Page 20 of A Touch of Darkness

“Lara?”

I call out to her in my mind, even though I know what I’m doing is impossible. And when I get no answer back, I feel like a complete and total idiot.

Now I’m hearing my missing sister’s voice.

I seriously need to pull myself together.

I remind myself that I don’t have time to be weak. I can’t let the cracks in my reality pull me under. Not now.

When I reach the corridor with all the history rooms, the large, imposing lecture hall looms in front of me. I stand in front of the door, my hand hovering over the handle, my nerves threatening to betray me. It’s not like me to be here. I’ve always been the one who refused to rock the boat, who was content to let Lara take the spotlight. If the roles were reversed, I know she would do anything in her power to find me. But it’s her who is missing. She’s been taken from me, and it’s up to me to figure out how to survive in this world on my own—until I can get her back.

The thought unsettles me. But I push it down, square my shoulders, and open the door.

When I step inside, the first thing I notice is the sheer enormity of the room—vast and echoing, filled with rows of wooden desks that seem to stretch far beyond my reach. When I met Professor Draedon the other night with Mr. Fallon, we were in his small office. This feels like an ocean in comparison. It’s huge—and as uninviting as the professor himself.

The vast space is dimly lit with flickering sconces. The walls are lined with bookshelves, their leather-bound tomes lending the space a sense of history, of age. It feels almost as if I’ve stepped into another era entirely—an echo of something long gone.

And there he is, Professor Lucian Draedon, standing at the front of the room, his back to me. I watch him for a moment. He’s tall, impossibly tall, with broad shoulders that give him a sense of power and authority. His dark hair falls just above his shoulders, sleek and well-kept, contrasting against the unique paleness of his skin. The contradiction between the two makes him appear even more otherworldly, ethereal, like something that doesn't quite belong in this time.

He’s dressed in a long, deep burgundy overcoat that fits him perfectly, clearly tailored to show off his lean frame. It is coldin here. Much colder than the hallway I was just in. His sleeves are rolled back slightly to reveal pale forearms, muscular but elegant, and I can’t help but notice the faint, archaic patterns etched into the skin just above his wrists. His hands, when he moves them to adjust the stack of books, are long-fingered and precise, as though everything he does is deliberate—calculated.

His movements, though subtle, carry a kind of grace that feels unnatural. It’s like watching a hunter move through its territory—smooth, measured, and entirely aware of the space around him. Even the way he stands speaks of an age-old power, one that doesn’t need to announce itself.

Then, without even so much as a glance in my direction, he speaks. “Miss Rosenthal.”

His voice—low, smooth, and almost velvet-like—sends a shiver down my spine. There's an undeniable command to it, a force that pulls at something deep inside me. The moment he says my name, his green eyes lock onto mine, and I feel as if I’ve been struck by lightning. It’s not just the intensity of his gaze—it’s the depth, the history that seems to be hidden in those eyes, a secret I feel both drawn to and repelled by.

His expression remains unreadable, but I swear I see a flicker of something in his gaze—something ancient and knowing—as if he’s not just looking at me, but looking into me, past the surface, into the very depths of my soul. And I don’t like it.

He’s not like the other professors I’ve encountered in my brief time at Blackthorne—there’s an aura of something darker about him, something more distinguished and much more dangerous.

I hesitate, my pulse quickening, and then, with a smooth motion, he turns fully to face me. The air in the room changes as he takes a step closer, his presence filling the space. He doesn’t just walk into a room; he commands it. The faintest scent of something dark and intoxicating follows him, something thatlingers in the air even after he’s stopped moving. It’s all I can do to keep myself from breathing it in too deeply.

“Miss Rosenthal,” Professor Draedon repeats, his voice opulent and airy, but there’s something sharp beneath the distinct calm. His eyes seem to pierce through me, reading me in ways I am definitely not okay with. “Did you enroll in my class, or have you come to chat about your sister again?”

I blink, startled out of my stupor. I open my mouth, but the words get lodged in my throat. I’m resigned to physically forcing them out, my voice sounding smaller than I want it to be—meek Sylvie. “I… I need to talk to you. Rebecca Cattell and Nicole Aradia, two second-year students, they said you might know something about the Solstice Society.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. He steps toward me, the air around him crackling with an almost tangible energy. I can’t help but step back, instinctively trying to put some distance between us. But there’s nowhere to go but out of the room and I can’t turn back now.

“I see,” he says, his voice low. “You’ve come seeking answers. How predictable.” His words are laced with something—amusement? Or perhaps something darker. It’s hard to tell.

I feel a spark of irritation, and it catches me off guard. I don’t know why, but something about his dismissal of me, of my need for answers, riles me.

I lift my chin, refusing to shrink back into the shadows like I always have.

“Maybe I don’t want to be treated like a child, sir,” I say, surprising myself. The words come out more forcefully than I expected, and I can feel my pulse quicken. It feels good. Like I’m reclaiming a piece of myself I thought I’d lost.

The professor’s eyes flicker for an instant, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, there’s silence between us. Then he gestures to the nearest chair. “Sit,” he says simply.

I don’t want to sit. I don’t want to be passive, to let him take control of this conversation.

“Sit down, Miss Rosenthal,” he repeats, this time so stern and sharp that I flinch.

I reluctantly take the seat he’s offered as I realize I’m staring like an enamored idiot at his bright white teeth, the way his lips curve up just slightly at the corners, his impeccably flawless skin.

He saunters over and stands directly in front of me, eyes still fixed on me as though he’s trying to read me, decipher me—trying to find out who I really am. His gaze is unsettling, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know were there.

“The Solstice Society,” Lucian repeats, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “They are not your friends, Miss Rosenthal. They are playing a game you won’t understand until it’s too late. And if you come seeking my advice, the best I can tell you is to stay far, far away from anyone who claims to be part of their society. For your own good.”

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