Page 32 of The Beautiful Dead

Even though he wasn’t here, I felt him. Watching over me. Not in an overbearing way, not in a way that smothered, but as if his presence lingered in the very walls. As if he was never really far away.

I took a sip of the coffee. Scalding hot, rich, and just bitter enough to wake me up properly. I downed it quickly, grabbed my things, and stepped into the sleek, mirrored elevator. The descent was smooth, silent.

When the doors slid open, the doorman—Tommy, according to his name tag—greeted me with a warm nod. “Morning, Remi.”

I blinked. He knew my name. The casual familiarity in his voice caught me off guard, but before I could question it, he gestured toward the front of the building, where a luxurious black car idled at the curb.

“Juno’s waiting for you. Oh, and Mr. DeMarco left this for you.” He handed me a keycard.”You’ll need this to access the building and the elevator when you come and go.”

I turned the card over in my hand, its weight settling in my palm.

“That’s highly unusual,” Tommy added, a knowing look in his eyes.

I didn’t ask what he meant. I already knew.

After a full night’s sleep, the city seemed less like a cold, unyielding beast and more like something I could learn to navigate. The towering skyscrapers stretched into the sky, their sleek glass and steel reflecting the muted light. Modern architecture clashed with the past—colonial buildings with ornate facades stood stubbornly among the urban giants, remnants of an older world refusing to be swallowed whole.

The sky was a wash of endless gray. The sun barely broke through, teasing the city with fleeting glimpses before vanishing again behind thick clouds. But I didn’t mind. I liked the way the diffused light softened the hard edges of the world, casting long shadows and revealing details that might have been lost under the glare of a harsh sun.

Juno was stoic and silent as he watched me through the rearview mirror, maneuvering the car through the city streets, weaving seamlessly through traffic before pushing out into the suburbs and beyond.

The change was stark. The wealth here wasn’t just obvious—it was obscene. The farther we got from the city, the larger the houses grew, morphing into sprawling mansions tucked behind private forests instead of fences. The kind of homes that didn’tjust scream money but old money, the kind that had been passed down through generations.

Devereux University was in another world entirely. The road leading to it stretched into a long, tree-lined avenue, the thick canopy above weaving a tunnel of shadows and filtered light. The air felt different here—cleaner, quieter, carrying an almost eerie stillness.

I caught my first glimpse of the university through the gaps in the trees, and something in my chest tightened. It was breathtaking.

The main building was straight out of a gothic dream—black limestone, its dark facade rising with towering spires and sharp-arched stained glass. It looked like it had been plucked from another era, its history etched into every weathered stone.

My fingers twitched for my sketchbook. It was the kind of structure that demanded to be studied, drawn, and captured. Every intricate detail, every whisper of time, carved into its walls. A place like this had stories.

I’d bet money there was a graveyard somewhere on campus. There had to be. The haunting elegance of Devereux wrapped around me like a second skin. It felt right.

At the entrance, a group of student volunteers stood waiting, their smiles practiced and professional. The welcome committee wasted no time, dividing us into groups based on our chosen courses.

A leaflet was shoved into my hands by a tall, sharp-featured guy who introduced himself as Dorian.

“The campus is sprawling,” he announced, his voice crisp and efficient. “You’ll get lost if you don’t pay attention. Devereux is fully self-sufficient—students rarely leave during the semester. And if you wander too far, you’ll find yourself in Hollow Pines National Park.”

I glanced at the edges of the property where the towering trees loomed, their dense foliage shifting with the wind. The thought of an entire forest bordering the campus was both intriguing and unsettling.

“Oh, shit, fuck. Watch out!”

Something slammed into my back with the force of a freight train. My breath left me in a sharp gasp as I hit the ground, knees sinking into the cold, damp earth. A skateboard clattered against the asphalt in front of me, spinning to a stop near my hand.

“Shit, dude! I’m so sorry!”

The voice was frantic, dripping with genuine regret. A second later, a hand appeared in front of me, offering to pull me up. I took it, brushing myself off as I straightened—and froze. I found myself staring into the most angelic face I had ever seen.

Bright shaggy blond hair framed his sharp cheekbones and full lips, his skin sun-kissed and flawless, his grin easy and utterly unapologetic. Michaelangelo could have carved him from stone.

“It’s no problem,” I muttered, pushing my hair back from my face, suddenly hyper-aware that half the group was sneering at us or trying to suppress their laughter.

The blond guy—a walking Greek statue—was completely unfazed.

“I’m so sorry, my dude. I was running late and was carrying too much speed.” He shrugged, his skateboard now tucked under his arm like an extension of himself. He had the kind of energy that radiated pure chaos.

He held out a hand again, this time for an actual introduction. “I’m Kyran.”

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