberate slowness. The sound echoes more than it should in the vast space. “Stalking is generally considered creepy, just FYI.”
Silence. Then a soft chuckle from the darkness that makes my stomach flutter.
“Your perception has improved,” comes his deep voice, rich and smooth like dark honey. “Most Ascendants take weeks to sense a shadow presence.”
I turn fully toward the sound, but still can’t see him clearly—just a suggestion of a tall figure within the shadows, like looking at someone through smoke.
“Is there a reason you’re lurking instead of, I don’t know, saying hello like a normal person?”
The shadows shift, and suddenly he’s standing at the edge of my table, appearing as if he’d been there all along.
His black leather jacket and dark jeans help him blend with the shadows, but it’s his eyes that catch me—vivid green, almost luminous in the darkness like a predator’s.
Up close, I can smell his scent—something dark and masculine that reminds me of night air and forbidden things.
“There’s nothing normal about either of us,” Bael says, running a finger along the spine of one of my books. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. “Studying our history?”
“Trying to,” I say, hyperaware of how close he is, how his presence makes my shadows dance with excitement. “Though these books seem light on Ascendant details. Almost like someone didn’t want that information easily available.”
“The victors write history. Light Nephilim have controlled academia for centuries.” He glances at my selections, his expression darkening. “You won’t find what you need here.”
“Then enlighten me,” I challenge, meeting his gaze despite the way it makes my pulse race. “You drop this bombshell about what I am, arrange my transfer to supernatural college, then disappear for days. I think you owe me some actual fucking information.”
His expression remains impassive, but I catch a flicker of something that might be guilt. “I’ve been establishing our cover, ensuring the right people believe you’re simply a Dark Nephilim transfer student. And I’ve been watching. You’ve drawn attention.”
I wince, thinking of the disaster that was my power demonstration. “The power demonstration didn’t go great.”
“No, it didn’t.” He pulls out the chair opposite me and sits, his movements silent and fluid like liquid shadow.
When he settles, our knees almost touch under the table.
“Your shadows are too responsive, too alive. Normal Dark Nephilim shadows are extensions of will, not semi-sentient entities with opinions about everything.”
“So I’ve been told,” I mutter, thinking of Seraphina’s pointed comments. “How do I fix it?”
“You don’t ‘fix’ what you are,” he says sharply, and I catch a flash of something fierce in his eyes. “You learn to disguise it. Dark Nephilim must consciously direct their shadows for every movement. Yours respond to emotion and intent without direct commands.”
My shoulders slump, exhaustion weighing me down like lead. “So basically I need to micromanage my shadows 24/7 while also hiding wings and trying not to freak out about being hunted? Awesome.”
Something like sympathy flickers across his face, softening his sharp features. “It’s difficult at first, but it will become second nature with practice.”
“Is that why you’re here? To give me shadow control lessons?”
“Partially.” His eyes move to the windows, scanning the night beyond with predatory alertness. “The light Nephilim sisters have taken notice of you. Particularly the younger one.”
“Seraphina.” I nod, my stomach twisting with anxiety. “She said my shadows move wrong.”
“She’s more perceptive than her sister, which makes her more dangerous.
” He leans forward, shadows gathering around us like a privacy screen that blocks out the rest of the library.
His scent intensifies—dark and intoxicating.
“You need to be more careful. Use your shadows only when necessary, and always with conscious direction.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumble. “You’ve had centuries to practice.”
A faint smile touches his lips, transforming his face. “True. But I didn’t have to hide wings as well.”
As if on cue, my back twinges painfully, the muscles cramping from hours of forced binding. I bite back a wince, but he notices anyway.
“About that,” I say, lowering my voice further. “How long do I have to keep them hidden? It hurts constantly.”
Something flashes in his eyes—concern, maybe even guilt. “You need to release them regularly, but only in absolute privacy. Your room is too risky with your roommate.”
“Then where?”
He stands abruptly, shadows flowing around him like living water. “Come with me.”
I hesitate, then gather my books, returning them to their shelves with hands that shake slightly.
I follow him deeper into the library, past sections with increasingly older books that smell like centuries and secrets.
The air grows thicker with dust and the scent of ancient paper, making my nose itch.
Finally, we reach a small wooden door hidden behind a tapestry depicting the Fall in gruesome detail—angels with broken wings falling through painted flames.
Bael places his hand against the wood, and shadows seep from his fingers into the grain like living ink. The door clicks open with a sound like breaking bones.
“A shadow lock,” he explains, gesturing for me to enter first. “Only those with shadow manipulation abilities can open it.”
Beyond lies a small circular room with a domed ceiling painted with celestial constellations that actually twinkle like real stars.
The walls are lined with bookshelves containing volumes far older than those in the main library, their bindings cracked and faded.
The air here is different—thicker, almost alive with power that makes my skin tingle.
A single window of clear glass looks out over the darkened academy grounds, revealing the twisted spires and gargoyles that watch over sleeping students.
“The Shadow Archive,” Bael says as I gaze around in wonder, my mouth falling open. “Reserved for advanced Dark Nephilim research. Few know of its existence.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, the tension in my shoulders already easing in this shadow-rich environment. The room feels alive, welcoming, like it’s been waiting for me.
“And private,” he adds, his voice softer now. “You can release your wings here safely. The room is warded against light intrusion.”