Chapter Text
When the sun sets over Arcana University, the darkness brings a new kind of beauty; the light and chatter of students trickle from classrooms into dining halls, dorms, and apartments. Libraries settle into the determined, heavy-lidded silence of evening study. The swathes of forest that sprawl over the borders of campus wear growing shadows like rich velvet, a quiet rustle building in the spaces between frond and branch, root and earth. Wind cools the currents in the gorges to the east, singing melancholy yet content hymns into their depths; the echo of wind and stone fades in Arcana’s center, muffled by ivy-covered walls and hills, but at the foot of one such hill, tucked behind a copse of trees, the wind rises strong and sweet in front of Vesuvia House.
It’s just past noon when you arrive on campus. The cab you took from the airport peels away, leaving you with your bags and a tingling sense of anticipation. The midday sun is scorching, beating down so fiercely that the asphalt shimmers. Before you rises a glorious beast of wood, stone, and glass.
Vesuvia House seems to glow in front of a brilliant blue sky; a thrill runs through you as you take in the grand, glittering façade of the manor. Vesuvia is Arcana’s finest, most coveted housing—and by far its most selective. Minutes away from central campus, regularly maintained grounds, free laundry, and no shortage of gorge views to die for: it’s no surprise that countless students apply every year, hoping to claim a room on its famously palatial grounds as their own. You recall your own application with a faint buzz of pride, and don’t attempt suppressing the victorious grin that springs to your face.
The sound of an unfamiliar voice calling your name breaks you from your recollection; you look up to meet a friendly, ocean blue gaze and a smile brighter than a star.
“That’s me,” you reply, frantically wracking your brain in an attempt to place a name to the curvy redhead jogging towards you. “Um…have we met before?”
She laughs. “No, don’t worry. I’m Portia.”
A relieved smile washes over you like ice. “Nice to meet you. I’m—” you begin before belatedly remembering that she already (evidently) knows who you are.
The freckles on her cheeks stretch into new constellations as Portia laughs again, warm and genuine, and you relax despite your embarrassment. She reaches for one of your suitcases, batting away your protests.
“I live here too,” she says cheerfully as you head together to the front door, luggage in tow. “Nadi—ahem, Nadia told all the returning residents about who was moving in this year, and…well, I couldn’t stand waiting to find out more.”
Portia winks at you as you haul your things through the intricately carved front door. She’s stronger than you’d assumed on first glance; the door is heavy, dense with hundreds of years of memories and varnish, but Portia shoulders it open without batting an eye.
When you see who’s waiting for you in the foyer, it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to drop your bag to the floor and yourself to your knees.
Nadia Satrinava is standing and smiling at you not five feet away, and she’s just as intimidating and beautiful as all the posters plastered across campus advertising her campaign for class representative have led you to believe. Even in the sweltering heat, she cuts a distinguished, impressive figure; she’s dressed immaculately in tailored lavender linen, violet hair pulled elegantly away from her leonine face.
She fixes you with that calm, regal gaze, and you swear your heart skips a beat.
“Welcome to Vesuvia.”
A spark of recognition flares in Nadia’s eyes at your face. She speaks your name like a bell, chiming clear and confident in the air.
“Your application was quite impressive. I’m glad you decided to accept our invitation.”
You stammer out your thanks as Portia beams and rushes forward to embrace Nadia. Somewhat to your surprise, Nadia returns the embrace, squeezing Portia tightly and grinning back.
“Welcome back, Portia. You know the way, I presume?”
Nadia’s voice is light, almost playful, but you still can’t help but gape as Portia rolls her eyes at her. They both laugh and Portia turns to you, tossing a thick auburn curl over her shoulder.
“You’re in the double upstairs, right?”
You nod in confirmation, a wry grin playing at the corner of your mouth. You’re fairly certain Portia already knows, an assumption she confirms with another cheeky wink before she offers, “I can show you to your room!”
“A wonderful idea,” Nadia comments as she hands you your key and a small welcome packet. “Don’t hesitate if you have any questions—my room is just down the hall.” She nods past the gleaming wooden staircase and a painting of the house’s founder to a corridor.
“Thank you.” You hesitate, unsure of how to address her. Her eyes soften and her hands lingers warmly over yours.
“Just Nadia is fine.” Her gaze glitters as she adds, “Mistress is only when I’m in a suit. Boardroom protocol, you see.”
Heat flares in your cheeks as Nadia releases your hands, smiling calmly. Portia is nice enough to stifle her giggle as you follow her up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. She stops in front of a cherry wood door and raps on it.
“This one’s yours! Bathroom is across the hall,” she points, “and there’s a kitchenette over there, you can keep things for snacks and simple meals there. Nadi has a ton of fancy teas in the one downstairs, hehe. Main kitchen is downstairs, by the dining room, we all take turns with cleaning and chores—don’t worry, this is all in the welcome packet too,” she adds with a grin as your nods of understanding begin to slow under the torrent of information. “I’ll let you get settled—I don’t think your roommate is in yet.”
With a bright smile, Portia leaves you to unlock the door and see your home for the year for yourself.
The faint lemony scent of cleaning polish greets you when you step in, followed by the undertones of natural wood it must have been used on; the hardwood floor creaks slightly under your feet as you shift them, turning slightly to look around the room.
It’s larger than you expected, even with the rumors of Vesuvian rooms being twice the size of any dorm. A large alcove directly opposite the door boasts a window seat with a glorious view of the gorge stretching out behind the house. Two smaller windows sit above the two identical desks on either side of the alcove, allowing enough daylight into the room that you doubt you’ll ever need the overhead light while the sun is up. Two beds face each other, flanked by what you assume are closet doors; as you deliberate which side to take, the door swings open behind you.
A delighted gasp escapes you at the sight of your roommate’s face; as with the other effects in the room, your glee is mirrored on his features.
“Asra!” you exclaim, rushing forward to meet him in an elated hug. He smells comfortingly of sandalwood incense and rosewater, his arms warm and strong around you. Fluffy white hair tickles your neck before Asra pulls back, a wide smile illuminating his features.
“We’re roomies!”
You laugh riotously; his enthusiasm is infectious.
“I can’t believe we both managed to get into Vesuvia!” you gush excitedly. “You didn’t even tell me you applied!”
Asra’s smile tightens for an instant, tension so fleeting you’re not sure if you only imagined it. “Must have slipped my mind,” he shrugs. You pause, but seeing him again after a summer spent practically on opposite ends of the planet, you’re too overjoyed to press the matter.
A purple flicker in your peripheral vision draws your attention. Two carmine eyes blink at you and a scarlet tongue flickers out, tasting the air in front of you.
“You remember Faust, don’t you?” Asra asks. He lifts the snake from her winding perch in his scarf and holds her out slightly to you. Her tail wiggles happily as you lean in and gently stroke her cool scales.
“I sure do,” you coo. Asra grins and pivots his arm so Faust can wind herself over his shoulders.
“She missed you over the summer,” Asra tells you. The two of you move comfortably with each other, falling into mutual unpacking without missing a beat. His presence feels right, a gentle, comforting warmth resting against you.
“I missed you both,” you say quietly, trying your best to sound casual. It’s true; Asra had gone from freshman advisor to best friend in what seemed like the blink of an eye. You’d spent most of the year together, bantering your way through the adventures of university life.
Asra catches the sudden sobriety in your voice and turns, smile softening. “I missed you too,” he says, and you can feel how much he really means it. “Video calls just aren’t the same, huh?”
You shake your head, unwilling to trust your voice not to break.
“Let me make it up to you,” Asra offers, a note of desperation seeping into his voice. “Dinner tonight? We can catch up on everything. My treat.”
You nod, a smile breaking through the blocky obstruction where your heart had lodged itself in your throat. Asra’s violet eyes sparkle reassuringly at you and you decide to be brave. “It’s a date,” you say nonchalantly, hands tingling.
“A date?” Asra muses. His grin tilts mischievously, dimple deepening. “I like the sound of that.”
You whip around to hide your glowing cheeks under the pretense of folding a shirt, but you can’t stop the giddy smile that rises to your face like a bubble in champagne.
The Ethiopian restaurant Asra takes you to that evening is just the right size to be cozy but not cramped. The two of you tuck away into a corner table, exchanging stories of your summers over candlelight and spiced flatbread. Aromatic cardamom and fennel seed swirl out from the kitchen, perfuming your conversation.
“—but you’ll never guess what happened then!” Asra waits until you shrug expectantly at him to continue, “So there I am, barbecue sauce on my boss’s white Valentino bag, and all I’ve got is my tarot deck and some paint thinner.”
“Oh my God. How’d you get it out?”
Asra’s story has you breathless and on the edge of your seat. It’s always like this with Asra; he lives life like the undying hero of an epic film, and it’s intoxicating. He leaves a trace of himself everywhere he goes, lingering on everyone he meets. There’s no doubt in your mind that you could track his steps at his studio internship this past summer by a long trail of gently broken and besotted hearts.
Asra rests his cheek on one hand, a rueful grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “Very carefully.” The arrival of your food stops him from elaborating; you inhale the fragrant steam rising from your plate, Asra’s affectionate gaze warming you more than the rich spiciness you can already taste at the back of your throat.
“But that’s enough about me. How’ve you been? I know we’ve talked, but…”
You hesitate, drawing lines in your food with the tines of your fork.
“…it’s really good to see you again,” you say finally. Asra’s brow begins to furrow, concern streaking across his eyes, but you cut him off before it can spill out his mouth. “I’m really excited for this year! I can’t believe I got into Vesuvia—and rooming with you?! It’s a dream come true.”
Asra smiles, but you can tell he’s not ready to let the topic go just yet. He says your name carefully, as though every syllable is made of glass, and a streak of foreboding weighs down your blood.
“Speaking of Vesuvia…have you heard anything about it? Gossip? Rumors?”
Bewildered, you shake your head. “No, why? Have you? Did something happen?”
Asra visibly relaxes, tension leaching out of his body as he takes a sip of tea.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just…there was this arson a while back, and some people on campus never really got over it. Just don’t get super freaked out if people mention it when they find out you live in Vesuvia. It’s no big deal, I just thought you should know.”
You nod, mulling it over. “Gotcha…thanks for warning me. Did they catch whoever did it?”
Whatever Asra ordered must have been incredibly spicy, because he chokes as soon as the fork enters his mouth, spluttering and hacking into his napkin. He waves off your attempts at giving him your water, grimacing through watery eyes.
“I’m good, I’m good. Uh, yeah, but the university wanted to keep it hush-hush, so I don’t know what happened afterwards.”
The information sinks in slowly, melting along with the taste of turmeric on your tongue. Your face must betray the conflict and concern whirling in your brain, because Asra says quickly, touching your hand lightly, “I haven’t heard of or from the guy since! And Nadia worked with the admins to revamp Vesuvia’s security and everything, so don’t worry. We’ll be perfectly safe.”
His reassurances work as intended, and despite your lingering curiosity, you soon find yourself wholeheartedly engaged in a riveting discussion of the questionable legality of Asra’s tarot reading and exam divination business. The night passes by, and as the candlesticks begin to dwindle along with the amount of food on your plates, you notice something strange.
“Asra?”
He looks up at you curiously, wiping up the last dribbles of roasted red pepper sauce with a scrap of flatbread. You lean in, lowering your voice as your peer at the mysterious seated man whose gaze has been burning into the back of Asra’s head for the past twenty minutes.
“You don’t happen to have a friend who’s super into weightlifting, do you? Maybe with a penchant for black hoodies?”
The mild confusion on Asra’s face clears and he turns in his seat to call enthusiastically, “Muriel!”
Black Hoodie starts, fork clattering loudly against his plate. A burning green gaze sears yours for a moment before the man clears his throat and attempts to fold in on himself. Asra doesn’t seem to notice; he’s just as cheery as ever when he waves him over to your table; Muriel hesitates before grimacing and complying, the flickering gaze he shoots at you a clear sign that he’d rather do anything else. The strong, musky smell of dry straw and something pungent hits you. It’s not unpleasant, stirring some vague memory of sunshine and large animals to your frontal cortex.
“Muriel, this is my roommate,” Asra introduces you, a strange note creeping into his voice when he adds, “We’re living together in Vesuvia this year.”
Muriel stills, face contorting through shock, frustration, and resignation in a flash. “…okay.”
The strangeness lacquering Asra’s voice spreads to his eyes for a split second before he notices you looking and replaces it with his usual gentle smile. If Muriel hadn’t looked to be on the verge of tearing out of the restaurant and taking Asra with him, you would have almost been convinced.
Asra clearas his throat, gesturing to Muriel. “This is Muriel. I guess you haven’t met before….we’re old friends.” Asra turns to Muriel and adjusts his position to create something more open between the three of you. “You moved up into a place past North Forest, right? Closer to the barn?”
“…yeah.” Muriel’s answer is more a grunt than anything else, and you can feel him eyeing you suspiciously. Quickly, as if each word pains him, he tells Asra, “I need to talk to you. He’s back. You need to be careful.”
Alarm flickers over Asra’s face, but before he can say anything, Muriel turns and slaps a twenty on his table. The door chimes seconds later and as suddenly as he arrived, he’s gone.
You turn to Asra, thoroughly baffled. Pensive anxiety is scrawled over his face, tense despite his efforts to hide it. He offers you a carefully constructed smile, just enough worry flickering at the corners of his mouth that you reluctantly dilute your questions.
Are you in trouble? Can I do something for you? is what you want to say, but instead, you constrain yourself to:
“Are…are you okay? Do you wanna talk about anything?”
Asra pauses before his smile returns to something closer to its true self. His fingers stretch out towards you but stop short, resting lightly on the table between you.
“Don’t worry about me,” he tells you, neatly avoiding your questions. The strangeness and worry is still there, lending graininess to his voice, but sincerity fleshes it out. “Muriel’s pretty cryptic at the best of times, and he’s not really a fan of socializing with new people.”
“Oh…” You search Asra’s face, but a few seconds make it clear that whatever Muriel was talking about, he’s not willing to discuss it. Finally, you settle for asking, “So Muriel…is he a student at Arcana too? I didn’t even know there was housing that far north.”
Something like relief washes over Asra’s face before he answers, brightness restored to his voice. “There aren’t any university-owned places past the dining halls up north, but there are a few apartments and houses for rent. Muriel has a studio really close to the barn. He’s in animal science, so it’s pretty convenient for him.”
You nod, mustering up a smile for Asra’s sake. “I’m glad I got to meet him.”
A waiter comes up with a dessert menu. “Care for dessert? We currently have a special on t’ej baklava.”
You’re stuffed, but with the way Asra’s eyes sparkle at the prospect of honey wine drizzled over roasted nut-stuffed figs and flaky pastry, you can’t help but feel your own mouth begin to water.
“We’ll take an order,” you say, and a warm, glowing thrill spreads through your chest at the sheer glee that blooms over Asra’s face.
The night is far from young when you and Asra leave the restaurant and head back to Vesuvia. Later summer air passes balmy hands over your skin; in the dark between streetlamps, everything feels ripe with potential and ready to burst.
It’s the sound that hits you first, followed by the pungent combination of sweat and spilled alcohol. You and Asra stop in your tracks as Vesuvia’s pillars rise up in front of you, historical façade shuddering with subwoofer and synth. Light pours out of every window and shadows shift on the lawn as people mill about inside.
Someone stumbles out the front door, laughter bubbling out their throat; you swerve to avoid them as they wobble past you, offering a slurred apology as they careen by.
Asra’s lip curls in distaste as he stalks up the front walkway. You follow, a grimace setting in over your mouth, as Asra plows through the heavy front door. The stench of hot bodies and liquor assaults you with your first step over the threshold. Your skull throbs, but you can’t pinpoint if it’s from the choking smell, the crush of the crowd, or the pounding music. Asra’s scowl deepens but he doesn’t slow, stalking through partygoers and beelining for the kitchen, your hand clasped firmly in his.
The door is closed, with a keypad staring out forebodingly from beside the handle (briefly, you wonder who on earth has tried to break into the kitchen often enough to necessitate a lock); Asra punches in the code so fast his fingers blur, and shoves the door open.
Someone clips your shoulder and you stumble—you catch a garbled apology over the deafening music, but they’re gone before you can respond. You turn on instinct, trying to track the body in the crowd, but it’s too late. You only catch a glimpse of Portia looking upset across the hall—her eyes widen when she spots you, but then Asra calls your name and you duck into the kitchen after him.
The door clicks shut behind you and your attention shifts to the clash of titans in the center of the kitchen.
“—completely irresponsible, not to mention inconsiderate. Did it ever occur to you to consult the other people who live here before throwing a party and inviting half the student body?!”
Nadia is on fire; searing steel is still in her eyes when she turns at your and Asra’s arrival, cooling slightly only when you both visibly recoil. She nods curtly before turning back to her original target. You can’t help but notice that one of her hands is curled tightly in a fist, half-hidden by how tightly it’s pressed against her thigh.
“C’mon, Noddy,” the blond man across from her wheedles coaxingly.
His face is uncannily familiar; you squint at him trying to figure out how you know it. He notices your gaze and grins cockily at you. One hand rakes through the golden hair pushed back frorm his forehead; his fingers glint under the fluorescent lights and you suppress a gasp as you realize his left arm is the most impressive, absolutely extra prosthetic you’ve ever seen.
A memory—a news article about Arcana’s varsity recruitment from the summer before your freshman year, forwarded by a curious aunt—hits you suddenly before evaporating, leaving his name on the tip of your tongue.
Lucas? Luigi? Lucifer?
His voice breaks you out of your attempts to remember his elusive name. “A little party never hurt anyone! And give me some credit, there’s way more than just half the student body here.”
You can almost see the smoke billowing from Nadia’s ears. “Lucio, I can smell at least five house code violations from here. And that’s without counting your cologne.”
Lucio pouts at her; you have no idea how he isn’t wilting under Nadia’s hell-to-pay glare. “Okay, so there may have been an oopsie or two in the planning—but that’s because I had to do it all without you! You’re so good at this kind of thing, Noddy! How about you take charge of the next one, huh? How’s next Tuesday sound?”
If Nadia was angry before, you’re fairly certain she’s about to explode now. Before she opens her mouth to deliver the maelstrom you can see building between her eyes, Asra speaks up from beside you, his voice burning with a cold snarkiness you’ve never imagined could come from him.
“Pretty big ‘oopsie’ this time. You still got enough dirty money to clean this one up after last time?”
“Still bitter?” Lucio sneers. His grey gaze flickers to you almost…pointedly? You’re probably just imagining it, but Lucio’s eyes seem to rest on your face until Asra exhales, long and rough. “You should go dance a little, Asra, maybe that’ll loosen you up enough to get the stick out from—”
“—that is enough!” Nadia and Lucio may be the same height, but she’s towering over everyone now, sparks fairly flying from her eyes. A finger strikes out accusingly at Lucio. “Quiet hours started nearly two hours ago and this is an unregistered event. You organized; you will be the one attending behavioral compact courses and completing the required remedial university cooperative housing compliance documents.”
Her eyes shift to Asra, cutting off Lucio’s protests like the slice of a sword. “Everyone here signed a residential agreement. I am more than happy to arrange mediation sessions should they become necessary, but it is in no one’s best interest to escalate this situation right now. Do I make myself clear?”
A reluctant chorus of mumbled “yes”es answers Nadia. When her eyes meet yours, she looks incredibly tired.
“I’m sorry your first night at Vesuvia has turned out to be…” her eyes bore into Lucio’s lingering smirk, “such a disappointment. Please try to get some rest. The party is over, and this will be sorted out as quickly as possible.”
Awkwardly, you shuffle over to the door. Asra follows, jaw set, after shooting a frosty glare back at Lucio.
You expect Asra to come with you to your room, but he pauses at the landing instead.
“You go ahead,” he says, voice still tight with anger. “I’ve got a few things to take care of—I’ll try not to wake you.”
The smile he offers you is so taut and thin that it transforms his face into someone unfamiliar for an instant, but before you can do anything, Asra turns and heads down the stairs again.
“Okay…” you tell the empty hallway.
Lucio’s party rages on just below (although if you listen carefully, you can hear Nadia and Portia’s voices sternly at work shutting it down), and it suddenly occurs to you that there’s a non-negligible possibility that you’ll have to kick someone—several someones—out of your room before you can sleep.
“Oh, please no,” you mutter, anxiety quickening your blood as you rush over to your room door.
Before you set a hand on the doorknob, the door swings open and a lanky figure, half his face obscured by a curly shock of auburn hair, nearly walks into you—you rear back in surprise, and so does he.
“Oh Jesus—ahem, sorry, just looking for, uh…” He trails off for a moment before his eyes alight on something behind you and he grins rakishly. “The bathroom! It’s not this one, in case you were wondering.”
He chuckles and makes to walk past you; you bar his path with your arm before you quite know what you’re doing. The shock that ripples over his face is, you’re sure, reflected on your own, but what makes you more determined not to let him go is the flicker of panic that follows through his visible eye.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” you say, walking forward so he has little choice but to retreat. You swing the door shut behind you casually, without looking, keeping a careful eye on the man in front of you. He’s tall and reasonably strong-looking, and you don’t fancy the idea of trying to physically grapple answers out of him, but you’re sure he came in here for a reason, and in descending order of importance, he is: mostly cooperative, not very good at lying on the spot, and seemingly sober.
“What is it, then?” you ask, pretending to glance around as if you’ve never seen the room before. You catch sight of the pictures you’d put up earlier—many of which contain your face—and quickly pivot so that your back is to Asra’s side of the room, forcing the intruder to turn to face you.
He coughs, a mess of emotions tangling on his face. “A—looks like a bedroom to me,” he answers quickly. His fingers twitch and he shoves them in his pockets. A muffled crinkling noise, like paper crumpling, emanates from his hip.
Your eyebrows shoot up.
“Yeah, sure does,” you agree, taking a step forward. He takes one back and makes a sound best described as a squeak.
You smile disarmingly. “Say, what’s your name?”
When he hesitates, you tell him yours. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip and his gaze darts behind you again.
“Faust.”
Immediately, your eyes narrow. “No, it isn’t. What’s your name?” you demand. On a hunch, you whip around and confirm: Faust’s tank is indeed behind you, suspiciously close to where the intruder’s gaze had flickered when you asked.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Just joking! I—it’s Julian. My name is Julian.”
You size him up again, taking in the black jeans (just this side of skinny) and half-open flannel—it’s not not a party outfit, but something about Julian’s vibe makes you doubt he’s the type of person Lucio would make sure was at his party.
“Okay, Julian,” you say suspiciously. “What’s in your pocket?”
An unexpected smirk lifts one corner of his mouth—it’s the kind of expression a roguish hero in a cheesy spy movie would make, but you have to admit that Julian makes it work.
“Well, I can’t say meeting you was unpleasant,” he says.
It takes a second to click, but when it does, you’re torn between hitting him and bursting into hysterical laughter: you settle for a bark of laughter before you back him up against the foot of your bed. His cheeks flood with pink (also not a bad look on him, a distant corner of your brain muses) but he doesn’t move to stop you.
“Why were you in my room?” you ask, enunciating each word so clearly that every syllable feels like cut crystal rolling off your tongue.
Julian’s face goes slack with shock for a moment before something snaps inside him; defeat drips off his voice when he answers, “I…I was looking for someone.”
His gaze drifts behind you again, and something heavy, almost sad, mixes with anger in him. “You shouldn’t tell him I was here,” he says suddenly, nodding towards Asra’s bed. “It’ll only make your life harder, if you’re…attached to him.”
You let go of him, blinking in surprise. “Wha—wh—”
“Campus police!” A voice blares out from a bullhorn outside, followed by a shriek from downstairs. “Party’s over!”
You and Julian share a split second’s glance of shock; he recovers first, bounding off to the window alcove with a two-fingered salute from his temple.
“Well, that’s my cue. I’ll see you around!”
“Hey!” You rush after him, but you’re too slow—Julian throws open the window with a dramatic flourish, tosses one last wink at you, and swings over the ledge.
For a second, he vanishes and your heart stops—then, there’s a flash of movement and you spot him, climbing down like some goddamn Disney prince on the ivy-wound ledges by the pipes running down the side of the house.
Julian glances up, sees you (you think), and proceeds to jump down instead of climbing like a sane person; he lands without any injuries that you can see, and rounds the corner just as a campus police officer comes into view from the other side, shining a flashlight into the bushes and over the netted gorge just behind the house.
You duck back into your room and close the window; you’ve just fastened it when Asra enters.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he asks, apparently in a much better mood than when you parted.
“Nothing,” you answer quickly. “Just checking to see if anyone tried hiding out back.”
Asra frowns. “I hope not, they’d be at some serious risk of falling, even with the nets.”
You keep looking out the window a little longer before turning and getting ready for bed—Julian’s visit weighs heavy on your tongue, but you can’t forget the sudden somber gravity that had taken over Julian’s face when he’d warned you not to tell Asra. He could have been lying…but something tells you he wasn’t just trying to make an escape. And now that you thought about it…Faust hadn’t seemed alarmed by his presence at all. In fact, she’d almost seemed…excited.
“Okay if I turn the light off?”
Asra’s voice breaks you from your thoughts; startled, you turn and blink at him for the few seconds it takes to process his question.
“Oh, uh, yeah! Sorry.”
He eyes you oddly, but doesn’t question your reaction. With a flick of the switch, the room turns into a space of shadow and silver; clouds veil the moon, but a bright beam pours in through the unshaded window.
Asra grins lightly at the pillar of moonlight stretching across the floor from the window seat. “We can stargaze later in the fall,” he says happily as he settles in bed. “But we should also probably get a curtain…”
“Let’s ask Nadia tomorrow,” you suggest, crawling into your own bed.
“Mhm,” he agrees, followed by a wide yawn.
“Oh, Asra…are you missing anything, by any chance?” You can’t help but ask; with your strange encounters with Julian, Lucio, and Muriel swirling in your head, you have to do something to get answers or you’ll never be able to sleep. At least you can try to figure out why Julian was in your room.
“Hm?” Asra’s voice is drowsy, and a pang of guilt hits you. “Not that I know of…oh, actually, yes. But it’s been gone for a while…my tarot deck, I’m missing a card.” Another yawn interrupts his sentence. “Why? I think I’ll get a new deck soon, if you wanted a reading.”
You roll onto your side and stare at the window Julian had exited from. “I just…I thought I saw someone come in here during the party, figured we should check.”
Asra’s quiet, and for a moment, you think he’s fallen asleep. Then, he says, voice gone cold and heavy, “Good idea. I didn’t notice anything, but that’s…concerning.”
He pauses, unloading the gravity from his voice; when Asra speaks again, it’s affected only by sleepiness. “Well, no use worrying about it now.” You can hear his smile in the little, half-lilting breath before he continues, “We can check together tomorrow.”
You hope your own voice doesn’t betray the turmoil in your brain. “That’s true. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight—” Asra cuts himself off with a yawn that stretches into a contented sigh. In a few minutes, you hear his breathing even, but you’re far from sleep despite the fatigue tugging at your eyelids.
Muriel’s cryptic warning at the diner…Lucio and Asra’s obvious mutual animosity…Portia’s inexplicable shock at seeing you earlier that night…Julian’s shady behavior…the odd events of the day tumble in your brain but fail to decipher themselves.
You fall asleep still trying to untangle everything, streak of moonlight glowing bright even through your closed eyelids.
You’re not sure what exactly wakes you—it’s a sudden sort of awakening that jolts you abruptly into consciousness, wiping away anything a dream might have given your brain and replacing it with disorientation and an electric sense of alarm.
The stretch between your bed and Asra’s is still gilded silver, almost blindingly so; a few deep gulps of air melts the dizzying sensation you woke with and calm the sudden force behind your heartbeats.
Maybe a quick breath of fresh air will help. You ease yourself out of bed, careful to set your feet down lightly so you don’t wake Asra—he’s told you he’s a heavy sleeper, but you don’t want to chance it.
His blankets don’t move when you cautiously tiptoe around your bed, but when you clear the edge of your bedframe, you realize that Asra’s bed is empty; his blanket is thrown back, revealing a hollow where his body had lain.
Whatever had woken you up had likely woken him too, you reason, or he could be in the bathroom. Asra’s absence slides to the back of your mind as you walk over to the window seat and carefully undo the latches on the window, then crack it open just enough for fresh night air to flow in.
You settle back against the frame of the alcove and make a mental note to grab some throw pillows when you can. Already, you can feel the quiet tranquility of the night seeping into you, helped along by the view from the window; the gorges are, well, gorgeous, as loath as you are to use the university-endorsed pun.
In the dark, the safety nets strung below the lip of the gorge are all but invisible, erasing the grim reminder of the darker side of Arcana’s most famous natural features. The beauty of sheer stone over water is stark in the moonlight, almost savage where its face cuts into shadow like cold fire.
You latch the window shut and lean against the windowpane, pressing your forehead against the glass. The surreal, rustling quiet (shy of silence) and silvery light bending over you feels like a dream, worlds removed from the abrupt awakening that had led you to this perch.
A flurry of motion in the paved lot behind the house catches your eye; you shift your position on the seat and peer down through the glass. A large shadow detaches itself from the bushes near the corner of the house and slides to the dumpsters; after a moment, a tendril extends—head from body?—as though checking for witnesses.
Apparently satisfied, the shadow head retracts before moving as a whole across the paved lot; you watch with a hazy curiosity as it moves sluggishly from the shadows into the lit section of the lot. The edges of the shadow refine slowly before jumping sharply into focus; a section of the blob pulls away into a separate figure, distinct yet unidentifiable—they’re wearing baggy all black, and a hood pulled up over their face.
Their arms extend back into the blob they came from, distorting their shape for a moment, before they heave back with a soundless grunt; moonlight slides over them and onto the long, prone body gripped tightly by the wrists.
The dreamy haze you’d been observing with from the window freezes and shatters; eyes wide, you smash your face practically against the glass, unable to believe what your brain insists you’re seeing.
The shadow drags the body a few feet before yanking it up and seizing under its arms instead; the bloodied head lolls with sickening fluidity in the wake of its tossing, and you whimper. With the body in a more secure grasp, the figure is able to move much faster, speeding purposefully backwards towards the gorge. They maneuver carefully between the hazard signs warning of the sudden drop-off at the edge of the lot, jerking the body in their grasp until it too clears the barriers.
Their intent clicks a moment before they pause at the edge of the gorge overlook—“No, no, nonononono,” you mumble feverishly, fumbling blindly to grab your phone off your desk without losing sight of the figure—and switch their grip on the body back to the upper arms.
In one swift, fluid motion, the figure flings the body over the edge of the gorge—your outstretched, flailing hand knocks something off your desk and what sounds like approximately half the things on its surface crash down after—you let out a wordless scream as the body arcs through the air, limp as a ragdoll. Its limbs flap in the air, snapping like pennants.
For a split second, you think it might clip the edge of the safety net and roll in, but then its trajectory carries it just far enough that it clears the net entirely and sails down into the depths of the gorge.
The figure peers over the edge as if to make sure the disposal succeeded, then strolls back the way it came. As they make their way back over Vesuvia’s back lot, they pause, and you realize that you’re in full view should they happen to glance up—you throw yourself backwards, landing hard on your tailbone with an audible bang.
The shock of pain cracks your horrified paralysis and you scramble for your phone; the fallen pile of things on your desk proves to be difficult rubble to extract it from, but eventually you manage. It takes two attempts to swipe to your emergency calls keypad, given that your fingers are shaking so badly you nearly drop your phone a few times.
The line rings once, twice…finally, someone picks up: “What is your emergency?”
The words spill out in a jumble, so fast your tongue feels numb. “There’s a dead body—someone just threw a body into the gorge—behind the house—I think they’re dead, oh my God—please, please, send someone—”
“Take a deep breath and slow down,” the person on the other end instructs you calmly; you obey, breath shuddering as you try to dam the outpour of babble. “Remain calm. Where are you located?”
“Ves-Vesuvia House. The co-op off central campus, by Olin Hall.”
You’re shaking now, shivers so violent that your phone is in danger of dropping again. If you weren’t already on the floor, you’d definitely have fallen by now; your knees feel as though they aren’t there at all, and everything except the teeth clacking against one another, occasionally scraping a bloated tongue, seems to have been transmuted into jelly. Your voice sounds painfully panicked and distended, but controlling it is impossible.
“Remain calm,” the dispatch responder tells you again, and you suddenly realize that you’re whimpering. “Officers are on their way to your location and will arrive shortly. Please remain calm and do not leave your current location.”
You answer, something insipid that slips like water through your teeth, and the dispatch responder says something in reply, but all you can hear is the grainy pound of your blood in your ears. The image of the body rippling and knocking against itself in midair, joints too loose, stains your mind.
The wood floor under you creaks as the dispatch officer disconnects and your hand drops from your ear. The room suddenly seems both frighteningly large and claustrophobically small, a sublime, threatening emptiness consuming you.