Page 10 of A Touch of Darkness

In due time.

When he mentions me—Professor Draedon—I feel the change within her. It strikes down to her very marrow, utter, unspeakable unease nestling itself into the spongy tissue of her bones. Burrowing into the fabric of her being. A spike of suspicion, her pulse quickening like the distant toll of a bell. She does not know why, but she senses the gravity of my presence.

Then, of course, she asks to see me.

How wholly predictable.

Fallon, eager to defer responsibility, acquiesces without question, leading her from his office and down the shadowed hall toward mine, the click-clacking of his shoes grating on my already fried nerves. I follow, veiled in silence, a predator stalking its prey.

Sylvie’s discomfort quietly grows as they near the door to my office. The sconces along the hall cast erratic light, the flames trembling as though intimidated by her presence—or mine. Her steps falter only briefly as Fallon knocks. I swiftly transcend timeand space, moving in a split second from my position in the hall to my desk inside the office.

“Come in,” I say, my voice low, deliberate.

The door opens, and she steps inside.

Sylvie Rosenthal.

For the first time, we are nearly alone—despite the incompetent human counselor— and the air shifts. She carries herself with a defiance that belies the vulnerability she cannot entirely conceal. Her eyes—dark and sharp—fix on me, and I see it there: the latent power that coils beneath her skin, waiting to be awakened. She hasn’t a clue.

Fallon explains the concerns, though his words are background noise, a distant, static-filled whirr of nothingness. Sylvie is the focus, her presence filling the room like the first breath of a storm. I cannot believe, after all these years, the decades, the centuries, the time that has slipped by so slowly yet swiftly…I cannot believe she is here. She evenlooksthe same. Even I, as timeworn as I am, wasn’t aware that this was even in the realm of possibility. Reincarnation, of course, but a reawakened individual who looks the exact same down to the constellation of freckles along her neck? Never in all my life.

Never.

From her long legs to her onyx hair, she is sheer perfection. Utter, pure perfection. The only one I’ve ever truly, entirely consumed and still yearned for. I cannot remember the last time I was sincerely amazed, not until I saw her walking up the steep hill, felt her being in my bones.

When I finally speak, my voice is measured, devoid of the warmth mortals ignorantly expect but filled with intention. “Lara Rosenthal?” I pause and pretend to check my roster. “Yes, she attended today’s lecture.” I look up at Sylvie, not caring about Fallon. “She sat in the back and left before I dismissed the class. Perhaps…twenty minutes early. Give or take.” I shrug,loosely. “I simply noted the early departure and moved on, but I haven’t seen her since.”

Sylvie’s brow furrows, suspicion intimately warring with worry, as anticipated. “Did she say anything about why she was leaving? Did anyone go with her?” Her voice is taut, each word part of a carefully curated accusation.

“No,” I tell her, monotone, unaffected. “She was alone.”

Defeat settles into her pretty features. The lie tastes like ash on my tongue, but I deliver it with precision. Truth, after all, is a weapon wielded only when it serves.

“If I hear anything,” I say, “I’ll let you know.”

Her fingers curl into tight fists at her sides, nails digging into the flesh of her palms, as though the sharp bite of pain could anchor her in this moment, could hold her together although she’s on the brink of unraveling.

I delve into her thoughts, knowing she doesn’t believe me. Not entirely.

Good.

I refuse to use any sort of mind control on the girl. How can I resort to such dire lengths when she and I shared all we have? I’ll burrow into her mind, gather the pieces, but I refuse to control her. That is not my job. It never has been.

Fallon ushers her out, prattling reassurances that do little to assuage her growing dread. She is like a moth slowly circling a flame, unaware of the blistering inferno into which she ventures.

As the door closes behind them, I remain still, the faint vanilla scent of her lingering in the air. A reminder of her fragility, her humanity.

And yet, there is something else lurking just beyond the threshold.

It stirs deep within me, an ember long thought extinguished. Not desire, not in the way mortals understand it, but somethingmuch, much deeper. Older. More antiquated, threaded throughout centuries of longing.

Sylvie Rosenthal will not leave this place unchanged.

And neither will I.

I can’t breathe. The air in the room feels stifling, pressing against my ribs, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I keep telling myself that this can’t be real. That there has to be a reasonable explanation for everything—the dead silence that’s followed Lara’s disappearance, the cold, lingering presence that feels like it’s following me through the halls of Blackthorne. The overall unease I’ve had from the moment I stepped foot on campus. But the longer I wait, the more I feel like I’m drowning.

I try to focus on something else. I try to pull myself together, but it’s impossible. Lara’s not coming back on her own. I can feel it in my bones. It’s like she’s been erased from existence, her absence a hole that I can’t escape. I should have done something. I should have?—

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