Page 40 of Marrying My Professor

We finish our drinks and head to one more store—a vintage boutique Georgia swears by—where she insists on buying me a leather jacket that costs more than my car insurance.

"Consider it an early Christmas present," she says when I protest. "Or a late birthday present. Or a 'thank you for being my best friend even when I'm a disaster' present."

By the time we get back to the apartment, the sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. We collapse on the couch with takeout Thai food, and Georgia queues up her favorite comfort show—some vampire drama I've seen a hundred times but never complain about.

"This was good," I say as Klaus Mikaelson delivers another monologue about family and loyalty. "I needed this."

"I know you did." Georgia reaches over and squeezes my hand. "And for what it's worth? I think your brother would be proud of you. Whatever you're doing, wherever you are in your head right now... I think he'd be proud."

My throat tightens, and I have to blink back the sudden sting of tears. Because she's right. Brandon would be proud. He'd probably also tell me I'm being reckless and stupid and should let the professionals handle it.

But Brandon isn't here to tell me anything.

So I'll keep going. Keep investigating. Keep pushing until I find the truth.

But for tonight, for these few hours, I let myself just be. Let myself laugh at Georgia's commentary on the show, let myself feel the weight of the new haircut, let myself exist in a moment that has nothing to do with death or revenge or secret societies.

For tonight, I'm just a girl on a couch with her best friend.

And it's the first time since Brandon died that I've felt even remotely normal.

12

ELARA

The phrase leaves my lips like a prayer to a god I don't believe in.

"Veritas videt tenebras."

The truth sees the dark.

The woman behind the desk—different from the one at the other club, younger, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that could cut glass—doesn't even blink. She just nods once, reaching beneath the counter to produce a mask. This one is different from the delicate lace piece Alexander tied around my face weeks ago. This is black silk, edged with silver thread that catches the dim overhead lighting, covering everything from my hairline to the bridge of my nose.

"Welcome," she says in a voice that's all smoke and ceremony. "The initiation is on the lower level. Follow the stairs at the end of the hall."

I take the mask with hands that are steadier than they should be, considering I'm about to walk into a den of monsters who may have killed my brother. The silk is cool against my fingers as I tie it behind my head, positioning it carefully so it doesn't disturb the new bob that still feels strange and light against my neck.

The club stretches before me as I push through the heavy doors—similar to the one Alexander took me to, but darker. So much darker. Where that club felt like sin wrapped in luxury, this feels like sin stripped down to its bones and left to rot. The walls are black lacquer instead of bronze, the lighting a deep crimson that makes everyone look like they're already bleeding. The music is lower here, a bass-heavy pulse that you feel in your chest rather than hear, and the air is thick with something chemical and sweet that makes my head swim slightly.

I force myself to breathe normally. To walk with confidence instead of the trepidation clawing at my insides.

You belong here, I tell myself. You're just another pretty girl in a pretty mask looking for a good time.

Except I'm not. I'm a girl looking for answers about why her brother is dead, and if I'm not careful, I'll end up the same way.

The crowd is thicker than I expected. Bodies move through the space in various states of undress and intoxication, some dancing, some talking in tight clusters, others doing things in shadowy corners that I deliberately don't look at too closely. But what stops me cold, what makes my stomach drop and my pulse spike, is the faces.

Or rather, the lack of masks on some of them.

Because scattered throughout the crowd—mingling with the masked guests like it's the most natural thing in the world—are people I recognize. Students from campus. A TA from my dance theory class. Professor Chen from the linguistics department, her usual severe bun replaced with loose waves and a dress that would get her fired if anyone saw her wearing it on campus.

And they're not hiding. They're not skulking in corners or keeping their heads down. They're here, openly, like this is just another Friday night social event instead of whatever fresh hell the Veritas has cooked up.

My mind stutters, trying to process. Trying to reconcile Professor Chen—who gives pop quizzes on Chomsky and wears cardigans with elbow patches—with the woman currently accepting a drink from a masked man whose hand is way too low on her back.

What the fuck is this place?

And then, unbidden, a worse thought crashes through: Is Alexander here?