Page 18 of Architecti
This could have been something wonderful, but it wasn’t meant to be.
It’s not our fate.
I pull myself away and walk towards Obidiah, our gate gargoyle.He scowls at me, but I wink at him, and the gates swing open.
I won’t lie—it hurt not to look back, but what’s the point?We were doomed the minute I said I was a demon.
6
Midnight
Lucy vanishes through the gates which creak as they swing shut.My lips still tingle from her touch.What is it about the way a woman kisses you?It’s heady, intoxicating, moreish.
I could have spent all night drinking her in, caressing her flesh, inhaling the scent of her.
She kissed me like this night had been everything… and nothing.My fingers drift to my lips, tracing the spectre of her goodbye.
I lean against the thick, leering iron railings.I wish I could get in for her… and if I’m honest, for me, too.
I reel back and punch the gate with nine years of frustration coiled in my fist.
It hurts, obviously.I’m made of bone and blood, and it is made of iron.
The gates are imposing in the same way the sandstone walls of the campus are.Towering threats that glare down at the mere mortals who deem themselves worthy enough to look upon the campus.The goyle watches me with narrowed eyes and a hint of a curl on its lips.But it doesn’t talk to me.
I stare through the night at Lucy’s receding form, mist curling around her body like the choking hold of ageing ivy.
I slide to my knees, leaning my forehead against the gate, and grip hold of the iron, pleading silently.
Please let me in.Give me one more chance.Let me attempt the Severance Rite and earn my way in.
When nothing happens, my stomach fizzes with a cocktail of emotions.
“What the fuck do you want from me?”I snarl.Like the gate is going to respond.
But just like the last nine years, my prayers go unanswered.A chill ruffles the trees, the crack and rustle of ancient oaks stretching and yawning in the night.A prickle skitters over my arms and down my neck.
I shiver.
This place is haunted, so the rumours go.No idea whether it’s true.Only students, professors, or those with invitations can enter.Probably why the mist shrouds the campus—nothing in, nothing out, not even the faintest glimpse.
Not even the ghosts leave.
I pull my scythe out and rest it against the gates, wondering if it’s strong enough to cut my way in.
The goyle now glares down at me, squinting, ogling but never speaking.
The gates hum beneath my fingers, the cool wrought iron heating under the press of my flesh to the metal.
I pull my hand away.But it’s stuck.
“Oww, fuck,” I hiss.The metal bites into my palm.“The actual fuck?”I kick the gate, my stomach clenching as I struggle to yank my hand off the iron bars.
Something sharp spears my palm, warm liquid puddles in the crook of my hand and then I’m released.
I stumble back, cradling my injury.In the centre of my palm are two circular wounds and on the wrought bar is a thin river of my blood.
“It bit me?”I glare at the goyle.“Did you bite me?”
