Chapter 7
Mr. Rudy—the groundskeeper-slash-security guard—came into view and headed for the stairs, his flashlight flickering, straight toward us. With the dorm curfew in effect, getting caught could be detrimental to my stay at Saint Peter’s. Based on Cillian’s pull on me, he knew it too.
“This way,” he whispered, guiding us back through the library.
In quick succession, he switched off the Tiffany lamp, tucked me in an alcove between two shelves, and positioned himself in front.
My pulse pounded, though I wasn’t sure if it was due to being a turn away from getting caught or the fact Cillian’s arm lay pressed against mine, his touch electric.
High voltage. Mr. Rudy’s light carried into the room and hovered before he turned to check the cinema room, eventually disappearing out the front door.
“All clear.” Cillian breathed and stepped forward.
Eyes locked on his inked hand as he pulled the lamp string, I became far too aware of how my skin cooled in the absence of his touch. He’s trouble! Get it through your thick skull already!
“Thank you,” I finally said, breaking the silence.
“Of course.” The weight of his stare, the expectation I found reflected proved too much. Whatever ulterior motives he had, I couldn’t risk getting tangled up in them. Hands clenched, I started back toward the stairs.
He stepped in my path, towering over me. “Please, don’t go.”
Rudy could be back any minute, but despite my fears, my feet failed to listen, failed to move.
“Why?” I snapped, the night’s stress taking hold. “Why would I stay?”
His brow creased. “Look, I know things got weird in class, but I’m sorry, okay? I misjudged your interest in my kind of art and … I’m sorry.”
Guilt panged through me as I studied his face. His jaw locked, but his stare didn’t waver. Either he was a grade A liar or he was telling the truth. My intuition leaned toward truth.
“It’s fine,” I finally said, and his shoulders relaxed. “I really should get back to my room, though. If Rudy comes back—”
“He won’t. He’s doing a sweep of the grounds now. Usually takes him a good hour to finish.” A dimpled smile spread across his face. “Sit with me?”
I wanted to say no, go back to my room, curl into a ball, and shrivel up in my own madness. But instead, to my surprise, I stayed. “What are you doing down here, anyway?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He winked and the stress inside me stilled. His body shifted toward the table a step behind, and he returned with a sticker-covered Hydro Flask. “Thirsty?”
An organic perfume spilled into the space between us when he opened the lid. “What is it?”
“Try it.” He handed the concoction to me before making his way to the nearest recliner.
I followed suit, taking a seat across from him and tucking my sockless feet up beneath me.
My lips pressed against the flask’s rim, an immature, ridiculous giddiness coming to life in me as I realized his mouth had graced that very same spot.
What did I care if his lips were inadvertently touching mine?
The hell was wrong with me? I sipped, and warmth from heaven rolled down my throat.
“Jasmine tea.” I nodded and handed the flask back. “My favorite, actually.”
“Mine too.” He downed a mouthful, not shy in the slightest to drink from where my lips had been.
Butterflies erupted in my center. Get it together! “Just so you know, I play by the rules. This”—I gestured between us—“us hanging out, it’s a one-time thing, and only because you saved my ass back there.”
“Mhm.” He grinned between sips.
“I’m serious!”
“And yet, there you sit, breaking curfew. Doesn’t look like you play by the rules to me.”
His gaze glittered as he handed back the flask, and we settled into the calm, the silence. Oddly enough, it was … comfortable. Our eyes locked, no words, no sense of pressure or need to speak rising up in me as it often did in similar situations. Strange.
He laced his tattooed hands together. “So, bad dreams then?”
“How—” I choked on my sip. I’d forgotten about the dream, about the wicker …
He chuckled as he leaned over to wipe the spilled tea off my chest. “Easy there. You’re supposed to drink it, not wear it.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” I shivered, snatching the napkin from him. “But really, how’d you know? About the dream?”
“I know what you must be thinking. Hot as hell and a mind reader? This guy has it all,” he teased. “But I’m not. A mind reader, I mean. I just know what I look like after a bad night.”
I studied the sharp angles of his face. “You have nightmares too?”
“Sometimes, yeah. When they manage to slip through.”
“Slip through?” I asked too eagerly. “You mean, you can keep them away? How?”
He leaned toward me, tapping the thermos in my hand. “You’re looking at it.”
“Wait … tea? Seriously?”
“Spiked tea to be specific. A shot of gin does the trick for me most nights, takes the edge off.”
Interesting. I’d tried everything in the book to counteract my dreams: sleeping in small shifts, taking melatonin, not eating past eight o’clock.
Not sleeping in general had proved the best option so far.
I slurped down another warm mouthful, this time picking up the faint bite of juniper berry from the gin.
“Well, it’s good to know I’m not alone.”
“You never have been,” he murmured, low enough I almost didn’t hear him.
Almost. “Huh?”
“I just mean, at Saint Peter’s you’re never alone. There’s always somebody around, watching your every move. Comforting in one regard, but overwhelming in another.”
“Oh. Right.” I smiled, déjà vu smacking me upside the head again.
His expression changed as we held each other’s gaze, going from playful to concerned. “I know it’s none of my business, but those dark circles aren’t just from lack of sleep … are they? How’d you manage those? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”
This again. I sighed. I should have expected he’d ask.
Oh well, better to get the uncomfortable conversation out of the way.
Maybe it’d push him away, seeing as I was doing a shit job at keeping him at arm’s length on my own.
But, if I were being honest, it was more than that.
I wanted to tell him what happened, for some inexplicable reason.
“I, uh … I walked out a window.” My toes curled as I awaited the usual you’re a crazy person open-mouthed stare. I swallowed hard against the knot in my throat.
But his face remained even. “You walked out? Why?”
“I hadn’t slept in like … a week, I think?”
“Insomnia?”
“A coping mechanism. You have your tea; I have my self-induced sleeplessness. I pushed myself too hard that time and couldn’t fight it anymore.
” A dry snicker slipped out. “Nightmare disorder … I fell asleep, slipped into a nightmare, and next thing I knew I was waking up on the grass of the courtyard, staring back up at the second story. Scared the ever-loving crap out of my professor.”
“You’re lucky to be alive. A fall like that could have—”
“I know,” I interjected, hoping the conversation would fizzle out, suddenly self-conscious as hell. Why was I telling him this anyway? It was like … like I couldn’t hold my tongue around him. It all just came tumbling out.
His hand wrapped around my knee. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Tingles erupted under his touch. “Me too.”
And for once, I meant it.
With that, his gaze fell from mine, and he began to rummage through the oversized pocket of his knit sweater. Black looked good on him, like it’d been made for him alone. He grinned and pulled a well-worn book out. Shit, I was staring. I cleared my throat.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” I asked. For some reason I hadn’t pegged him as someone who’d enjoy theater, let alone Shakespeare. “That’s some heavy reading material for one a.m.”
His nose scrunched. “You kidding? Brilliance knows no sense of time, milady.”
“Fair.”
With a giggle—a giggle … from me—I pulled a dainty copy of Design the Grid: An Introduction to Structural Design from my bag, eager to prep myself on the things I’d missed at the semester’s start.
Time to lock in and get caught up. Focus.
If I didn’t start putting my busy mind in check and taking my workload seriously, my grades could slip, which would lead to expulsion and Jack and Glenda’s wrath and a lifetime under their shadow where they’d control every aspect of my future and—breathe.
I willed my brain into submission, focusing on the words in front of me.
I read one paragraph five times over before I finally set the book aside.
I’d come back to it tomorrow when my mind was fresh.
For now, I needed something else. I lifted myself from my seat.
After a quick roam around the room, I stumbled upon a shelf tucked away from the rest labeled Demonology.
Given the darkness of my mind, you’d think I’d avoid filling it with more nightmare fuel, but horror content intrigued me.
Always had. Maybe because it was the anxiety I could predict?
I don’t know. Dust coated every book in the section, a titleless spine catching my eye.
The book called to me, lured me in, a low ringing in my ears growing increasingly louder as my hand drew nearer.
The second my fingers locked on it, the ringing stopped.
That’s not creepy or anything …
Weird leather book in hand, I plopped back into my seat and undid the tie that bound it, the pages falling open like some hidden secret. The first page boasted a single sentence that gripped me like a vise: To know your foe is to know yourself.
One could argue my nightmare beast was a foe, but we had nothing in common.
At least I sincerely hoped not. I read on, flipping through page after page.
Of course, my mind wandered, and I snuck involuntarily glimpses of Cillian now and again.
I had to admit, I felt comfortable in his presence.
Like I didn’t have to say or be anything other than who I was.
Which was dangerous. And yet, I stayed. Time ticked by—him reading and twirling his tourmaline pendant, me pretending not to stare—until he rose from his seat.
“Rudy will be back soon. Better get to bed. I’ll walk you? ”
“Sure.”
The trek back to my room was silent and quick. But before he disappeared into the dark halls, he turned and whispered through the stillness, “Sleep tight, little shadow.” And, with a somewhat bashful smile, he was gone.
Heartbeat hammering, I latched onto my doorknob and a small piece of paper came loose in my hand. After discarding the tape that’d secured it in place, I melted onto the bed and peeled the tightly folded page open, a pill falling onto my comforter.
Fey,
You missed dinner. I will let it slide, just this once.
—Sue
Baffled, I set the pill on my nightstand.
She could have reported this, gotten me kicked out.
But … she didn’t. She was doing me a solid, and I couldn’t for a second understand why.
But damn was I grateful. I made a mental note to thank her next time we talked as the night’s events raced through my mind all over again.
Green eyes and dimples danced behind my eyelids as I unknowingly slipped into the first dreamless sleep I’d had in years.