Page 105 of Shadowed Whispers

I know looks can be deceiving, though, and he looks at me with disturbing interest. Fifteen. That’s how old I am, and he is at least pushing forty.

“Go on, Frankie.” Valerie leans in close, her wild curls brushing against my cheek as her breath tickles my skin. “Give him what he wants.” She pauses, gripping my bicep, her nails digging into my skin. “Don’t disappoint me, Frankie. There is nowhere you can hide.”

I feel it then, the pinch in my side.

Looking down, I feel the burn of tears in my eyes as I see the syringe she pulls out of my side. In a few minutes, I won’t have any worries, no more shame or feelings.

Just blessed numbness.

The bar’s ambient noise fades into a distant hum as my senses begin to dull, the looming figure of the man blurring into the background of my foggy consciousness. My resolve weakens, the edges of my defiance softening as the chemical numbness creeps through my veins, stealing the harsh reality of my existence under Valerie’s control.

“Francesca,” Dorian calls, pulling me from the swirling depths of my memories.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, my voice a little rougher than intended. I clear my throat and sidestep him, wiping the sweat from my brow while carefully avoiding the look of pity in his eyes. “I’m hungry. Tell me you have something other than peanut butter and jelly.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t press further and turns on a heel, striding toward the library. I follow him inside, entering the old building that feels more like a cathedral with its high arches and echoing halls.

As we navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the library, the air grows cooler and mustier, imbued with the weight of ancient knowledge and hidden secrets. Our footsteps echo softly against the stone walls, a quiet reminder of the library’s solemnity, as we move deeper beneath the surface, where few students ever venture. I trail behind Dorian, finding temporary solace in the silence, a reprieve from the relentless churn of my thoughts.

We reach our usual spot, a secluded alcove tucked in the basement. It’s surrounded by books so old their titles have faded. I’ve spent countless hours lost in research here, amid the scent of aging paper and the quiet hum of hidden lives, but today, the cipher burns in my memory, its secrets clawing at the edges of my mind.

Dorian reaches the fridge and pulls out sodas and hoagies. He sets a sandwich in front of me while he casually tosses a few fruit snacks in the middle of the table.

He slides into the booth across from me, settling with a quiet sigh. He doesn’t usually initiate conversation. We have an unspoken agreement of peaceful coexistence in our shared pursuit of knowledge. Today, though, his demeanor is different. There’s tension in his posture, a deliberate pause before he speaks that sets my nerves on edge.

I’m worried he’s going to ask about the game, about the beast—whatever Bishop called it—but I don’t know if I can acknowledge it. My whole world is falling apart around me, and I find myself wishing for Dorian to revert to his usual distant self. I need him to be harsh and cruel, not kind. I can’t have him save me again. I need the cruel normalcy, no matter how blunt it is.

“Frankie,” he begins, trying for casual but not quite masking the undercurrent of seriousness, “Professor Blackwood wants to meet with us next week, during your scheduled advisory meeting, and he… he asked that I attend as well.”

I stiffen, the seat’s vinyl suddenly becoming uncomfortable against my spine. Professor Blackwood still gives me an uneasy feeling, and I can’t quite pinpoint why. His request for Dorian to attend feels ominous, layered with unspoken implications. Usually, Dorian’s presence creates a buffer, but right now, with everything unraveling, it only adds to my anxiety. My mind races with the implications.

“Why?” My voice is sharper than I intended, a reflection of the fear coiling tight in my stomach. “Why does he want you there?”

Dorian meets my eyes, his steady gaze revealing a solemn intent. “I’m not sure, but he mentioned it was important, that it concerned your research and… more.” He hesitates, then adds, “He seemed to think it was imperative that we are both present.”

The word “more” hangs between us, thick with unspoken meaning. My research, the sigils, these shadows—it could all be converging, and Professor Blackwood’s sudden interest sends a chill down my spine. I wrap my arms around myself, as if I could physically shield myself from the encroaching dread.

Dorian reaches out, his hand hovering in the air between us before he seems to think better of it and pulls back. “Look, Frankie, I know this is all coming at you fast, but whatever this meeting is about, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

His words are meant to comfort me, but they feel like a promise too fragile to hold onto. As I look at Dorian—his earnest expression, the genuine concern in his eyes—I allow myself a moment of respite from my solitude, a fleeting sense of connection in the storm.

Just as quickly as the calm washes over me, it falls away like a wave, replaced by a surge of anxiety. My emotions are chaotic, swirling unpredictably, unsure what they want to do or how to feel.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft and brittle, a thin veneer over the turmoil within. “I just… never mind,” I mutter, picking up my backpack, the weight of it seeming to anchor me to reality for a moment.

Dorian nods, his expression understanding, perhaps too well, the turmoil roiling beneath my calm exterior. “Now, though” —he gestures around the alcove to the stacks of books and quiet shadows— “let’s try to focus on what we can control.”

I nod, more to convince myself than him, and pull out my notes, the scribbled translations of the cipher appearing more like a map to a minefield than academic intrigue. As we dive into the texts, the familiar work of decoding and discussion wraps around us like a cloak, shielding us, if only temporarily, from the uncertainties that await me.

While we work, my mind drifts, unbidden, to the meeting with Blackwood. What does he know? What has he uncovered? How, in the tapestry of conspiracies and secrets, do I find my place?

The questions swirl as the shadows in the alcove seem to deepen, almost as if in warning.

Tapping my pencil on my notebook, I look up at him. “Dorian.”

“Francesca,” he says without looking up from his notebook.

As I tap my pencil against my notebook, a restless energy builds within me, the kind that’s fed by unanswered questions and unvoiced fears. I glance up at Dorian, who’s absorbed in his own notes, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Dorian,” I start, “I need to know?—”

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