Ominous, Part 1 by K.V. Rose
Prologue
1
Eden
I round the aisle,looking for Chaucer, when I see him.
The same boy from my Latin class. The one who sits in the front row, and has for three weeks, since the middle of August when we started at Trafalgar. Or rather, I started, and he’s probably always been here, the way students and teachers alike seem to fawn over him.
Hair of onyx and ink, thick with the slightest wave hanging in his eyes.
He wears a choker around his throat, two inches wide, a strip of leather.
And right now, nearing nine o’clock at night, he’s not in uniform. White sweats, white T-shirt, white, high-top Chucks. It would look stupid on anyone else, but it doesn’t on him. Broad shoulders, taller than most of the students here, he’s got a swimmer’s build; lean, green veins snaking up his hands, over his wrists and forearms, to his biceps. I know he doesn’t swim though. I’ve seen the wrestling hoodie on over his white dress shirt enough times to figure out his sport.
It’s strange because he doesn’t seem so… aggressive.
In the same vein, right now in this moment, a pale orange glow overhead illuminates him in softness, tuning down his features. But physically, his edges are sharp, and the lighting is a façade, just like the smile he wears in class.
There’s something off about it, like it’s rehearsed.
I turn my back to him, resigning myself to wait until he’s meandered out of the aisle. In the meantime, I can scrawl out ideas about my British Lit essay, then checkout the book and go home, hoping Sebastian has finished his nightly routine in the bathroom so I can have a bath and relax.
I head toward the circular table tucked away at the far end of the cavernous library behind a section of Greek classics when I hear someone clear their throat.
I stiffen. My pulse picks up speed. It was a throat-clearing with a purpose. Meant to draw attention.
Dragging my gaze around the empty seats, the main aisle of polished marble, lined with sleek, dark shelves, and sculpted clay statues on the endcaps, I realize the sound was directed toward me. No one else is in here.
Slowly and with a dry mouth I turn around.
The boy has a book in his hand, splayed wide, and I refuse to think about how much attention I’ve spent focused on those hands in the early morning hours of Latin before everyone takes their seats. They’re big, his fingers are long, but not too thick.
At night, when I’m alone under my covers, I’ve imagined his fingers inside of me, instead of my own. I devour porn and lately, I’ve imagined him devouring me.
I feel my heart racing, paranoid he could impossibly read my mind.
His lips are tilted upward into a small smile, and it’s really the first thing anyone notices about him from this distance. Not his black hair, or his tall frame, not even the biceps beneath the sleeves of his shirt, how his clothes seem to fit just right; it’s his mouth.
“Hi,” he says. The first word he’s ever spoken to me. I wonder if he knows I sit three rows back in first period. Does he have any idea we have a class together? As many cumulative minutes as I’ve spent watching his ringed fingers curl around a pen, doodling in the margins of his notebook things I can’t quite see, I’m hoping the answer is no.
He takes a few steps toward me, standing at the outer edge of the aisle and he snaps the book closed in his hand as he moves, slipping his other into his pocket.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, not meaning it. “Were you leaving?” His voice is quiet. Even in class, in spirited discussions about the subjunctive, vowel changes, the real meaning of texts like the Vulgate—allegory or literal? Are you a Christian or a hell-bound Atheist?—his volume is always low. Initially, I thought he was shy.
He’s not.
I also thought he was born in another country, grew up there too. His words are almost accented. It’s hard to explain the musical lilt to his voice, but it is certainly not Southern, the common dialect spread throughout Raleigh.
I quickly gathered the pitch of his voice isn’t from any sort of timidity on his part, the way he garners adoration which he greets with charm wherever he goes. I personally think his voice is a way to draw people in so they step closer to him. It’s almost as if I can hear it in his head, even right now, when he’s trying to convince me to stay for whatever reason.
Come closer,he says. I don’t bite.
My face heats the longer I don’t answer him, a nervous habit, and sweat blooms beneath my arms. It’s a curse to feel inwardly assertive, but every external tick of the trait I don’t check off.
Still, I refuse to fiddle with my clothing. I resist the urge to pull at my cropped, black sweater or run my sweaty palms down the smooth faux leather of my high-waisted leggings. Besides, this outfit looks good on me. It shows off my ass and the smallest part of my waist. It’s why I changed into it from Trafalgar’s uniform after class.
My nerves, however, aren’t settled with my own confidence.
While his clothes aren’t more formal, I’ve quickly learned that doesn’t mean much here. It’s something I can’t explain. A general refined and well-kept air I don’t possess. As good as I want to feel in clothes like these, he could radiate an on-top-of-the-world confidence in a tarp.
I clench my hands into fists as I glance at the chipped black and silver of my nails and want to bury them into the flesh of my palms. I was in a hurry this morning from Sebastian taking up too much time in the bathroom and couldn’t repaint them. Then there’s a bandage wrapped just below the cuticle of my middle finger. Paper cut, on my sigil notebook.
But this boy lacks the dirty edges that come with Section 8 apartments, from my not-so-distant past. I assume he’s got a mansion, no grants or need-based financial aid.
I don’t hold it against him. We don’t choose who we’re born to, but I have always been afflicted with the desire for more.
“Soon,” I tell him in answer to his question. Sweat pricks at the base of my neck as these thoughts race in my head. My hair is braided in a crown on my head, courtesy of my new neighbor, done last night while Mom was working.
Even still, up off my neck, it’s so thick and heavy I feel dampness gather at the strands just above my spine. Why am I always so hot?
My pulse thuds too fast in my chest as this boy’s eyes roam over my face, the polite smile still pulling at his mouth. I have tachycardia when I stand up too fast, and sometimes when I’m anxious, or nervous. A result of something minorly wrong with the valves in my heart, or maybe part of my anxiety. It’s nothing currently life-threatening. I have beta blockers to slow my pulse if I need them, and interestingly, they’re banned in archery, shooting, golf, and an entire list of sports I care nothing about. Swimming is the only thing I enjoy. It calms my nerves, but now we’ve moved from Wilmington, and I don’t have access to the ocean.
I feel sweat slick beneath the dozens of black bands along my wrist, similar to the ones I earned as a kid when Mom put me in swim lessons. Only now, they’ve got nothing to do with swimming.
He doesn’t know any of that.
I take a deep breath, slowly straightening, tipping my chin up to meet this boy’s gaze.
He takes another step closer, the book held by his side, and I notice the way his shirt, starkly clean, is rumpled just above the waistband of his pants, a tiny sliver still tucked into them. Enough for me to see the outline of his abs, and something darker, too. A birthmark, maybe? A tattoo?
We wear uniforms during school hours, and I’ve never seen more than his arms and the strong column of his throat.
“How soon?” he asks me, tilting his head, his smile still affixed to his swollen lips.
Why are you talking to me? “I’m not sure.”
“Well, do you mind if I sit with you?” he asks, indicating the cluster of tables by the back wall made of white bricks. I catch the gleam of rings on his fingers, silver and matte black, and I follow the gesture he makes with his hand, the one holding the book. The chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings cast everything in that orange glow, and almost nothing is its true color. Even the white wall looks muted, nicer somehow than it does when light streams in from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the side walls in daylight hours.
The pounding of my pulse grows louder in my ears.
“No,” I tell him, because it’s polite and he can sit where he wants. I’ll be leaving soon regardless. Then, not wanting to endure the awkwardness that might come from him walking beside me the entire way to the tables, I turn my back to him—which feels dangerous somehow—and head to the table alone.
My stuff is scattered over it anyhow, so I reason with myself I’ll have to clear it, which is a perfectly normal thing to do, even as my anxious brain screams at me I’ve just made a fool of myself by walking off without him.
I push the fear aside and pluck up three green highlighters, a green pen, and shove my notebook in front of one seat, instead of the two it was flipped horizontally between. Quickly sweeping off Elements of Style, The Kybalion, and my romance-filled Kindle from the table, I hide them in my bag. Yanking the checkered black and blue backpack from the padded wooden seat, I drop it to the floor. My hands are shaky, nervousness flowing through me, and I’m grateful I can finally sit, skirting around the table and dropping down as slowly and as gracefully as I can. Even so, my movements feel too big, my body too hot, and my thighs splay against the seat cushion, so I scoot myself up closer to the table, setting down my pens, all but one, for something to do with my hands.
I am five foot two, and yet I’ve always felt as if I take up too much space. Like, maybe if I was just a little more sophisticated, a little more polite, the world wouldn’t mind me so much. But some days, my brain can be my worst enemy, and I don’t think I’ll ever be any of those things.
For a second, I think the boy hasn’t followed at all. I heard nothing behind me, save for my own pulse in my ears, and I didn’t once look up. Now, with no other choice, I do, and I almost flinch to see him standing across from me, the book still in his hand, his other curled around the back of the chair he’s standing behind, veins stark against his tanned skin.
I crush my fingers around my pen, resting my wrist on the table and crossing one leg over the other, the faux leather of my pants swishing together with the contact.
“Don’t worry,” I say, glancing at him, then away, nerves tumbling in my veins. “I won’t bite.” Hard, anyway. My pulse skips a beat, and I’m pleased with my own bravado. “You can sit.”
He runs his tongue over the underside of his teeth with interest as he stares at me, like he knows what I’m thinking. What I didn’t say.
“I’m Eli, by the way.” His voice is low and extremely polite.
“Yes, I know.” Everyone knows who you are, don’t they?
He holds my gaze, and I wonder if he’s waiting for my name in return. I should give it, but I don’t. The dark emerald of his eyes, the thickness of his lashes, flashbacks to fantasies I’ve had watching him in class…
Heat flares in my body. I drop my gaze. I need to check the time because my curfew is ten and I do really need to get the book I was looking for and—
Gracefully, every movement eloquent, he pulls back the chair and sits down, bending at the waist just slightly before he makes contact with the seat. I don’t know how someone can make every move of theirs so fluid and ethereal. It seems a little unfair.
“Studying for our exam tomorrow?” he asks me, hand still on top of his book, the other in his lap. He curves a single, dark brow the same way only one side of his mouth tips into a smile.
I’m so busy staring at the unevenness of it, the way he’s feigning politeness, it takes me a few, long seconds to process his question.
The heat in my body grows hotter. Sweltering. Trafalgar is a relatively cool campus inside. The library even colder. Sometimes I bring a hoodie, but tonight I left it in my locker and I’m grateful I did. If I’d had it on, I would currently combust.
“Exam?” We only have Latin together, and unless I’ve completely forgotten—
“Oh, sorry.” Eli lowers his gaze to the table for a second, shaking his head. “I… I should’ve told you from the start. You’re new to Ms. Romano’s classes, right?” He peers at me from under long, thick lashes, like he’s genuinely confirming and slightly embarrassed we’re not on the same page.
Confusion brings me out of my nervous state. My grip relaxes a little on the pen and I’m no longer concerned I’m going to break it in half. “Yeah… and she didn’t mention an exam.” I would’ve remembered if she had. I need to ace every test here.
Eli sits up straighter, sighing as he does, like an apology in advance for what he’s going to say. “She gives one every third week. Unannounced.”
I pored over the syllabus for each course, and nothing about surprise tests were there.
Then again, I was only able to transfer my senior year because we moved from Wilmington, so maybe I’mthe only one who doesn’t know, and she just forgot about me.
“Relocation for employment,” the admission’s advisor jotted down with a swift, momentary glare at my mom that seemed to demand, why couldn’t you wait one more year for her to finish?
We didn’t discuss what happened at Shoreside High. I didn’t have to disclose it. It was only a suspension.
Besides, I never asked Mom to wait. Reece got a new job at his brother’s tech firm, able to take on Mom’s share of the bills until she relocated her cleaning business too, and I was fine with leaving, after what happened at my old school.
Reece’s brother mentioned Trafalgar, his Raleigh-based IT company hires some of the donors, and I applied with his reference.
My closest friend from Shoreside, Amanda, I’ve kept up with through texts, but they’ve died off, fewer and fewer every week. After what happened… I don’t really want any reminders of the day I lost my mind.
The only thing I’m attached to is my dreams. Even those, some days, start to slip from my grasp.
“It’s not too in-depth,” Eli continues, and I can tell from his tone he’s trying to soothe my nerves. It must show in my face how much these grades matter to me. I’m waiting until the cut-off to send in college applications solely so I can have straight As from Trafalgar and my AP classes lit up like a shiny beacon on my transcript, burying the shadows of my past school record. “Ten questions, max.” His gaze searches mine as his fingers curl over the edge of the book he brought with him from the aisle. One of his rings is a skull. How edgy. “The way you read out loud in class…” Another lopsided smile graces his lips. “You’re going to nail it.”
My sarcastic thoughts aside, I feel lightheaded with his words. When I read out loud in class… It’s my least favorite part of Latin, reading aloud. A dead language, I don’t know why we even need to pronounce any of it, but Ms. Romano ensures we each have a turn every day we’re in her class to speak it. I never knew Eli paid any attention when I read. I’ve never once seen him turn to look at me stumbling over the text.
I took Latin my freshman year of high school, back in Wilmington at Shoreside. A fluke, bizarre course only offered once, I was fascinated with it. It’s how I managed to get into this Latin class, but my skills are poor. In fact, it’s the course I study for most.
“What?” I blurt out, knowing now he’s, for some reason, manipulating his way into my good graces with his compliment. A small laugh escapes my lips, and he tilts his chin up, his smile even wider. “I suck at reading out loud.” The exam slips from my thoughts completely as Eli’s dark green eyes, circled with a thin line of black, light up. I feel strangely proud of myself, like I’m the reason for his newfound pep.
Then I’m promptly annoyed I’m allowing myself to be sucked in.
“No,” he tells me, dropping his gaze, those lashes fluttering. “You don’t.” He lifts his eyes then, and there’s something disarming about his expression. Like he’s nervous paying me a compliment. If this is an act, he’s an excellent artist.
I grip my pen tighter again, overcome with a need to be distracted so I don’t have to keep looking at him. It feels a little like looking at a lie. “Thanks,” I mutter, ducking down to swipe my phone from the side pocket of my backpack at my feet. I straighten but keep my eyes down, checking out the time.
Nine thirty, which means I have fifteen minutes left here. If I come home late, I’m grounded. Doesn’t mean much when I have few friends and fewer opportunities to socialize, but I don’t like disappointing Mom. I’ve already done too much to her heart.
“I mean it, Eden.”
It’s the first time Eli’s said my name, at least to me. I freeze, unable to avoid looking at his face any longer. As always, my gaze snags on his mouth. His lips are ridiculously full, pale pink, such a good color contrasted with his olive skin. I remember I shouldn’t stare at his mouth, though, and of course my body flushes hot all over again. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked he knows my name, considering he’s confessed to listening to me read aloud in class, but it just all feels strange. Why has he never talked to me before? But I am always the last one to leave, mainly so no one speaks to me, and in the hallway, I have earbuds in my ears. I guess I’m unapproachable, and I like it that way. It keeps me out of trouble.
But how long has he been watching me? I shift a little in my seat.
I’ve studied you too, I want to tell him, but I clamp my mouth shut so I don’t say all the things I’m thinking. You have nice hands. Do you know everyone is drawn to you? Has it always been this way?
Come closer, he might say.
Tell me when to stop, I want to respond.
I look at my phone again, flat on the table. “I have to go.” I start gathering up my stuff, trying to force out a little poise, but I’m clumsy from my nerves, every movement awkward, nothing like the grace with which Eli slipped into that chair with. I close my notebook, nothing written in it about my Brit Lit essay at all, even though it’s the entire reason I stayed late tonight. I got caught up in the bully romance I’m reading on my Kindle, until I decided I should work on Chaucer after all.
So much for that.
I drop my pens in the top section of my backpack, tugging the zippers of both compartments closed. I grab the bag, stand up so fast I knock my chair over, and hastily turn, red-faced, to right it, my hands shaky. I pluck up my phone, gripping it tight enough my hand aches, worried I’ll drop it if I don’t, and I’m thinking of walking out of here without saying goodbye because this entire show of me packing up my stuff has gone horribly.
Two thumbs down, Eden.
But just as my pulse thumps so hard against my ribcage I think I may need a beta blocker tonight to sleep, Eli stands, and his shadow casts over the table and me, as he says, “Oh, yeah.”
Then he slides the book he’s been carrying around my way, a gentle gesture, even as it reaches me.
For the first time, I read the title, at the same time he says it out loud.
“The Canterbury Tales.”
A tingle of something runs down my spine. Nervousness? Unease? I can’t place it, but Eli isn’t even looking at me anymore. His gesture was casual, like it didn’t matter. As if it was pure coincidence as he pulls his own phone from his pocket, and I see nothing on his screen but the time, and a solid black background. I might find it odd no one has texted him, called, no social notifications for a boy so adored, save for the fact I’m still stuck on the book.
We only have Latin together. He isn’t in my English class, but this is the book I was originally looking for of Chaucer’s. The one I completely surrendered because my nerves were shot by being the focus of this boy. I told my Brit Lit teacher just today the topic of my essay. But Eli is not in there.
Gingerly, I reach for the book, my mind on high alert. Something is off about you, Eli Addison.
Blinking, I grab the thick volume, full of scholarly notes and dissections, and I tuck it under my arm, phone in my other hand.
When I look up, his back is to me.
I see the muscles along his shoulders flex through his T-shirt as he glances over his shoulder, and his expression is almost daring me to ask how he knew.
Come on, he says. Play with me.
But maybe I’m misreading him, because when he speaks, it’s not an encouragement to pick apart his motives, his actions with this book he shouldn’t know I needed. “Did you park in the senior lot?” He doesn’t even wait for me to answer, and I wonder if he already knows that too. “I’ll walk with you.”
I didn’t park there.
I don’t say it, because on some level, I’m worried he already knows. So, wanting to one-up him at this bizarre game, I simply answer, “Okay.”