Nocticadia

by Keri Lake

For, unbeknownst to Lieutenant Christ, they had been summoned there by correspondence from the church, after several clergymen had failed to return with three accused witches. Under the care of Dr Jack Stirling, the three women had been ordered to trial in Massachusetts proper. There’d been suspicion that the good doctor had gone mad, possessed by the very demons he had been charged to bleed out of the women months ago. The commodore had heard horrific stories of patients with black veins, who’d been left to hang, bleeding, by their feet. Those whose mouths and eyes had been sewn shut, and tongues removed. The commodore and his men had been sent to investigate the claims, and given the sinister warnings in the distance, he feared what they’d find there.

Eyelids hooded, the boy’s dry and cracked lips stretched to a slight smile. “You are dreaming now. But soon, you will wake to the sound of crackling fire, and find you and your men tied to stakes. Your flesh will be seared. And your pain and misery will echo for eternity.” The boy’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a hiss of air, before his body turned limp in his officer’s arms.

Watching her devour rare meat with the blood running out of the corners of her mouth had me feeling like a spectator in a gory episode of Hostile Planet. An appetite-withering sight. Particularly since my mother had never really been much of a meat eater, anyway. Spam was a far cry from steak, but my stepdad Conner, if I could even call him that, hadn’t worked a couple days, which left us short on grocery money.

Mama’s illness had gotten worse. So much worse, and the fact that she refused to see a doctor about it only put more pressure on Bee and me to navigate the progression of her strange symptoms ourselves. While Mama still seemed to have her wits about her, there were moments. Terrifying moments. Like the nights she’d tell me that evil men were coming for me. The nights she’d be covered in sweat, her eyes glowing with unseen horrors.

At my neck, I clutched the small vial of my mother’s ashes that I wore, hanging from her old rosary she used to keep in her pocket. It was a silly superstition my mother had told me once. She’d always worn a ring of my grandmother’s strung on a necklace. When I’d asked why she wore it all the time, she’d told me that the dead never harmed those who carried something that belonged to them. I didn’t even believe in God, but my mother did, and a part of me felt compelled to keep the rosary for that reason.

After my mother had died, Bee’s mental health deteriorated rapidly. She’d sank into the kind of depression that had me checking on her throughout the night and calling the school during the day. My therapist had suggested a boarding school—Bright Horizons, centered around mental health—and offered to evaluate her for admission. Bee had passed with flying colors and even managed to get a small bit of financial assistance to cover some of the cost of her tuition. Conner and I split the rest–an unwilling contribution on his part, seeing as he thought mental illness was a bunch of bullshit. The asshole actually had the nerve to say that to me once, and I swore it took a stampede of willpower not to haul off and smack him.

A somber ache bloomed in my chest as I plucked a picture pinned to the wall beside my bed, of my mom, me and Bee, taken about two years before my mom got sick. My mother had always had a radiance about her, but even more so that day, as the sun shone down through the almost burgundy locks of her hair. She’d possessed the beauty of an untamed flame, destructive and wild.

“Well, it seems they’ve reconsidered, also. While I certainly didn’t expect my discussion with Dr. Gilchrist to result in admission, I will say, academically, you do possess the aptitude, Miss Vespertine. Make no mistake about your qualifications.” A strange enthusiasm carried on his words, which somehow failed to stir me.

Nestled on an island, the school had once been an old monastery for clergymen–a place predominantly built for religious study. While it appeared that a few newer buildings had been added to the campus, it maintained the same overall look of the gothic academic architecture seen at old schools like Harvard and Yale. The enormous building I’d seen in Professor Wilkins’ picture sat on a steep cliff, as if the foundation itself had been built into the rock formation. It looked to be centuries old, with its lichen-covered stones and intricately carved masonry rarely seen nowadays.

I couldn’t live in the same place as Angelo. I couldn’t. What little sanctuary I’d made of the apartment would be torn to shit by his presence. Hopefully, Conner would come to his senses about it. Otherwise, I’d have to make arrangements to have Bee stay at the dorms for the holidays. I’d make a point to visit her on Christmas, still a few months away. It wasn’t like we’d had wonderful Christmases at the apartment anyway, since Mom had died. It’d mostly been Bee and I sitting in our bedroom, playing Mom’s old Beatles records and drinking too much hot chocolate. Technically, we could’ve done that anywhere.

The surrounding chamber was one of three ritual rooms in the catacombs of The Roost–a sprawling cathedral just outside of Dracadia University, owned by The Seven Rook Society. Or The Rooks, as we were more commonly referred. Gray concrete walls and floors added a sense of suffocation, like being buried alive inside a tomb. Fitting, really, given how utterly mind-numbing the ceremonies could be. Not even the multitude of flickering candles could brighten the cold and dreary crypt, at the center of which, etched in gold tiles, was the society’s emblem–two crossed medical canes, like those used during the plague, with a number seven. The same emblem that had been branded into my chest.

His actual name was Paul Darrows, but that didn’t matter anymore. As I understood, Darrows had a wife and kids. Tragic, given the trajectory of his fate at that moment, but the man had witnessed enough executions to be well acquainted with the consequences of his actions. The Rooks were one of three most powerful secret societies in the world, comprised of former CIA, FBI, presidents, inventors, all of whom had once sat in this very room at some point. How he thought he could’ve outsmarted them was beyond me.

The lingering scent of rose perfume clung to my shirt, the nauseating stench of a quick, incurious fuck. It was sickening, the way the mind could eventually grow numb to the parasitic needs of the flesh. I’d made a point to meet twice a week with Loretta Gilchrist, the entomology professor, to burn off the pent-up agony of an insatiable sexual appetite. A mundane, but effective therapy, up until that evening, when I’d been put off by the woman. Not because she was ten years older than me, or that she had a tendency to fall into a coughing fit during her climax. Though our routine had gotten somewhat loathsome, I’d always appreciated the intense release I couldn’t seem to find during any other physical activity, and even if she wasn’t the most exciting conquest, I appreciated the subtlety of our meetings.

Lowering my gaze, I smiled and eased back in my chair again. “Oh. I wasn’t asking your permission, Mr. Barletta. You see, the whiskey you just chugged contains thousands of tiny eggs, each of them encased in a wonderful spore-like outer shell that protects it from the ethanol. In two days, those eggs will be embryonated as they settle into your very nutrient-rich liver. The larvae will continue to grow inside of you and, in another six days, will hatch from their eggs. That’s when the real fun begins.” I watched with pointed amusement as the color drained from his face and his jaw slackened with shock and perhaps a bit of disbelief. “The larvae will then release potent toxins that will breach your blood brain barrier. The toxins will intensify your most basic needs–thirst, hunger, sex.

“What separates monsters from good men is only a matter of perspective. In your eyes, I’m a sick fuck for what I’ve done to you. But I, on the other hand, see you as a parasite.”

I’d taken some of the money Jayda had given me to go thrifting for something decent to wear. I had an appreciation for vintage dresses, thanks to my mother, who’d always told me that dresses and skirts were a woman’s rebellion against the world’s ruthless nature. Soft and vulnerable and bold at the same time. I’d never been brave enough to wear them on the subway late at night, only to classes during the day. For the train ride, I’d opted for a pale butter, ruffled sundress with my mom’s faded leather jacket and my combat boots. While I didn’t look homeless, I certainly wasn’t as put together as the other passengers–those whose jewelry dangled from their wrists and necks like extravagant tinsel. Sprawled in their seats with their phones, they looked completely at ease, perhaps even bored and unimpressed.

A tickle at my ankle drew my attention to the floor, where a black ball of fur circled my legs like he had any right to be there. A Bombay cat I’d inherited after he’d somehow gotten into my lab, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, get rid of the damned thing. He kept the mice and rats away, though, so I’d decided to let the nosy little bastard stick around. “I see you decided to show up,” I said behind the mask and shield covering my face. “Almost started without you.” The cat, whom I’d named Bane, sauntered his way across the room and settled in the corner opposite me, where he licked his paws.

The door creaked open to Dr. Lippincott, Provost of Dracadia, a longtime friend of my father’s. Hands tucked into his pockets, he strode across the room, the sight of him souring my already cantankerous mood. “I don’t suppose you have any liquor hiding in here somewhere?” he asked, brows winged up with a sickening hope.

After a short announcement from the captain, the ferry idled away from the dock, and I peered out of the window to see the ocean water splashing up as we picked up speed. I’d studied the map of Dracadia, had seen its position miles out into the Gulf of Maine, where I’d read that the water reached depths of over a thousand feet in some spots. The thought sent a shiver across the back of my neck. Please don’t send any tidal waves to tip the boat over. Getting stranded in the middle of the ocean happened to be a recurring nightmare for me, for some reason. My therapist had told me that it might’ve been my mind feeling trapped in my circumstances. Google had suggested that I might soon be facing a dangerous time in my life.

Copper colored eyes, set beneath long, black lashes and a naturally stern brow, stared back at me. The shift of his jaw dragged my attention toward the perfection of his profile, sharp and angular and shadowed in a light stubble. A shivering warmth scattered beneath my skin and fluttered in my chest, as he gave an aloof blink of his bedroom eyes before turning back toward the voice.

“The crooked army is coming! C’mon!” My brother, Caedmon, drags me by the arm down the long hallway of the cellar. Perhaps the scariest place in the old mansion that once belonged to my grandfather, and his father before him. According to stories I’ve heard the nannies and maids tell, my great-grandmother’s bones lie somewhere in this house, and I’m certain it’s down in this cellar.

The room is hundreds of years old, with a morbid history. My great-great-grandfather was a renowned doctor in the early 1900’s, known as the Beast of Bramwell Estate. He was arrested for the very gruesome experiments he performed on prostitutes looking for abortions. The stories terrified me growing up, and I often had nightmares about him, which kept me out of the west wing of the mansion where his portrait hangs beside the other Bramwell men. His crimes plagued two generations of our family, up until my grandfather helped to develop a vaccine against a virus, saving thousands of lives. My father says that was when we finally crawled out from under the Bramwell curse and were once again respectable.

Hit me was putting it mildly. It so happened, he’d struck a very specific part of my brain, consequently dislodging and activating a latent congenital prion disease. Zigliomyositis was the technical term for it, or Voneric’s Disease, as it was more commonly known–a rare condition only seen in an exceptionally small fraction of the population. Incurable and unstoppable in its destruction.

“Mind if I join you?” Spencer tipped his head toward me, and a knot tightened in my stomach. Nothing against the guy–he seemed decent enough. I refused to invite distractions, though. My goal was to remain focused on studies and nothing more.

In his black, button-down shirt, black slacks, and black, finger-raked hair, he looked like an ominous shadow moving through the lecture hall with the kind of lethal grace that had undoubtedly obliterated a few hearts. His outfit matched the infamous black, to-go cup clutched in his hand. A tingle at the back of my neck had me scratching there, and when he headed toward the desk and lectern at the front of the hall, instead of one of the audience chairs, I wondered if he might’ve been one of the assistants Dean Langmore had mentioned.

Something in the way he spoke, the passion I could literally feel infused into every word, sent a shudder of excitement through me. The man lived and breathed science–that much I could tell. When the class ended, I found myself looking at the clock in disbelief. An entire hour had slipped by in what felt like minutes, as I’d sat completely enthralled by the man and the ease with which he relayed information, as if he were talking of something so benign as the weather. As the class packed up and exited, my stomach knotted in tight bows of anxiety at the thought of having to talk to him one on one. I’d wanted the opportunity to pick his brain sometime, but something told me he wasn’t happy about my presence in his class.

My thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Gilchrist–namely the subtle compliment he’d handed off. “Excel,” I whispered to myself, emphasizing the word. “Ex-cel.” Had he known I was there when he’d said it? That I’d heard him? What was it about a man known to be brilliant but grouchy handing out a random compliment like a decadent piece of chocolate that I wanted to savor before it melted?

While her knowledge of the organism seemed to be lacking, rightly so as not much had been published about it, I found her observations of the physiology interesting. In my reading, I hadn’t noticed any mention of a rather significant symptom in her paper–vonyxsis. The darkening of red blood cells in the latter stages was due to extreme depletion of oxygen, caused by a protein the worms produced. In the patient she detailed, she had noticed fever and muscle fatigue, and had consequently administered a tissue salt known as ferrum phos–an oxygen carrier cell salt that would have destroyed the protein’s byproduct. In doing so, she had completely averted vonyxsis and possibly prolonged her patient’s lifespan by another couple of weeks.

“Yeah. Thanks.” At that, I hung up the phone, rattled that the woman would dare to go behind my back that way. Clearly, she still harbored animosity over what’d happened between the two of us. It was a snake move trying to have Lilia quietly removed from my class. The fucking audacity of it nettled me, and good on Langmore for having contacted me. Of course, I suspected he’d probably calculated the consequences of not doing so first. No one touched what belonged to me without repercussions.

Without a doubt, Lilia Vespertine was going to be a massive headache. But she was my headache.

Beside Barletta hung a Missing Persons poster whose corners were curled a bit, as if it’d been there a while. A blonde with bright blue eyes stared back at me–Jennifer Harrick–the girl who’d gone missing. The one Mel had told me about on my first day.

It wasn’t the blades that held me captivated, though. Beneath those unassuming dress shirts he wore to class, the man apparently sported a carved physique that stretched the fabric of his T-shirt. Paired with the careless mess of his usually perfect hair and the casual jeans hanging low on his hips, he held me enthralled.

A vision of Hannah gently rubbing my back during one of my episodes somehow brought to mind Lilia in my office. Her gentle movements and caring eyes. Her delicate hand in mine. There was something about her–so genuine and real.

I’d hated that she’d seen me like that, on the floor. Helpless, as the pain wracked every muscle in my body like a jolt of white-hot flames. It was as I came out of it, when her blurred out face had sharpened into view, and those blue-green eyes watched me with worry and panic, that something had shifted inside of me, rousing an inexplicable ache in my chest. Yet, all that had come to mind in that moment were the words of my father whenever I’d had an episode as a boy.

Enraged, I ground my teeth as I stuffed the phone into my pocket. Voices from the other end of the alley caught my attention, and I backed myself to the wall, alongside an arborvitae shrub. Peering around it showed Gilchrist and Spencer walking toward the alley. Once inside the shady passage between buildings, she shoved Spencer against the wall and ran her palm over the crotch of his jeans as she slammed her lips against his.

As he went on to describe how to delicately handle the parasite, I watched his hand movements, focusing on his fingers and tuning out the topic. They were the perfect length. Not too thin, but not too thick, either. Perfect enough to imagine them buried inside of me.

Without much thought, I found myself mindlessly brushing my finger over my seam again. Unlike earlier, when Ross had lectured, I couldn’t look away from Professor Bramwell. His deep voice caressed my ear, sending a shiver across the back of my neck. I kept my eyes locked on those hands as he spoke and imagined rough palms over my skin.

“Of course.” I hung up, finger tapping against my desk as I watched the views climb. Imagining every ding to be some asshole, sitting slack-jawed and stroking his dick while watching her, had my muscles bunched with rage. I threw my glass across the room, and it crashed on impact against my bookshelf. That lying little shit had posted the video anyway, and I’d be damned if I’d let a bunch of perverted fucks watch her like that.

Ungrateful little pricks who only saw her as a set of toned legs and pussy. They had no idea the girl was brilliant and witty. Too damn smart for her age. Too damn beautiful to be seen as something so simple and entertaining.

Smiling, I eased back in my seat. If she was that desperate for money, she’d have to find another way of getting it. I refused to let a whole population of swinging dicks ogle her. I’d fuck over every person who ever posted there and burn the site down before I’d let that happen.

“Yeah.” I watched him cross the yard, like a thunderstorm passing over the sky. That was the perfect way to describe him–ominous and foreboding, yet mesmerizing at the same time. “He just wanted to ask me about one of my journal entries.” It was strange, the way I couldn’t look away, the way I couldn’t stop thinking of that seemingly innocuous smile. One that still had my stomach in a fluttery mess.

“No. And what does it matter? Those files are locked away. The information on her mother and Kepling no longer exists. You’re being paranoid.” Aside from sheer fascination, I had no connection, no loyalty to the girl. The fact that I was protecting her made zero sense to me.

I’d dreamed about her the night before. Those long, slender fingers tracing over my arms and up the back of my neck. A torment I’d carried with me all afternoon and into the evening, when she interrupted my concentration at the library. Gilchrist was a nuisance, but Lilia, she was a distraction. An irritatingly welcomed one.

I was drawn to her, for reasons I could neither justify nor understand. A realization that annoyed the shit out of me. She was an itch on my brain that I couldn’t scratch. The maddening shimmer in the corner of my eye during lecture that distracted my thoughts. The kind of girl who seduced with nothing more than a single glance. A bite of the lip. And she’d captured my attention with steel hooks.

“You’re the one who transported my brother to his killer.” There it was. The reason I’d taken a man off the streets and infected him with the deadly worms that had begun to ravage his body. Revenge. Revenge for my twin who’d been brutally slain for greed. For the very research to which I’d dedicated my life.

What started as a curiosity over what he was reading quickly turned to thoughts of what it must’ve felt like to be the sole object of his focus, like that book. I imagined him to be intense. Passionately reading every page, desperate to soak up as many of the words as he could.

In it stood three men dressed in lab coats–one I recognized as Dr. Warren Bramwell. The other was Dr. Lippincott. I had never seen the third man before. They flanked eight women, whose faces I scanned over.

I’d been left in charge of Bee for those two days, so my mother could go alone, which I’d thought strange at the time–she’d never gone anywhere without the two of us. Although not life-threatening for my sister, the cyst had always been part of her insecurity, and perhaps even contributed to the anxiety she’d always felt around others. It’d troubled my mother that we couldn’t afford to have it removed, with us not having insurance or any means of paying for it. A little over a week later was about the time when my mother had first started showing signs of illness that we’d thought might’ve been something she’d picked up in her travels. From there, it had progressed over a period of weeks, up until her death.

As Professor Bramwell gathered up his notes, I forced myself to ignore the way his muscles bulged at his biceps whenever he bent his arm, or the way he’d rolled up his sleeves to expose the map of veins in his forearms. And those hands. Hands that looked both delicate and barbaric, like they could gently wring the very life out of you. They were handsome hands, with trim nails and strong but slender fingers that I could imagine wielding a scalpel with utmost precision. An artist, no doubt.

When he hoisted his leather bag over his head, crossing it over his chest, I caught a glimpse of the scar on his neck, reminding me the man had little reason to trust any of the students at the school, particularly a first year like me. He’d been branded, both physically and by rumor, thickening his armor. Making him harder to crack. That he bothered to entertain my questions at all was surprising. “Stay out of trouble, Curious Moth,” he said, as he strode for the door. Curious Moth. A nickname. A fitting one, too, given the fact that I had no intentions of avoiding the flame.