Near the entrance to the aisle, a tall, athletic student named Caleb—a star pitcher for the university and a man who had spent three months trying to get Fiona to notice him—clenched his jaw. He stood with his friend, holding a stack of reference books like they were weapons.
Caleb's eyes burned into the back of Damon's head, a look of pure, unadulterated loathing.
"Look at this clown," Caleb muttered to his buddy, loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. "Think he's in a play. What a freak."
Caleb's friend nudged him, sensing the sudden drop in temperature. "Forget it, man. Let's go. That guy gives me the creeps anyway. He looks like he's made of marble."
Caleb spat a quiet curse, turned on his heel, and marched away, his boots heavy and aggressive against the carpet. Damon didn't even turn around. He didn't acknowledge Caleb's existence any more than a mountain acknowledges a pebble.
Fiona leaned back, a confident, teasing smile playing on her lips. "You know, for someone who talks about 'hearts turning to parchment,' you're remarkably cold to your fellow man. You didn't even give poor Caleb a glance. Most guys would at least try to look intimidated by a varsity pitcher."
Damon tilted his head, his expression vacant of any human empathy. "Why should the wolf concern himself with the bleating of a lamb that is already headed for the fold? His noise is but a passing wind."
"Nonchalant as always," Fiona teased, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "It's a bold look, Damon. But I have to wonder... are you actually that bored with everyone, or are you just afraid that if you look too closely at us, you'll find something you can't handle?"
The exchange continued for a moment, a verbal fencing match where every word felt like a probe. But as Fiona laughed—a bright, genuine sound—Damon felt a sudden, sharp spike of irritation. It wasn't the laughter; it was the smell that accompanied it.
As she moved closer, the scent of vanilla and floral soap he had admired from afar shifted. Up close, beneath the perfume, there was a metallic tang. A scent of iron and ancient, stagnant water. It was a smell he associated with the deep labs, with the things Athalia used to brew in the Cathedral of Bones.
The dislike hit him like a physical wave. He found her confidence suddenly grating, her "human" warmth feeling more like a calculated mask.
"Thou art a tedious creature after all," Damon said, his voice suddenly losing its melodic charm. The Shakespearean lilt vanished, replaced by a cold, modern bluntness. "I find your 'thesis' more interesting than your company."
Without another word, without even a polite nod, Damon stood up. He didn't push the chair back; he simply stepped away and walked into the shadows of the stacks, his movement fluid and jarringly fast.
Fiona sat frozen for a heartbeat, her smile vanishing. She watched the spot where he had disappeared.
What was that? she thought, her pulse thrumming with a sudden, instinctual fear. The way he moved... there was no weight to it or a strained breath. A walking dead man to avoid.
Deep in the shadows of the law section, Damon leaned against a cold shelf, his teeth aching. His mind was racing.
That scent, he thought, his eyes narrowing until they were mere slits of black. The smell of the earth with stagnant water. She's no scholar. She's a necromancer huh, so it's true they haven't gone extinct.
The library returned to its hushed whispers, but the golden sunlight now felt cold. The predator and the prey had finally looked at each other, and both had realized that neither was what they claimed to be.