Page 89 of Shadowed Whispers

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, the familiarity of our banter oddly comforting. “You are wearing his jersey.”

“Oh,” she says, a humorous laugh escaping her lips, soft and unguarded. “They aren’t my boyfriends.”

“No?” I remark, my tone laced with curiosity and challenge. “Then what do you call it?”

“Fucking,” she states flatly without an ounce of shame or even a blush. Interesting. She can talk about sex with the confidence of a grown woman.

The depth of her character continues to intrigue me. What events led her to a place where she can say “fucking” in public without a care in the world? My curiosity about her grows with each bold statement she makes, peeling back layers of her facade.

I hum under my breath and point to an old iron bench nearby, its peeling paint giving it a weathered look that somehow fits perfectly here. “Sit with me,” I suggest, inviting her into a quieter, more private space away from the chaos of the crowd.

She turns around to look for Tori, but it’s clear she’s nowhere to be seen. Knowing for a fact that Frankie doesn’t have a phone adds a layer of complexity to her situation. With a resigned sigh, she sits beside me, stretching out her legs. I seldom get to see her in anything other than her school uniform, so seeing her in an oversized jersey and leggings feels almost scandalous—as though I’m privy to a glimpse of her private life.

I look away, giving her a moment of privacy, letting the silence grow between us. The distant cheers rise and fall from the stadium, a backdrop to the intimate scene unfolding between us. I turn to Frankie, watching her as she takes in the surroundings.

Her profile is illuminated by the stark white light, casting half her face in deep shadow while the other half glows ethereally. Her eyes, wide and reflective, absorb the scene, and I find myself captivated by the myriad of emotions playing across her features. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability, one she seldom allows others to see.

In this quiet interlude, under the stark contrast of light and shadow, Frankie seems less like the tough, unapproachable enigma I’ve come to know, and more like someone searching for where she truly belongs.

The once vibrant cheers of the crowd are swallowed by an unnerving silence, and a chilling tension descends over the field. The contrast between the boisterous noise just moments ago and the sudden hush sends a shiver cascading down my spine. Frankie, still alert, turns to me, her expression etched with confusion and a hint of fear. Although we are neither near the uproarious field nor the sanctuary of the library doors, the silence encases us, complete and unyielding.

“What happened?” she whispers, her voice faint, as if the very act of speaking might shatter the fragile stillness that has cocooned us.

Before I can formulate a response, a cold, unnerving breeze sweeps across the field, carrying with it a whispering echo that seems omnipresent, emanating from both nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. The floodlights above flicker sporadically, casting ghostly shadows that dance macabrely across the grass. Frankie’s hand finds mine, her grip tight and her fingers cold with dread.

“Dorian,” she murmurs, her gaze darting toward the darkened edges of the field, “something feels wrong.”

She’s right, something is wrong. This is no mere power outage. We are deep within the shadow realm, where normalcy is warped and twisted, and she remains blissfully unaware of the lurking dangers inherent to this darker part of the world.

As if drawn by our collective trepidation, a low, menacing growl rolls across the field, intensifying as it draws nearer. A form begins to materialize out of the encroaching shadows—a hulking, dark figure with eyes that glow an ominous red.

A shadow beast on university grounds.

Frankie stands abruptly, her body coiled with tension, poised either to flee or fight, yet utterly unprepared for the true nature of the threat before us. From this vantage, all she can discern is the looming shadow, an irony not lost on me.

“Stay behind me,” I instruct, positioning myself between her and the danger as the beast lunges from the tree line.

My options are rapidly narrowing—keeping Frankie in the dark about the true nature of this world or ensuring her safety. It’s a choice that’s becoming harder to juggle as each second ticks by.

I push her gently behind me, then I point urgently toward the library doors. “He won’t follow us into the light,” I say, my breath visible in the chilly air. “Walk slowly toward the doors.”

Frankie casts a fleeting glance back, her eyes wide with fear and awe. “What was that thing?” she stammers, her mind struggling to make sense of the nightmarish vision.

“Doors,” I repeat firmly, nudging her gently but insistently toward the safety of the library.

I hear the door swing open before I see it, the rush of air-conditioned air brushing against us. As Frankie steps inside, I follow quickly, securing the door behind us.

“Dorian,” she says again, my name on her lips stripped of the immediate fear, replaced instead with a burning curiosity. “What the hell?”

“It’s a long story,” I reply, casting a cautious glance back through the door’s small window to ensure the beast hasn’t pursued us into the light. “One that goes beyond CliffsNotes.”

In the distance, the beast’s growls diminish, swallowed by the shadows from which it sprang.

“I’ll explain everything,” I promise her, the weight of my own secrets and the hidden dangers of the shadow realm pressing heavily upon me. “But first, we need to leave.” We need to move farther into the safety of the light, away from the thresholds where shadows grow bold. I turn to Frankie. “We need to go.”

“No,” she states and juts her chin out. “Explain.”

Chapter 31

---