Chapter 7

September 8th, 2018

Collège de St. Cyr

Serpens Hall

Moon in Leo - Waning Crescent

As I let go of the trolley's handle - which I hadn't realised to be holding so tight - I reach forward to place the rucksack on the bed. Darren's entire lifework is there. His laptop isn't, it was stolen. But his research, his essays, everything he ever worked on and studied, is inside that rucksack. He left everything to me, including the journal he kept and a pen drive his lawyer handed me. An heirloom of lies and deceit I never expected of him. Before my mind even starts trying to come to terms with everything that happened these past few days, I run to the dresser, open the small drawer on the left, shove away my underwear and pull out the little bottle. Half full, but enough to see me through. There'll be a new batch nearly ready in my study downstairs, on the ground floor.

I open the thing and take a long, fast swig of its contents. Not bothered with diluting it in a tea or coffee, I let the thick milk ooze down my throat, burning me as it runs down. Soothing me as well, which is what I need. A sudden haze flits across my brain, my eyes, which glaze. Mellow, soft emotions careen through me, I'm no longer anxious, no longer angry, no longer aroused.

I just am.

Floating in a cloud of blankness and calm, there's a sense of peace, justice, about everything. A sense of justice that he died, which is rather unfair of me. Guilt nearly brings me out of the respite provided by the Essens Lunaire. I fight back, drink another drop, let it take me whole. It'll be easier to analyse what I've learnt if I'm not hindered by ego. The poppy milk takes all that away. I won't be prey to disappointment nor pain, which won't hamper me from studying the truth with complete objectivity. Shoving the rucksack slightly to the side, I lay on the bed and close my eyes.

Tired as I am, I'll probably fall asleep in a few seconds. Still, I think back to the events of these past weeks. Montpelier telling me Professor Whitford had been found dead in his home. The insanity of leaving St. Cyr soon after I'd gotten here, the drive to the nearest airport, the layover, the flight to London and then the ride to Somerset. It's all a blur, those first few days. No wonder; I think I consumed my entire stash of poppy milk then. Which I'm glad I did. When I finally faced the cops, I was back to being a mess, a wreck, crying over Darren's death like a little boy who just lost his father. Which was exactly how I felt.

Turns out I didn't lose my father, but my maternal grand-uncle.

The thought burns my stomach, drives bile up my throat. He lied to me all these years. It wasn't out of the goodness of his heart he walked into the fucking Du Vall Institute that day. It wasn't a coincidence his heart was captured by the little, lonesome boy sitting by himself. He was the one who took me to that place when I was born. Because all this time, he knew who my mother was, his very own niece. Probably knew who my father was, too, but that's a secret Darren Whitford took to his grave. I don't know if I can ever forgive him the deceit. Why? Why didn't he tell me while he was alive? Why leave a letter with a fucking lawyer, to be handed to me when he died? He wasn't man enough to tell it straight to my face, that he was my family, really was my family?

Because he said so, plenty of times. 'Ezra, we're family,' he'd mumble whenever he was emotional. I never took it literally. Of course we were family, I'd think, for I loved him like a father and knew I was akin to a son to him. But maybe I should have questioned his interest, back then, when I was a child. When I was a teenager. Fuck, when I was a young adult, studying under his guidance here at St. Cyr. I should have questioned why this man had walked into an orphanage and taken a shine on me; why this man visited me on birthdays, took me on outings, on holiday. I should have questioned why I spent school breaks at his place, why there were always so many presents for me under the Christmas tree, and never, for one second had this man demanded something in return from me. My closest friends at school found it odd, but they were also keenly jealous of this. No one wanted us, but this man, he seemed to want a little of me. He seemed to care for me. I should have questioned why he did.

Reading that letter was worse even than hearing Montpelier tell me Darren was dead. The shock was far more impressive, like a rain of blows upon my head, my stomach. I was knocked out of air, from my feet, the ground taken from under me. I was no longer myself, Ezra King, orphan, probably born to a Regular mother who had no idea what to do with me. Who had no room in her life for me. In a manner of seconds, Darren managed to achieve something he'd been trying to do most of his life. He'd transmuted a Sanguinaire into something other than what he started with. I was no longer that man; now I had a mother, whose behaviour was so dangerous and erratic to land her dead a couple of years after I was born. She got into a car with the wrong person, and they ended up crashing, both dying instantly. I wonder if the bloke she was with was my father. Darren didn't mention his name in his letter, not one single time.

My back aches. I turn round in bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, and a sudden thought flashes across me, drowned by the poppy milk the moment it surfaces. She was there, Cassandra was, and I was in a position far more comfortable, tucked inside her. I need to keep this girl out of my head. Closing my eyes won't help, so I keep them wide, the shadows in my room providing ample company to how lonely I suddenly feel. I lost my only family, and he was real family. And the world of Nonpareils lost one of its brightest, most talented brains. It was a heavy loss, all around.

The funeral was a packed affair. His lawyer arranged for it, all the while guiding me through everything. Being Darren's sole surviving family member, I inherited everything. The house, the battered old car, the debts, the money, everything. Including his journal and his research, but this is something I can't bear to consider for the moment. I'm still coming to terms with the funeral, and how I struggled not to break down. There were just so many people, there. People I didn't even know. And they were all about to learn how I'm Darren's great-nephew, and how he left me to grow up at Du Vall, as if I had no family. A part of me was vindicated by this, by this stain to his impeccable standing, until I remembered there had been other stains to his honour, his reputation. When he was forced to step down from his seat at St. Cyr, it was because of one such stain. Some student accusing him of abuse. The scandal must have had repercussions beyond the expected, especially because this particular student was male, and Darren was never into men.

I'm not saying he wouldn't indulge in a completely inappropriate affair with one of his students, I know for a fact he did. Well, I don't know for sure, but I strongly suspect, although the only time I accused him of it, he swore he'd never looked at Noelle that way. Swore he'd never do that to me, because he'd known how in love I was with the girl, back then. Back then, when another scandal threatened to stain his reputation. The two suicide girls, Noelle's disappearance; I remember that nearly got Darren into trouble. It was Wellesley who ended up getting all the heat. Rector Wellesley, who was Darren's close friend. He was at the funeral, and a broken, shattered man for it. Everyone was there, at least from the Academic Nonpareil community. Even some of his former students.

Noelle wasn't, although I sort of hoped to see her. I wonder what happened to her, is she dead, is she alive? I wonder what she knew about those girls, why she said it was our fault they killed themselves. Darren kept telling me to forget it, Noelle was upset and lashing out. But was she? Now's too late to find out anything, she's probably gone. I asked Tom if he'd heard anything about her; he shook his head and changed the subject. Kept asking if the police had any suspects, this was after I'd been cleared. He looked scared, to be honest. Told me Davide had died in the Summer, drowned in his lover's swimming pool. Told me Thierry had also died, in fact he was victim of a hate crime in Avignon, back in 2017. I remember it was in the news, his body was found with stab wounds and beaten to a pulp, the police suspected it was a racial attack of sorts.

Brian wasn't at the funeral either, and Tom knew as much of him as he did of Noelle. The last they'd spoken, he said, was somewhere around February. I talked to him after that, it must have been May, he called wanting to know if I remembered Noelle's surname. Paillard, I told him, inquired why he wanted to know. Something about having met a girl who reminded him of her, wanted to check if it could be her daughter. And that's the last I heard of him, but he was living in the UK, and I doubt he wasn't notified of Darren's death. Which means he just didn't want to attend the funeral. But everybody else was there. Even Montpelier, who is such a fan of Darren's work as an educator. He thinks I'm the same, students flock to me in a thirst for knowledge. Thinks I can charm them as Darren did, thinks I'm as charismatic as he was, because he sees in me the same passion for these subjects. Darren was passionate about teaching; I, on the other hand, am not. I'm passionate about studying.

And that just brought her back to my mind. My blue-eyed Cassandra, and her eager, quick mind. Her essay is really quite interesting, it opens the door for further study. How does it influence the mind, the psyche, when the body is subjected to transmutation? How does the spirit cope? And why can't Sanguinaires succeed in complete and visible transmutation, like the Shifters do? Why are Sanguinaires so much more successful with Chaos Magic than Shifters? Is it something in the genetics of the species? Is it the DNA?

I should be back at Notre Dame researching this, not here putting up with snotty, bratty youngsters who think they're special. Not here, obsessing about girls too young for me to even consider. I know what my head is doing, it's trying to keep my thoughts away from Cassandra, from Darren's death and his betrayal. Fine by me, I'll just get some work done, seeing I can't sleep. Reading through what I've been working on might help me ease my mind, and I can check Ramon's results and his own research, I'm sure he must have sent me those tables he was working on, by now. Jumping from bed, I'm fully awake, ready to take on the world. Ready to hide from it in my studies.