Nocticadia: A Dark Academia Gothic Romance
Nocticadia: Chapter 20

How was it, the more I watched him, the less I knew of the man?

Four days had passed, and on a campus that housed thousands of students and staff, between classes, I’d somehow become hyperaware of Doctor Death’s whereabouts. In addition to neuroparasitology, he taught fourth year and graduate level anatomical pathology, which seemed to take up most of his afternoons, besides the occasional visits to the admin building, where I suspected he attended staff meetings. Every morning, at precisely seven, he could be seen jogging past the clock tower in his usual campus circuit, four times around, equating to about ten miles. Not that I could possibly track every moment of his day, of course, I did have quite a bit on my plate, but he rarely passed by without my noticing.

Today was the exception.

Some students had left for the long Labor Day weekend, but I’d stayed. The last thing I intended to do was return to the shitshow with Angelo, though that seemed to have settled over the past week.

I’d gone all morning, to the dining halls, the library, and one of the coffee shops across campus, without having seen Professor Bramwell hustle to and from Emeric Tower, leaving me to wonder if he’d left the island for the holiday weekend, as well.

Since the weather was a balmy sixty-eight degrees, I decided to take one of the campus bikes for a spin. A swipe of my ID card allowed me to rent a bike for six hours at a time, and with the island being about eighteen miles long, I suspected I’d need the time to do some exploring.

Following a five-minute interview from the gatekeeper, who insisted on knowing where I was going, when I was coming back, and if I planned to meet up with anyone, I headed through the campus gates. The bike accelerated down a slightly terrifying narrow road, steep enough that I nervously kept my hand off the brake for fear of flipping forward. The path that split the forest wound down the cliff, and as I passed thick stretches of trees, I wondered how the hell I’d get back without destroying my thigh muscles.

Swells of a sprawling forest opened around the occasional cottage-style home–adorable, old-century structures, with asymmetrical, rounded roofs and steeply pitched gables that had me feeling like I’d fallen into a small European country. Properties in Covington tended to be the usual bungalows and Cape Cods, whereas those on the island were adorable storybook cottages, drowning in overgrown ivy, and beautiful wooden arches brimming with colorful blooms.

The entire island had a magical appeal about it, unlike any place I’d ever been. Like the school itself, it quickly grew on me, luring me into its charm, just as Professor Wilkins had predicted.

The first week of school seemed to have flown by. I liked my classes—even the dreaded calculus and quantitative physiology lectures—and I finally felt like I was falling into a routine. A strange, but welcomed, change of life. Days of trying to squeeze in class and study around full-time work had shifted to long study sessions around lectures and exploration. Unnerving subway rides at night, surrounded by complete strangers, had given way to shuttle buses with familiar faces–all of them there for the same thing. While I knew I still had to work out extra cash for Bee’s tuition, I no longer felt the tremendous weight of it pressing down on me.

A few miles up the road, I passed a sign that read Emberwick, and entered what appeared to be a small seaside village–a charming town that ran parallel to a boardwalk and the endless blue beyond it. To my right, seagulls soared above the pier that stretched hundreds of feet out toward the few fishing boats anchored offshore. The tires of my bike bounced over aged cobblestones, as I admired ivy-covered brick shops lining either side of the road. While a few cars buzzed through town, mostly those two-seater smart cars, the bike racks outside of the shops stood packed–-undoubtedly the main source of transportation for most of the island.

When I caught sight of the apothecary shop, I slowed my bike, spying an open spot on one of the racks in front. Once parked, I peered through the window of the shop next door to the apothecary, called Glaucus, a place which appeared to sell good luck charms to fishermen and sea travelers. Small trinkets lay displayed in front of the window, a variety of engraved medallions, stones, hooks, and what looked like strings of tiny bones. A wooden brochure rack beside the door held booklets of Dracadian Folklore, and I nabbed one when I noticed Free to take scribbled on a paper stapled to the wooden post.

Flipping through showed a brief description of different stories–Sirens of Bone Bay, The Cazanute, Mangurdame of Devil’s Perch, Nereides of Squelette Lake–all of them tales of different locations on the island. The place had so much history and lore, I could’ve probably spent hours studying it.

Tucking the booklet into my bag for later, I pushed through the old wooden door of Salty Sea Apothecary, to be greeted by the ring of a bell and a delicious ginger scent. Candles burned throughout the shop, and a wall of jars stood off to the right of me, filled with all sorts of colorful fluids. Matcha ginseng elixir. Lion’s mane. Maca. Moringa. I lifted one of the jars, examining the clarity of the liquid inside, which almost appeared crystal-like.

“Can I help you replace something?” a voice said behind me, and I turned to see a striking older woman, with deep, almond eyes and graying hair, whose skin glowed with ageless perfection. Her brows came together as she stared back at me. “Oh, my, you look like someone I once knew.”

“I do?”

“Yes. Did you by chance happen to know a Vanessa Corbin?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

A flash of surprise lit her eyes, and she shook her head. “You are a spitting image of her.”

Smiling, I shrugged. “They say everyone has a twin.”

“Well, I knew her about twenty years ago, so I suspect she isn’t much of a twin these days.” She twisted toward a small collection of jars on a table behind her and stowed them away on one of the nearby shelves. “Do you live on Dracadia?”

“Sort of, I guess. Going to school here.” I lifted one of the bars of soap and, placing it back on the table, caught a whiff of that delicious scent again. “What is the ginger I’m smelling?”

“Oh, it’s just some black rock tea I made earlier.”

“Black rock tea?” I’d frequented a few holistic shops back in Covington, but had never come across that before.

“Yes, it’s a local tea that we brew here. Takes a bit of time to prepare, but it’ll cure whatever ails ya.”

“Do you have it for purchase?” Not that I had tons of money to spend, but I always kept an eye out for anything that might keep the seasonal bugs away. And with winter right around the corner, it was better to start building up my immunity now.

“Oh, no. It’s too much work to sell it. But how ‘bout this, I can give you a couple tea bags of it.”

“Really? I can pay you.”

“No, no. It’s all right.” She waved her hand in the air and made her way toward the cash register. “Don’t get too many young ones in here,” she said, rummaging through something below the countertop, only the top of her head visible.

“My mom was always into herbal remedies. Never took so much as an aspirin her whole life.”

Frowning, she shot back up, holding a small white satchel of what looked like black crystals inside. “Are you sure you don’t know a Vanessa Corbin?”

“Positive.”

“So strange. She and her mama were long time customers of mine. Vanessa loved the herbal teas and honey gums. Here, I’ll throw in a couple to try.” From a bowl on the counter, she plucked two golden-colored pieces of candy wrapped in wax paper and deposited them into a small bag. “Anyway, here’s the tea.” After holding it up for a moment, she slipped the satchel in with the candy. “Just add hot water, a bit of ginger and some honey, and you will be in heaven. You can even drop the honey gum into it. It’s just raw hardened honey with a hint of elderberry.” She pretended to shiver and smiled. “So good for cold winter nights.”

“Thank you for this,” I said, accepting the bag from her. “Why is it called black rock?”

“Sourced from the rocks at Bone Bay. Which is why we don’t sell it. It’s dangerous trying to get to it.”

“Dangerous? Is it guarded by dragons, or something?”

“Sharks, mostly. You have to dive into Devil’s Perch. My grandson knew those underwater caves like the back of his hand. But it’s a nursery for some of the bigger sharks. Legendary sharks.”

I couldn’t even imagine diving into something named Devil’s Perch, let alone knowing a nursery of sharks awaited me there. “Is he a shark whisperer, or something?”

Smile fading, she lowered her gaze. “He passed a few years back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

With a sigh, she stared off for a moment, then smiled again. “Yes, so his brother brings me some black rock on occasion.”

I stared down at the supply in the bag, no more than a small satchel, but considering the danger in retrieving it, I no longer felt right taking it. “Are you sure about giving this to me? I don’t want to take your supply.”

“I insist.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll take some of the matcha ginseng, as well.”

“Very good.” With a quick wink, she nabbed a small box of the matcha from the shelf behind her and rang up the goods for me. When she’d finished, she handed me a slightly bigger bag containing everything I’d bought. “Don’t be a stranger around here, eh?”

“Oh, I’ll definitely be back.” As I exited the shop, I sighted a few maps of Dracadia and, when I stopped to snag one, noticed a poster beside the rack. It showed a man, apparently wanted by police for the brutal abuse of his son, who was believed to have been hiding away on the island. Wanted and Missing posters decorated just about every pegboard back in Covington, so seeing one wasn’t anything special. It just seemed out of character for the island.

Salt and pepper hair put the man about mid-forties, and his sunken brown eyes gave me the creeps. He looked like a child abuser. I glanced down at his name. Barletta. Not one I recognized, but what stood out to me was how much he reminded me of Angelo, for some reason. Just that disheveled look of a criminal.

Which took my mind right back to home. I hadn’t heard anything more from Conner since our phone call, and nothing more had been reported on the news. Hopefully, things had died down.

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.

On a somber note, I left the shop and hopped back on my bike. After stowing my goods in the little wicker basket, I opened the map. The main street looped all around the island and came back around on the other side of the university, where I hoped the incline would be less steep. Ten miles up the road, the complete opposite side of the island, stood Bone Bay. I pushed off, pedaling an easy pace toward my next stop.

Wind sifted through my hair, the salty sea air thick on my tongue as I inhaled it. A blissful warmth scattered over my skin where rays of sunlight touched me, the first full sunny day we’d had in a week on the island. Again, I found myself thinking how much my life had changed in just a few days. How I’d transitioned from carrying around a pocketknife and scurrying home in the dark, to a quiet, seaside bike ride.

The sense of freedom scared me a little, like I’d become naive and soft. After all, the place hadn’t entirely earned my trust yet, so it didn’t make sense, the way I felt so at ease there. I hadn’t even bothered to bring my pocketknife on my excursion, which was still tucked in my desk back at the dorm. Conner would’ve called me stupid for the oversight.

After my mother’s death, I’d gained certain freedoms that I hadn’t had growing up, mostly out of necessity. Conner had moved in and needed help with the rent, so I’d had to get a job, and going to school meant working late at night. Because Conner couldn’t drive, thanks to too many DUI’s, I’d had to rely on public transportation. It was a scarier brand of freedom. One I didn’t care to exert, but again, necessary.

I’d been thrown out into a world that would’ve eaten me alive, had I not learned how to navigate it quickly and so young. I supposed I could’ve thanked Conner for that, since he’d been the one to give me a good shove into adulthood, but honestly, having had the mother I’d had, living the life I’d lived, maybe I’d been preparing for it my whole life.

It didn’t take long before the winding road curved alongside a stretch of cliffs, and I came upon a weathered and cockeyed sign that read Bone Bay, with a crude blackbird carved into the wood. About a hundred yards away, an archway of spindly branched trees created a tunnel over a long, descending staircase. I tugged my phone from my pocket and snapped a quick shot, thinking how absolutely enchanting it would look if it were decorated in lights.

The stairs creaked and groaned as I made my way down to where the tree tunnel opened onto lush green pines and white sandy dunes that tapered into the rocky shore of the cove.

Black birds, whether crows or ravens, I couldn’t tell, had settled in trees and along the shoreline. So many of them. At the end of the staircase stood a sign that urged me not to feed the birds, and to avoid the south end of the cove during late winter, as that was where they might be most aggressive.

I stepped off onto the rocky shore, and two birds scattered toward the sky. Before me stood the vastness of the ocean. Beautiful, yet utterly frightening. Docile waves reached for my feet, but I backed away, not allowing the water to touch me. Maybe someday I’d be bold enough to dip my toes in, but certainly not today. Not when it could’ve easily pulled me out and no one would’ve even cared, or have thought to look for me.

With the cliffs surrounding me, trees at my back, the stretch of beach held a peaceful tranquility. I followed the curve of the cove toward a mass of rock, and there, a hard thunking sound echoed above me. For a brief moment, I thought back to the Wanted poster I’d seen in town.

What if it was the child abuser? What if he was hiding out in the wood there?

The city girl inside of me begged me to walk away, while chiding me for not having grabbed my knife.

A flicker of movement overhead drew my eyes to the rock’s flat peak, where a muscled figure in a black Tee swiped up a bottled water and looked out over the sea.

Curious, I climbed up the stretch of jagged boulders, careful of my footing. The moment I breached the top of it, the view sharpened, and I caught sight of Professor Bramwell about twenty five yards off.

Slapping a hand to my mouth, I ducked alongside the rock on a gasp. Not that I was shocked to see someone at a public beach. It was the someone I’d seen. At the sound of retreating footsteps, I peeked over the rock to replace him locked in a stance, holding something in his hand. Sunlight glinted off its steel surface.

A blade.

He drew it back and hurled it toward one of the trees.

From the ground, he swiped up another blade and chucked that one, as well. I followed the path of his throw to see the first had landed smack in the middle of the tree trunk. The second, directly beside it. I watched him toss a third, which landed beside the first two.

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.

Staring at my professor.

Stop, Lilia.

I felt like a predator watching him.

The way he easily manipulated the weapon left me convinced he practiced frequently. A hobby? Probably fitting for a man who cut bodies up for a living.

A chill wound down my spine as that thought rooted itself in my head. In a normal human being, it might’ve triggered an urge to get the heck out of there, because what the hell kind of person would’ve been caught on a rocky cliff, in the woods, with a man who carved corpses at night? One who seemed exceptionally proficient with his weapons.

Me, apparently, as I kept on staring, watching him throw a few more tosses, lunging and pivoting, without a single blade bouncing off that trunk. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I was mesmerized by his skill.

Confused, but fascinated.

Chest heaving, a shine of sweat coating his neck and arms, he tossed off his blade and turned toward the edge of the cliff, opposite me, where the ledge of rock stuck out over the sea. The moment his fingers hooked the hem of his shirt, like he was about to strip, I ducked.

Oh, God.

My brain urged me to leave and give the man some peace, but when I pushed off the rock to make sure he wouldn’t see me exit, he wasn’t standing there. Only his discarded clothes lay in a heap.

I jolted forward, down the jagged slope, until I just caught the tail end of his body splashing into the waves. Eyes darting back toward the top of the cliff, I estimated about a fifty, or more, foot drop.

“Oh, shit!” I scrambled down the rock, back onto the stony shoreline to search for him. Seconds ticked away, and the horrific realization that I may have just watched the man leap to his death pummeled my conscience.

C’mon. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.

Off a little way, his head breached the water. The distance from the shore sent a chill down my spine, when I imagined the depth there and what creatures might’ve lurked below him.

I screwed my eyes shut on a shuddered breath, and when he began his swim back toward the rock, I decided I’d had enough excitement.

Once again, I’d found myself more perplexed, the more I observed.

Who was this man?

As I made my way back up the staircase toward my bike, I decided the questions would never be answered by watching him from afar. I needed to get closer.

Which meant I needed to make a dreaded office hours appointment.