Page 53 of Shadowed Whispers

“Minor,” he corrects, reaching for another book and sliding it across to me. On the cover is an old photograph of a priest.

“Art lore,” I murmur, tugging the book toward me, suddenly intrigued. “The mythological lore behind famous paintings.” That’s actually fascinating. I begin to flip through the book slowly, pausing on a picture of the priest from the front cover.

“Saint Joseph.” Dorian points at the image. There’s a new timbre in his voice—excitement, a fervor that wasn’t there before. Watching this transformation is captivating. “It was said that if you gazed at his picture long enough, he’d whisper to you, asking what your purpose in life is.”

The way his eyes light up, as if the fog has been lifted from them, both literally and metaphorically, draws me in, almost making me miss his next words.

“A nun once stared at his portrait for so long that she heard that question.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “When asked, she replied, ‘To serve our Lord.’” His lips twitch as if amused by the answer.

“What happened to her?” I ask, drawn into the story.

“She got pregnant a year later by the bishop. She had the child in secret and then killed herself.” He delivers the facts with clinical detachment, but they hit with the weight of tragedy.

“That’s terrible,” I say instinctively.

“Is it?” he questions, tilting his head curiously. “Every single individual who claims to have heard Saint Joseph speak to them has died within the year.”

“That’s a weird coincidence,” I reply, a shiver running through me. Is it just a coincidence? If my shadows can bend to my will, why couldn’t a saint’s portrait whisper life-altering questions? “What does that mean?”

“It means they didn’t answer truthfully,” he says, taking the book from me and spinning it to face him. He stares at the image, his gaze distant and thoughtful. “Knowing one’s purpose is an impossibility.”

“It was a trick question then.”

“Yes.” He snaps the book shut and sets it aside. “Serving the Lord isn’t a purpose, it’s an action. You can’t quantify purpose.”

“That’s assuming the story is true, but it’s just a story,” I say, though I eye the book skeptically.

“Is it?” he challenges. “Would you like to find out?”

I roll my eyes and grab the book, determined to stare at the image until I hear Saint Joseph speak to me, but Dorian reaches out, pressing his palm against the book and pushing it down.

“No, Francesca, the real portrait.”

“You know where it is?” I ask incredulously.

“I know how to find it,” he replies cryptically.

Scoffing, I retort, “Sure you do.”

“When you’re ready.” He returns to his essay. “Like the professor said, you don’t even know your potential.” He looks up at me, his gaze intense. “If you don’t know your potential, you can never know your purpose.”

My stomach twists at his words, and I turn away, choosing a random book from the shelf to distract myself just so I don’t have to look at Dorian Gray any longer, because in under an hour, he disarmed me.

I thought I was in control. I’m starting to wonder if I ever had any control at all.

Chapter 18

Frankie

I survived the day, each moment tinged with a silent tension only I could feel. Avoiding the guys was a small victory, but lunch with Dorian was a different kind of battle. His eyes searched mine as if he sensed the otherness within me. Every time he looked at me, I felt raw and exposed.

It’s something I still feel hours later.

Now, as the Tuesday rush dissipates, I lean against the back bar, wiping my hands on a dry towel. As far as Tuesdays go, this one was busier. With classes back in session, it’s like life was breathed back into the town. Everything feels brighter and happier.

An itch began between my shoulder blades, though, demanding for me to do something. I know what it wants, and like an addict seeking their next hit, I scan the bar.

I try not to hunt this close to school, the risk of being seen too great, but the whisper of my darker nature is insistent, compelling me to listen and observe. As I scan the crowd, memories of past encounters flicker in my mind—shadowy figures, silent struggles, the final sighs of those who truly deserved their fate. This internal conflict is my constant companion, a reminder of the thin line I walk every day.

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