Nightshade: An Enemies to Lovers, Dark Academic Romance (Sorrowsong University Book 1)
Nightshade: Chapter 13

I’m dancing to a strange song.

Waltzing down Sorrowsong Castle’s somber hallways to the sound of high-pitched bells and tinny chimes. The portraits tip their hats at me, the sconces burn brighter as I pass. Even the spiders seem to lift their webs as if to tell me to keep on going.

I reach junctions and crossroads in the tunnels, but I never stop to ponder the direction. My feet take me where they wish—I am merely a spectator. I spin down a hallway, the door at the end left slightly ajar. A soft, orange glow spills from the opening and onto the cold stone tile. In the dreary hallway, it looks so tempting. Like it would warm my cold toes and caress the most forgotten corners of my soul.

I dance faster toward it, whirling around with some invisible partner. The tapping of my heels echoes around me, the door becoming closer and closer. I want to run. I want to go through it, but my feet step together again, the line of my back arching like in some Viennese waltz.

After what feels like an age, I stop outside the door. The bells itch at my skin, screeching in my ears. I peer around the door, teetering on too-high stilettos into the orange room.

I get the sensation of coming home after a long, arduous journey.

“Dad?” I whisper as he stands. My mum appears behind him, too, then everyone I’ve ever lost. Oscar, my childhood dog, bounds up to me. Mr. Rogers, my elderly neighbor, is sipping a cup of tea opposite my grandparents. My aunt is doing a crossword on the floor.

It’s a room full of everything I’ve longed for. Of every birthday wish I’ve made out since seventeen.

My dad extends his hand. I’ve missed that hand. The safety and security of it. “Come here, love.”

I’m trying. Trying to step over the threshold, but my feet are stuck to the floor. The bells change pitch, painfully out of tune. My skin crawls.

It looks warm in there, but I can’t escape the cold. My father’s face falls like I’ve betrayed him. “Come in. Don’t let her get you.”

“Who?” I glance over my shoulder and my heart hits the floor. Achlys is here again, staggering toward me. Her clothes and hair are wet, leaving a wet trail behind her on the stone. She cackles and sobs all at once. I scream at my feet to unstick, beg them to let me into the warmth. The song gets louder and louder. More familiar.

It’s my alarm clock.

Achlys gets nearer, the stench of rotting flesh filling my lungs, but I can’t bring myself to wake up. Not when my parents are in front of me. I’d take whatever cruel punishment she has for me if to remain in their presence for another moment.

But they fade away, and Achlys’s wails at my back get quieter. I’m losing them all over again. It all pales to a hollow emptiness, until all I can hear is the sound of my alarm, and all I can feel is the giant ball of grief that sits beneath my ribs.

Each night is a new opportunity to lose them, each day is a chance to replace new ways to notice their absence.

I swing my eyes open, trying to anchor myself to the little things. I watch the way the pale sunlight kisses the windowsill, stretches her fingers through the curtains, paints the flecks of dust gold. I listen to the sound of gravel crunching under shoes on the path outside, feel the way the cool morning air tickles my skin.

This feeling, this loneliness, is the price I pay for loving them so much and so deeply. Though it eats away at my happy moments and sinks my bad moments lower, I know I’d rather grieve them than feel nothing at all. It keeps our love alive.

I hit Snooze on the alarm and check my phone. The screen is too bright, the birds outside too loud. A text from Vincenzo pings through.

They really like me. I’m grinning as I type out my reply.

My first order of business for the day once I’ve washed the melted Jelly Baby out of my hair is to call the number Nicholas gave me. I sit at the end of the hallway to get better service, praying someone will pick up.

The voice that comes is tense with suspicion. “Hello?”

“Hello, is that Laura?”

“Who is this?” she replies, an edge to her voice. She sounds shaky, out of breath.

“My name is Ophelia…I’m sorry to call on you like this. I wondered if I could ask you something about your dad?”

“He passed away,” she whispers, so quiet the microphone barely picks it up.

“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I hate it when people say the same to me. Seven stupid letters that try to patch a hole far too great for words to mend. “I lost mine too. That’s kind of what I’m calling about. I wanted to ask about the helicopter.”

“You work for those…monsters? That company Mr. Green owns?”

“No! God no. I’m trying to prove their wrongdoing, and someone told me you might be willing to help.”

There’s another trembling breath, a heavy pause that even I can tell is filled with things she’s desperate to say. An inhale filters down the choppy line, and I brace myself for whatever truth she’s about to tell me.

The call drops.

I hit Redial, but it rings and rings without answer. I try it once more, but the automated voice tells me the number is unavailable.

She’s blocked my number. Great.

I sit down at a desk in the Nightshade library at ten on the dot, the early morning sun having given way to sheets of rain that pelt the arched windows. The power is out in the mansion, so three candles burn on the desk beside me and one of the portable power packs sits at my feet.

As my laptop crashes for the third time this morning, I send Alex an email.

_____________________________

From: Ophelia Winters

Subject: Technical difficulties (plural noun) technical problems, problems with equipment

Date: Saturday 11th October 10:02 BST

To: Alex Corbeau-Green

I am joining the call; my laptop is just having a moment.

Ophelia

____________________________

A reply comes back quickly.

_____________________________

From: Alex Corbeau-Green

Subject: User Error (noun) technical problems caused by the human user

Date: Saturday 11th October 10:03 BST

To: Ophelia Winters

No problem.

It always helps to lift the lid and turn the laptop on.

—ACG

____________________________

“Fuck you,” I mutter, finally logging on. I panic-clean my greasy webcam, dusting the shortbread crumbs from the keyboard. Alex appears on my screen, a steaming coffee mug between his hands as he stares off to the side. For once, he’s dressed in something that isn’t his rugby gear or a black button-up shirt. A gray workout top hugs the contours of his torso, his hair damp from a shower.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone quite so striking.

Even through my blurry screen, I get the same odd feeling about him as I did that first day in the car. On the surface, he looks dangerously attractive. But he seems boring. A man without feelings, goals, direction, or passion.

But there’s something sinister about him that extends beyond my hatred for his father. The way he does things, the way he carries himself; sometimes it feels like a mirror. Like he’s searching for some kind of revenge just like I am.

He notices me on the screen and frowns. “You’re so weird. Like a girl in a horror movie, just lurking, never speaking.”

I flash him my middle finger, studying the floor-to-ceiling windows, stone arches, and modern light fixtures behind him. “You’re not winning any conversational awards any time soon either. Sorry I was late. Is that seriously your house, or is that one of those green screen things?”

“My dad’s house. Did you get caught up doing one of your crosswords?”

I feel my cheeks flame. I was late to the call because of my laptop, but I was late to the library because I was hunched over in the shower doing a crossword on my phone like an intellectual prawn. “I like my crosswords. What time is it for you?”

He puts the coffee down, the lines of his forearms rippling. I wish he didn’t look like that. “Five in the morning, but I’m jet-lagged and can’t sleep, so it’s fine.”

“Oh.” I open up the report and see he’s already there. We work in mostly polite conversation for an hour, finishing the introduction and the literature review. Alex seems tense, constantly rubbing the muscles of his shoulders.

I don’t bother asking.

He leaves to refill his coffee, and I refill my tea at the bar in the library, sinking down into the chair and warming my fingers over the candles on the desk. He hasn’t returned, giving me a chance to study the room he’s in.

I hate that I notice the little things. I hate that they sting. My mind is desperate to make itself miserable, constantly in a state of comparison.

There are photos on the dresser. I can’t make out the faces, but there’s a family photo above them all. Four dirty cereal bowls sit beside a sink, one of them pink and covered in fairies. There are jars behind glass cabinets, each one brimming with food. A stuffed toy sits on the windowsill.

I have to look away.

He returns with another mug of coffee, rubbing his jaw. He picks up his phone, his index finger and thumb on his eyebrows. For once, just once, I let myself remember he’s a human. “Are you okay? You seem kind of stressed.”

“Fine,” he replies, sitting up straight. He’s not willing to let me make the conversation personal, and it feels like I just lost a competition between us. He glances down at his notes and slides his reading glasses on. I minimise the tab to stop myself looking.

We’re fifteen minutes into our persuasion and blackmail write-up when a mop of curly, blonde hair appears behind him. “Woah, are you chatting to a girl?”

He slaps a palm to his chest and turns around. “Oh my god, Josie. You scared the crap out of me.”

Two beady, green eyes appear at the bottom of my screen. “Hello, Alex’s girlfriend, I’m Josie.”

Alex glares at the little girl. “She’s not…we’re not…what are you even doing up?”

“I was too excited for my birthday.”

“Which isn’t even today,” he grumbles. He slides off his stool and swings the girl over his shoulder, bending over to look in the camera at me. My lower abdomen tenses beneath the desk. “I’ll be back, Ophelia.”

The girl shrieks as he swings her around and they both vanish from view. Laughter echoes through his camera, and then another girl’s voice joins in.

Jealousy is such a pathetic emotion, but it’s one I’ve never had any control over. It’s an ugly manifestation of my own insecurities, a way to pinpoint blame onto people when it has nowhere else to go. I stare at the dirty bowls on the counter and hate myself for letting such trivial things get to me. Loneliness has been my only dependable friend for years, but I’d trade it all in for a sink full of dirty dishes and a round of laundry for more than one.

Alex sits back down, and I swallow the lump of emotion in my throat. “Sorry. She’s back in bed now.”

“Your sister?”

“Yeah. One of the six of them. She turns eight tomorrow.”

“Six. Jeez. Also, we only have two weeks to finish this.”

“Two weeks and we won’t have to talk to each other anymore.”

Good, because the more I see snippets of Alex’s humanity, of his family life, the more at sea I feel. Will my plans to tear down his father impact Josie’s life?

If I released the information today, would it ruin her birthday?

I don’t think I want the answer.

The sound of bare feet on marble comes through my headphones, and a second girl appears, this one much older, with big, almond eyes and dark hair that falls to her hips. I’ve seen pictures of her and Alex on news sites before. She’s already a model. Alex doesn’t even look up. “Fleur, I’m working.”

“Well, Josie came into my room and said you have a girlfriend, so obviously I had to come and see.” She waves at me and grins. “Oh my god, she’s pretty. I knew redheads were your type!”

He looks up at the camera like a character in a sitcom, eyes wide with exasperation. “Let’s pick this up on Tuesday, Ophelia.”

“Pretty name, Ophelia!” is all I hear before he hangs up.

I shake my head. I don’t want to know about his family. I don’t want to know about his perfect life. I don’t want to hurt his sisters, only his father.

Blowing out the candles as the chandelier flickers overhead, I check my texts and frown at the top one.

A glimmer of hope sparks in my chest. I plug the journey into my phone, and it dwindles slightly. Ninety-six-minute drive. There’s no way I can pay a taxi that, even if they were willing to come here.

And hell will freeze over before I ask Carmichael to hitch a ride on the staff shuttle helicopter.

I’ve never dreamed of the extreme level of affluence that those at Sorrowsong have, but man, would it be nice to have my own driver.

“Going to Inverness? Eike will drive you! He loves the views on the route.”

Colette perches on the edge of the desk in a cream miniskirt and blazer combo that is so inappropriate for the weather it’s almost funny. It takes a minute for her offer to sink in. “Seriously? I can pay you.”

She hooks one knee-high boot over the other. “In a polite way, I saw you put biscuits back on the shelf in the student shop. They’re, like, one pound.” She taps away on her phone, chewing her pink bottom lip before her face brightens into a smile. “He can take you in the morning!”

That was because I am now sick of shortbread, but I don’t argue. My finances are in tatters.

I guess I’m off to Inverness tomorrow. Nerves wriggle their fingers through my mind. I’m scared of what I’ll replace out. “That…that would be so helpful. You genuinely have no idea.”

She eyes the tissues on the desk. “Are you okay at the moment?”

“I’ve not been crying. I’m just ill all the fucking time. But…” It would feel so good to tell someone at least half of the truth. “I have a stalker.”

She giggles. “Honestly, Vincenzo’s just too friendly. Like a puppy. He does it with everyone.”

“No, I’m serious,” I reply, and her face falls, hardening into a frown as I show her the emails and explain what happened at the tarn. “At first I thought it was Alex, or maybe just a stranger. But now…now I think it’s Carmichael.”

She sits opposite me and pulls out a purple journal. “He does have a super strange vibe but…why would he do this?”

“I don’t know.” Maybe it’s to do with my parents’ death. Maybe he feels guilty.

She flips to a blank page and draws out an empty mind map, and I have to admit, it’s nice to have a friend.