by Elena Monroe
He sat back down on his bed defeated and his bored expression was taken hostage by a look of pure worry.
Seeing someone so strong, tough even, seem so incurably bleak, I could tell how serious he was.
It put my joking to rest when my mouth collapsed into a frown, and I gave in to his demands one article of clothing at a time.
I started with my boots and socks, “You better spill while I do this.” Next I unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down my legs, exposing my unblemished complexion and black panties.
“We’re not from here, okay? Now we’re stuck on campus, and every time someone new comes they think they're the one.”
I rolled my eyes with a huff before pulling my shirt off. I knew it wasn't a ploy when his eyes stayed connected with mine, not even breaking eye contact for a peek at my panties or bra.
“The one? One for what?”
He stood up and, with one big step, ended up in my space. His hand reached out to touch my arm, stopping me from unclipping my bra. “You don't have to take off more.”
I unclipped my bra anyways letting the straps fall off my shoulders and down my chest between us. He didn't look down, but something told me he wanted to.
“Weren't you taking your clothes off in solidarity?”
I pushed down my black boy-short panties down to my knees before I stepped out of them and handed them to him. I was naked in front of Bolton—the man I both despised and, yet, felt so aroused around.
I watched him push down his jeans while maintaining eye contact. He left his boxers on—something I noticed when I looked down. I couldn't help myself.
“Am I the one? Any marks?”
His eyes hadn't even looked me over yet, and it felt like respect more than a rejection. “Bolton, you'd have to look at me first.”
“Turn around, face the mirror.”
I slowly turned around feeling his hand scrape across my midriff while I did so. I stared at myself in the mirror completely naked and probably in the best shape I'd ever be in.
From what I understood about aging, it was directly linked to growing more dissatisfied with your body. I was going to soak up loving it, for now.
Bolton stood directly behind me, not enough to feel his dick against my ass, but close enough to watch him move my hair to one side while he spoke into the nape of my neck.
“It can be small like Luna’s or big like mine. It depends on the person.” His gaze dropped down to my rib cage, “Why do you have a bow and arrow tattoo?”
It felt more awkward as my dad came to mind. “That's what my dad used to call me. His ‘Little Archer.’ I shot words without thinking.”
Bolton's fingers traced it lightly while he mulled something over in his mind. I could see the wheels turning as my arms crossed over my chest, trying to cover my breasts at least.
“Turn around,” he demanded, with such authority that my body listened before my attitude did.
Turning to face him, I kept my arms in place, shielding some of me, at least. I looked between us, letting my eyes stare at his bare chest and fall downward slowly.
“That's not really fair. I'm completely naked.”
He was still sporting black boxer briefs with some kind of Italian looking symbol on the band. It was on the tip of the tongue, but honestly, his protruding package looked impressive. When I was impressed, it had the effect of shutting me up.
I watched his hand cup himself, while not breaking eye contact. “This is business. Not pleasure.”
I sulked, like a child who wasn't getting their way, complete with a popped hip and brow.
“For fuck’s sake…” His fingers hooked into the band of his underwear, and in one swift push, his boxer briefs were on the floor as he stepped out of them. “Happy now?”
My mouth gaped open in complete shock at how comfortable he was, standing in front of me, stark naked. He wasn't even cracking a smirk at how impressed I was; he must have been used to this reaction.
He kneeled down on one knee, taking a closer look between my legs for whatever illusion he was looking for.
I tried to make small talk, as I looked at the ceiling, which was the furthest my eyes could go from what he was doing. “Where's everyone else's marks? You said everything depends on the person…”
He stood up, checking under my arms, before he answered. “Austin’s is the only other one I've seen as a tattoo. Like your bow and arrow. Everyone has them scattered around: hips, behind the ear, hands, biceps, top of the foot.”
I laughed out loud that he actually thought my rebellious tattoo from freshman year really meant something to his theory.
I reached for my hoodie and panties, covering myself up before I demanded that he explain what he promised, as I sat Indian style on his bed.
“This would be the time you either tell me the theory, or I get disappointed that you’re really after sex.”
He walked over to the window, leaning against the small lip that hung off the edge. “You’re not gonna believe me, but after last time…” He trailed off like his thought vaporized between bad memories. I fake coughed, trying to pull his attention back, when he faced me before continuing: “I’m not human.”
My stoic face waited for him to say he killed someone, and they were all guilty by association or something, but it quickly melted into a robust laugh. I slapped my hand over my mouth and started laughing hysterically, until there were tears in my eyes.
I had to choke out, “You aren’t serious? I mean, what are you then, Edward Cullen or Jacob?”
He wasn’t laughing when I finally tried to make eye contact. He wasn’t even smiling or smirking. No part of him found my joke funny, and I put him in the category of vampire.
Wolves seemed like they might have a better sense of humor—definitely not Bolton. His fair skin and dark hair made him practically a Photoshop’s dream, easily blended into the background.
“Can you take this serious? The last person we told ended up dead, Arianna.”
My laugh became stale in my mouth. I could tell he wasn't kidding, and whatever I was about to hear wasn't going to be funny.
“We're from Olympus. We’re all descendants of gods and goddesses. Fourteen years ago, we were released to find the ones who slipped away. We woke up here, at Arcadia, trapped.”
I felt like he was speaking another language, making it hard to keep up with all the syllables and sounds pouring from his lips.
“What do you mean trapped?”
He inhaled and exhaled sharply, “We can't leave Arcadia.”
The edge of his bed felt like the tallest cliff all of a sudden. I was teetering on the edge, and all the information I was taking in felt like a swift push.
I stood up, frustrated and confused, but wanting more pieces for the puzzle I was putting together. “What does that have to do with me?”
My anxiety was hard to summon, I lived for the unknown, but this kind of unknown felt like drowning in foreign waters.
His answer wouldn't be a life raft; I knew that, while I waited for him to breach the space between us.
“You're the one we've been waiting for.”
I wasn't just drowning anymore. I sank straight down and felt the weight of everything he was saying hold me under, while I gasped for any type of oxygen to hit my lungs.
In a state of panic, I jumped up and grabbed my jeans and boots, while the only color left on me was my manufactured purple hair; the rest of me was as white as a sheet of blank paper.
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not some desperate new girl who will take any friendship over honesty.”
I slammed his bedroom door behind me and practically flew down the stairs, like I had motorized wings, until I bumped into a laughing Nyx, who was coming in the same door I was exiting through. He held up his hands, trying to create some kind of visible boundary of his personal space.
He analyzed my panic, anger, and deprived oxygen state as an alarm he couldn't ignore. “What happe
ned?”
There was no comfort in his question; it was all business and to the point like he was. “Nothing. I don't wanna be part of whatever game y’all are playing.”
I stepped back, making my point by creating more space, before I spun around and headed for the girls’ dormitory.
Nyx didn't try to stop me.
All I heard was a mumbled “fuck” under his breath.
Arianna
Luna wasn't in our room when I got back from bolting from the boys’ dorms.
The silence was nice, and it let the loudness of my panic fill the space without her nurturing. Twisting the shower handle of the small stand up shower we had in our room was always tricky.
You had to pull and twist at the same time in order for the water to come out of the shower head.
I stripped down, once again, staring at my tattoo along my ribs, wondering why my dad landed on “Little Archer” as my nickname.
Why not trigger finger or something easier to relate to not thinking before I spoke? And did he realize my astrological sign was an actual archer?
There were too many what ifs.
I stepped under the water letting the heavy water pressure rain down on me like a storm.
Luna still wasn't back when I dried off and crawled into bed. I may not have wanted her before, but now I was ready to pick her brain and connect some dots. Instead, I pulled out my phone and googled Bolton’s enemy’s school, along with his enemy on Instagram.
Caellum's name yielded thousands of searches; I was impressed.
I opened his Instagram profile to find nothing, but life after Arcadia. I was pretty sure it aligned with life before: football, girls, parties, just minus the circle of freaks who tried to recruit me into their fucked up club.
Maybe they were a cult; I hadn’t stayed to get the details.
There was no doubt that Caellum was handsome and confident, just like the boys at Arcadia. He would have blended in effortlessly.
I stopped scrolling when I got to a shirtless selfie of him in a dirty mirror. I couldn’t help but admire the hottie from Bolton’s hell. Caellum had abs I wanted to lick, even though they weren't magically flavored. He had almost white blonde hair parted in the center, thick brows, and a smile that looked divine.
He was a heartthrob on his way to making other parts of your anatomy ache too.
Before I couldn't stop myself, my finger hovered over the message button, and I was typing: Sorry, this is random, but do you have a tattoo related to astrology?
I pushed “Send” immediately after I was done typing, not giving myself a chance to second guess myself. I was a serial type-and-delete kind of gal.
I would type something sarcastic first, second guess myself, type how I really felt, third guess myself, and then become even more sarcastic.
I hid behind it, where it was safe. Real feelings meant really losing people instead of just the idea of them.
I knew every time we moved to some crappy apartment that it wasn't the last time. Keeping people at a distance allowed me to make up these great possibilities of who they could be.
It was easier to miss the idea of someone than the actual person.
I scrolled without really thinking, trying to pass time, until my eyelids screamed for sleep. They were fluttering shut and open again on their own, when I finally fell asleep with my phone in my hand.
The next morning, Luna was leaning over me with wide eyes, whispering my name. I jumped, clutching my phone to my chest.
“Jesus, Luna! You can't wake people up like that. I'm too young for a heart attack.”
Luna giggled the small way she always did when something amused her. She stood up tall, announcing her reasoning for waking me up on a Saturday.
“The library opens earlier on weekends, and no one goes there on Saturdays.”
I cut her off with my hearty service of sarcasm, “Shocker.”
She rolled her eyes, like she expected my tone, even half awake.
“It's the best time to work on our history of Arcadia project, duh.”
I had forgotten about that project, and now I wished she didn't remind me. It was worth taking a zero if it meant ex-communication.
“Of course you wanna go to a library on a Saturday morning…”
I sat up, letting my phone fall into my lap, before I saw my screen illuminate my notifications, several private messages on Instagram. I ignored Luna’s voice in favor of swiping on Caellum’s messages. I wanted answers; no, I wanted validation.
Caellum: haha that's random.
Caellum: making a fan club for me? Guess that deserves some deets.
Caellum: Yeah, I do. Why?
I squinted, like I could read between the lines of his messages with just a stern look. It was a complete shocker when I couldn't. My fingers tapped fiercely against the glass screen of my phone, typing my response.
Me: I don't do fan clubs, cults, or anything that requires me to play well with others.
All smirks, I locked my phone and drew my attention to Luna, who was pulling on a knit sweater in a dusty rose color that didn't clash with her strawberry blonde hair. It complimented her.
It took me a minute to realize her eyes were wide, and I had missed something. She rolled her eyes, not bothering to repeat herself.
“Just get dressed. I'll meet you at the coffee cart downstairs.”
I pushed myself out of bed and just threw on my signature jean jacket. Changing for a library visit wasn't needed; my joggers and tank were fancy enough to browse dusty old books.
I grabbed my bag and stomped down the stairs, only motivated by the sunny outlook of coffee.
Luna held out a small hot coffee, while she leaned against the railing, waiting for me, before we made the trek across campus to the library.
Libraries were always quiet, but at this time on Saturday morning, it was creepy. We found a table warmed up by the sun and perfectly tucked behind shelves of books.
Luna took off as soon as her bag hit a chair. She was laser focused, and I was hitting a wall, while yawning into my to-go coffee cup.
I took my coffee with me into the same aisle of books I was in the last time I was in the library. I pulled the only book off the shelf that caught my eye—the only black book among the faded colors. I thumbed through the fragile pages, not sure what I was even looking for, when a drawing of a forest made me stop and stare. It was a simple drawing, not much detail, but I analyzed every corner of the page.
The candles on the stump in the center of the tall trees, the footprints in the dirt, and the feeling I got from just the picture without reading any of the words.
It was a sinking feeling, similar to when Bolton blurted out his insanities to me, hoping I’d jump on board.
I skimmed the words on the adjacent page, only stopping at the highlighted words: sacrifice, coven, curse on the town, and the number fourteen.
I don't know why those words jumped off the page, seemingly bold, underlined, and italicized.
The sinking feeling only climbed a mountain as I thumbed further into the book.
“Something worse than witches, a kind of power that couldn't be trapped by their human forms. They moved like us, spoke like us, felt just like us, except their purpose in Arcadia was greater than fulfilling God’s Word.
One of the thirteen fell into the Devil’s lust one winter. Their love only grew with the trees blooming in the spring. It wasn't until Pastor Oscar questioned his intentions with young Rosalie that we saw his dark side.
The thirteenth member of their unnamed coven stumbled over his words, and we caught his mark of evil on his neck, hidden under his collar.
I stopped reading, wondering why it all felt so familiar to me, when I had never heard of Arcadia before my dad dropped me off here. I sat down between the bookshelves in the small space, still holding the book and my coffee. I folded my legs together, reading more of the legend.
The devilish mark was burned into him with the fiery depths of hell.
He called himself Phrixus, a name as foreign as his tongue.
The council met on the full moon after the blanket of black weighed heavily on everyone’s eyelids. Our order and laws needed to be upheld, even among the Devil.
That night, Phrixus walked into my office demanding our ear.
“You are wise to fear me. I walk among mortals in this form, yet I do not blend in. I require the girl, as payment, and I will leave your fates to my gods, instead of at my own blade.”
The buckles on my men’s boots shook with fear, but I wasn't ready to accept defeat at the Devil’s hands. I was a holy man bound by my Bible and spirit that lifted me from my bed every morn. I placed my hand at my sword and steadied my gaze on the man. He looked as young as Rosalia, but the Devil can take many shapes.
I stopped again to contemplate the words I soaked up and how much those words fed the feeling in the bottom of my stomach. Sinking further into familiarity and despair at what transpired so long ago.
I closed the book and pulled the ones next to it off the shelf without inspection before making my way back to the table.
“Find material for your project?”
I sat down with a hard, loud thud against the wood, and then I looked up, like I expected the librarian to elicit some loud shhh from the desk centrally located.
“Did you know in the 1600’s there was a group of people with burned marks that scared the town shitless?”
Luna twisted the book towards her, reading the spine and immediately pulling them towards her. “You can't use these. They're artifacts. Fragile.”
I laughed at her; none of that sounded like a good enough excuse to me.
“What are you talking about? They were on the shelf. If they were so off limits, wouldn't they be under lock and key?”
She looked uncomfortable and tense all of a sudden. Even the thought of someone near her breaking the rules sent Miss Innocent into a silent meltdown.
I ignored her aversion to breaking the rules and took notes on the urban legend I chose for the project, leaving Bolton with no choice.
