Page 104 of Every Shade of Shadow

Blissful.

Perfection.

It’s a familiar scent that pries my eyes open. It’s his scent—sandalwood and spice, and something I can never place. I turn my head left, searching for his massive frame only to be met with disappointment.

The Professor’s not there—only an impression of his body on the sheets.

I notice the edge of a black envelope sticking out from under the pillow. I reach for it and open it, wondering what prompted a letter of all things, but he does seem so wonderfully archaic at times.

“My pet,

Urgent matters require my attention.

You are welcome to stay and gather your strength.

Yours,

D.D.”

“Sweet,” I mutter under my breath, setting the letter down on the bed. I stretch my arms out to the side, smiling to myself. Truth be told, I’m not used to such tenderness from Damien, even if they are only words.

Regardless, I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts, and yes, I think I will stay in bed, thank you very much.

I rest for another half hour or so, eventually rising and lightly padding around the immediate area quite naked.

The fireplace is running, the air warmer than usual.

I spot my coat over a chair in the corner. No idea how it got there, but it’s nice to know another nudie run won’t be required.

There’s a light ache in my bones, but a far deeper pain in my muscles that make home gym sessions or jogging along Brooklyn pier seem like a piece of cake. This fatigue? It’s much more encompassing.

I move from the bedchamber into what I imagine is a living room of sorts. There are the deep purple curtains I’ve come to know, black couches, the infamous armchair and dining table. Even the furniture seems sexualized here.

I’ve never been alone in his chambers until now, deciding to take advantage of the situation with a bit of light snooping.

I wrap my arms around myself and move to a dresser across from the couch. There are framed pictures on top with ornate, antiquated frames. I examine them one by one.

In the first, Damien is all alone, posing in front of a lake with his arms extended. A snowy mountain is in the backdrop, its peak piercing through the clouds.

In the second picture, he’s got a man and a woman on his flanks. All three of them are smiling, wearing snowcaps and thick winter jackets. It’s the kind of perfectly fine picture you’d find filling any generic picture frame.

The third frame contains a picture of the exact same people. They’re now in T-shirts, some sort of waterway behind them that looks European. Venice, perhaps?

I pick up the frame, the picture slipping out. I notice there’s something written on the back of it in the Professor’s handwriting.

“3-17-2012. On the hunt for Mortis.”

Mortis?

Shit.

So he is real. Damien knows, his friends here know, are actively ‘hunting’ him in these photos.

Or it could be a lark, I consider. An inside joke.

They do look more like holiday snaps than a group of wizards looking to take down a dark sorcerer. I squint looking closer, his friends too familiar, but I can’t place them.

I slide the picture back into the frame with a sigh, my relaxed state of mind ruined, because what now? Do I keep this information to myself, or do I share it with Lily, Ava, and Leo? Not that it means anything.

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