Aidan sat stiffly on one of the metal benches scattered across the college lawn, his fingers curled tightly around the armrest as he stared at *Damon—*or Darian, as he liked to be called these days.
Damon stood a few feet away, effortlessly commanding attention as he lounged in the middle of a group of girls from his psychology class. They clung to his every word, their laughter high-pitched and eager, like a chorus of overexcited meerkats.
Aidan clenched his jaw.
He didn't know if the attraction was genuine or if Damon was using his demon tricks to pull them in. Maybe it was a combination of both. The bastard was beautiful—too beautiful—lean, tall, with that devastating smirk and a voice that dripped like honey laced with poison.
It shouldn't have mattered.
None of it should have mattered.
But the longer Aidan watched, the tighter the coil of irritation wound inside his chest.
Damon's hand brushed lightly against the arm of one of the girls—a calculated, fleeting touch that sent her into a fit of breathless giggles. Another girl leaned into him, so close that her perfume must have been smothering his senses, her chest very intentionally pressing against his side.
Aidan scowled, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans.
Shameless flirt.
Of course, he already knew that about Damon. He had always been that way—smooth, cocky, dangerous in a way that made people want to touch fire just to see if they'd burn. But seeing it in action, watching him so effortlessly bask in their attention, set Aidan's blood boiling.
The entire college campus had become his playground.
And worse—no one even realized it.
Damon didn't have to try. He didn't have to seduce or compel them with his powers. They were already drawn to him, willingly pouring themselves at his feet. He was practically feeding on their energy, soaking in their desire like a sponge.
Aidan bet the sexual energy was traveling right from their chests to his eyes—the way those girls kept pushing their tits against him was proof enough.
The thought sent an unexpected surge of pure, unfiltered annoyance rushing through Aidan's veins.
And he refused to acknowledge what that meant.
"You can stop looking now," a voice cut through Aidan's thoughts like a blade, startling him.
He turned sharply, his pulse stuttering, only to find a petite girl slipping onto the bench beside him.
She was dressed entirely in black—fitted t-shirt, dark jeans, nails trimmed short and painted the same shade as her lipstick. Heavy black eyeliner framed her deep-set eyes, giving her a hollow, almost spectral appearance. Her straight hair hung loosely over her shoulders, the color an indeterminate shade between dark brown and midnight.
Aidan didn't recognize her. He was pretty sure he would have remembered someone with such a distinct gothic look.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" he asked cautiously.
"You wouldn't. I'm in your psychology class. I joined this semester," she replied, her voice eerily devoid of inflection.
Aidan frowned. Exactly how many people have joined since I was gone?
The girl extended a pale, thin hand toward him. "Penn," she introduced herself.
Aidan hesitated for half a second before taking it. Her grip was warm but something about her felt... off. It wasn't just her lack of expression—there was something detached about her, something that put him on edge. Maybe it was his own paranoia acting up. Ever since Mr. Albu's death, he had begun to doubt everyone around him.
"I see you look at him quite a lot," Penn said suddenly.
Aidan stiffened.
There was no teasing lilt in her voice, no smirk playing on her lips, just that same eerie neutrality, which somehow made the statement ten times worse.
Aidan clenched his jaw. How long has she been watching me?
Embarrassment crawled up his neck like ivy, spreading across his ears. It wasn't like he was the only one staring—everyone gawked at Damon. He commanded attention with his very presence.
Penn followed Aidan's gaze toward Damon where he stood, effortlessly charming a circle of girls who hung onto his every word, laughing too loudly, brushing against him with way too much familiarity.
"I think it's a waste of time," Penn mused, tilting her head slightly. "He has too much on his plate right now."
"I don't blame him, though," she continued, her voice still devoid of judgment. "If that many people were circling around me like vultures, I'd be blinded too."
Aidan nearly choked. God, this girl has no filters.
Penn blinked slowly, as if briefly lost in thought, before shifting her empty gaze back to him. Aidan had no idea how to respond to that, so he defaulted to defense.
"I was just looking because he reminds me of someone I used to know," Aidan said, perhaps too quickly. "That's it. It's not like I like him or anything."
Penn stared at him for an uncomfortably long time, as if dissecting the truth from his words.
"Is that so?" she finally said. "Hard to believe. The guy has a unique face."
Her tone was disturbingly matter-of-fact, her expression unreadable.
Then, without another word, she reached into her bag, the movement slow and deliberate, and pulled out a small deck of cards.
Aidan narrowed his eyes.
She shuffled the deck with practiced ease before holding it out to him. "Pick one."
Aidan blinked. "What?"
"Pick one," she repeated, her voice as monotone as ever.
He stared at the cards suspiciously. "What is this?"
"Tarot cards."
Aidan made a face. "Tarot cards?"
She nodded.
Aidan shook his head and glanced around, searching for an excuse to leave. He didn't have time for this weird fortune-teller goth girl energy.
"Pick one," she insisted, her voice firm.
With an inward groan, Aidan sighed and reluctantly pulled a card from the deck.
He turned it over. A dark, intricately detailed image stared back at him—a human skeleton, sitting atop a horse, a black flag raised in one bony hand.
Penn peered at the card, her expression remaining eerily blank.
"Hmm. Interesting," she murmured.
Aidan frowned, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine. "What does it mean?"
Penn shrugged, shoving the deck back into her bag as she stood up. "Nothing."
Aidan gawked at her. "Nothing?"
She slung her bag over her shoulder. "I should leave. I have sociology next."
And just like that, she walked off without another word, leaving Aidan with his card and a dozen unanswered questions.
His frown deepened. What the hell was that?
He shook his head, tossing the card onto the bench with a scoff.
But just as he was about to brush off the entire bizarre interaction, his eyes flickered toward Damon again.
And caught him watching.
For a split second, Aidan's breath hitched. Damon's gaze locked with his, dark and unreadable, sending a jolt of something sharp through his chest.
But before Aidan could confirm whether he was truly looking at him, Damon had already turned away, laughing at something one of the girls had said.
Aidan's stomach twisted.
What a waste of time, he muttered under his breath, pushing himself off the bench and walking toward his English minor, trying—failing—to ignore the restless feeling clawing at his gut.
When Aidan got home an hour later, he went straight to his room, locking the door behind him. Not that it made a difference. Nowhere felt safe anymore.
He sat on his bed and reached for his sketchbook, the only thing that had helped him make sense of things lately. Once, he used to draw random things—landscapes, objects, meaningless patterns. But now, his sketchbook had become a place where he tried to capture his reality, to give shape to the thoughts that refused to settle.
Sometimes, he tried to draw Mr. Albu, attempting to etch the old man's sharp eyes and kind wrinkles onto the pages, but the image never quite felt right. Other times, he found himself sketching Mrs. Barik before her face had turned into something out of his nightmares. And then there was Damon.
Drawing Damon was the hardest. No matter how many times he tried, he could never get him right. He would outline his strong jaw, the way his hair curled just slightly at the ends, the sharpness of his cheekbones, but it always felt off—like the essence of Damon was something that couldn't be captured on paper. His sketchbook was embarrassingly filled with half-finished drawings of him. Some were from fleeting moments: the time he had seen him in Mr. Albu's backyard, Damon in the basement, and the moments in the old man's living room when they had almost become friends. Almost.
Aidan sighed and turned to a fresh page. He started sketching again, trying to capture the way Damon looked now—his leather backpack slung over one shoulder, his jeans and the Harvard T-shirt that stretched just enough over his chest. He looked good, perfect even, in his college outfit, but Aidan preferred the way he had looked before. Back then, there had been a boyish innocence in his face, something unguarded. That version of Damon was gone, replaced by someone who carried himself with the ease of a flirt and the weight of something unspoken.
Frustrated, Aidan set his pencil down. No matter how hard he tried, Damon on paper would never match the one in his head. With a sigh, he turned to another face—Penn.
It took him a few tries to get the far-off look in her eyes just right, that unsettling emptiness that made her difficult to read. When he was satisfied with her expression, he sketched the tarot card she had shown him earlier, adding the details of the human skeleton sitting on a horse beside her. He still had no idea what the card meant, but it lingered in his mind. He didn't believe in things like that. Or at least, he hadn't before. But after everything that had happened, what did he even believe anymore?
A sharp knock on his door made him jolt upright. His breath caught in his throat, his mind immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion.
"There's a girl looking for you downstairs," Jared's voice broke the silence. He peeked in through the doorframe, smirking.
"A girl?" Aidan frowned, standing up.
"Sexy thing, by the way." Jared gave him a teasing grin. "Penn, I think she said her name was."
Aidan exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. For a second, he had thought—no, he didn't want to think about that.
Leaving his sketchbook on the bed, he made his way to the living room. Sure enough, Penn was sitting on the sofa, sipping water as if it were tea, her posture eerily composed.
"Hi," Aidan greeted, hesitantly circling around her. "How did you know where I live?"
"I followed you," Penn said casually, as if that wasn't one of the creepiest things someone could admit.
"You did what?" Aidan stared at her, unsettled.
"I wanted to talk to you."
"About what?"
Penn glanced toward Jared, who was lingering near the kitchen, pretending to rummage through the fridge but clearly eavesdropping.
"Is this a good place to talk?" she asked.
Aidan sighed. "Come with me."
He led her to his room, shutting the door behind them. As soon as she stepped inside, Penn's gaze landed on the open sketchbook on his bed. Aidan's stomach clenched when he saw what page it was open to—her face, sketched in precise detail. He rushed forward, slamming the book shut before she could get a better look.
"Can I see?" she asked.
Aidan hesitated. There was no point denying he had drawn her; she had already seen it. Reluctantly, he handed the sketchbook over.
Penn didn't even glance at her own portrait. Instead, she flipped through the pages, stopping when she came across another face—Mrs. Barik. Her expression didn't change, but Aidan caught the slight narrowing of her eyes.
"Who is this?" she asked.
Aidan quickly snatched the sketchbook from her hands and shoved it into his closet. "Just my imagination," he lied.
Penn didn't argue. Instead, she looked around his room, hands clasped behind her back, as if she were inspecting something only she could see.
"Why are you here?" Aidan asked, irritation creeping into his voice.
Penn didn't answer right away. Instead, she quietly walked over to his bed and crouched down, tying a red rope around one of its legs. She mumbled something under her breath, words Aidan couldn't quite make out.
"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, stepping closer.
"This will keep evil spirits away," she said matter-of-factly.
Aidan stared at her. "And why did you assume I need that?"
Penn simply pointed to the image of Mrs. Barik in his sketchbook. "Because of that."
"That's just my imagination," Aidan insisted, his voice firm.
"Most imagination comes from some sort of reality," Penn replied, standing up and dusting off her jeans. "You can remove the protection if you don't like it. It won't work anyway if you don't believe in it."
Aidan wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or disturbed. "I...I don't understand why you followed me here?"
For the first time since she entered the room, Penn hesitated. She turned toward the window, looking out into the backyard—the same backyard that had once belonged to Mr. Albu.
"Grandpa called me the day before he died," she said quietly.
Aidan blinked. "Grandpa?"
"Yes." She turned back to him. "Cazacu Albu was my grandfather."
Aidan felt his stomach drop.
"Mr. Albu?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes." Penn met his gaze, unblinking. "And he asked me to come here."
***
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