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A cry is still lodged in my throat when I wake, and I quickly cover my mouth, not wanting to accidentally make any noise and cause my roommate to wake.
I've gone mad.
Certifiably insane.
Or worse—-
I've become a god-awful pervert, to actually have wet dreams over a beast.
Even now, my body is still shamefully on fire, and I hate how every second of my dream is still vivid in my mind.
I've had crushes here and there, but never to the point that I've started having wet dreams about a guy. I've never even been tempted to ask for a guy's socials, for crying out loud.
But now this.
The beast in the labyrinth had filled me with fear when I saw it for the first time. So why has that terror turned into something sordid and forbidden?
Outside my window, the skies remain dark and cloudless. A quick check on my phone tells me it's just a quarter past five in the morning. I should probably go back to sleep, but when I think about the possibility of dreaming the same dream again...
Nope, nope, nope.
I get out of bed and grab my toiletry bag from the walk-in closet. Rosethorne's library is supposedly open 24/7, and it's my best bet to get the answers I need. I'm not expecting much, but surely...surely there has to be a book about unwanted gods showing up in people's dreams?
The shower room is empty as I expected, and I allow myself to take my time and enjoy the hot water streaming down my body. It's when I start soaping myself that my mind suddenly betrays me, and I find myself recalling the phantom pleasure I experienced under the mysterious shroud of my dreams.
Shit.
I quickly open my eyes, but it's now my body that betrays me, with my nipples turning rigid with unwelcomed arousal. I want to touch myself. Badly. But I don't. I can't. I mustn't.
Because in this world that I was born to, you never know when and where a god is watching you. You never know what that god would do if you revealed your weakness to their eyes. You're always better off not trusting a god, and as I'm more determined than ever to keep my life normal and divineless as possible—-
Shiiiiiiit!
A quick flip of the controls has the water turning from steaming hot to cold, and it's like suddenly being dunked in the icy waters of the Arctic Ocean. My teeth start chattering, and I feel like my fingers and toes are about to fall off at any second. Even so, I just grit my teeth and wait until the freezing-cold water does its job.
Most girls might sell their souls just to date a god, but I'd rather die a virgin. The divine is for the divine, humans are for humans, and anyone who thinks otherwise is just damning themselves with inevitable heartbreak.
****
AFTER BREAKFAST a la vendo, I make my way to the library, which - according to my handy dandy app-based map, is just three blocks away.
The streets are just as empty as they were last night, and now that I think of it, I haven't bumped into anyone either in Dark Rose House. Considering how weekends are the only times students are allowed to go off campus, maybe that's why Rosethorne seemed like a ghost town ever since I arrived?
The thought that it's just me and a few students in this huge, huge place makes me shiver, and the morning breeze that suddenly sweeps past me at that moment only makes things worse. I already have an oversized cardigan over my turtleneck and dress pants, but I still feel painfully underdressed for the weather.
If this is already how it is in late summer, I'll be one frozen duck come winter, and lesson truly learned: when crowdsourcing online for winter wear in Vermont, make sure to also mention you were born and raised in California. I've bought and brought everything I was advised to, but the East Coast folks I chatted to clearly have a different understanding of what's "suitable" defense against the cold.
By the time I reach Rosethorne's library, I'm practically hugging myself to death just to keep my body temp from dropping. On any other day, I would've spent more than a few moments just to feast my eyes on its architectural magnificence. But right now, all I care about is keeping myself from turning into an icicle, and I sigh in relief when room-temp air welcomes me as soon as I'm past its front doors.
The librarian working behind the counter looks friendly enough, and so I take my chances and ask rather awkwardly if they've any books about dreams and gods.
"Dream interpretation or dream crafting?"
"Uh..." Her words throw me off for a sec (dream crafting???), and I have to give myself a mental shake before telling her I'd appreciate a beginner's guide to dream interpretation.
"Are you sure?" The librarian's tone is dubious. "Because we do have such books, but they're written for young readers."
"Um..." I'm starting to feel a little out of my depth. I had no idea kids these days were so divine-savvy.
"Would that work?"
I shake my head. "What I need is something more like a...well..." I clear my throat. "An idiot's guide?"
Five minutes later, and I'm carrying a pile of books to the nearest desk. With just the first one alone - 10,000 Most Asked Questions about Dreams and the Divine - I already have a good-slash-bad inkling of the workings behind my dream.
So, the good news: gods have no power to kill humans in the dream world.
The bad news: other than that, anything else goes, and it's why the dream world has become the favorite playground of the divine.
I move on to the second book, and this, too, sheds more light on my subconscious activities. There are only three reasons why a god may appear in a human's dream: to deliver a message, to curse or bless the dreamer...or, in very rare cases, the fates of both human and god are entwined by destiny, and what the Crones weave, no one can untangle.
****
MY ALARM GOES OFF AT exactly fifteen minutes before seven, and I reluctantly take the books back to the counter. Although today's Halyna is a lot more smarter than yesterday's Halyna divine-wise, the information I've collected has only made me more anxious. I'd really rather not think that my fate is tied to a god, but if it is...what then?
The guidance counselor I'm supposed to be meeting in an hour also has an office in 44 Rosemary Square, but on my way there an all-black structure catches my eye, and my steps slow to a halt. It's all sleek lines, matte black walls, and panoramic windows, and it's the first building I've seen in the entire campus that actually seems to belong to this century.
I take my phone out, and according to my map, the building I'm looking at is...The Art Gallery of the Roses of the Erotes?
So it's not enough for this school to have its own wildlife reserve? It has to have its own art gallery, too?
This place doesn't even feel surreal anymore. It feels downright unbelievable, and the more I see, the less I understand about their reasons for taking me in. Every school in California has turned down my application for transfer while Rosethorne here has practically welcomed me with open arms. Am I reading too much or too little in the matter? Is it dumb luck that I'm here or did someone divine put me—-
My thoughts come to a half as the gallery's glass doors turn out to have motion sensors, and they slide open automatically as soon as I'm within range.
There's only one painting in the first section of the gallery, and it's something that I've never seen.
The Roses of Heliogabalus by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1888
This is going to make me sound like a philistine, but I recognize neither the name nor the painting's title, and all I can do is gaze admiringly at the painting. The flowers look really nice, and...oh shit, are those footsteps I'm hearing?
I quickly turn around, and my eyes immediately clash with a stranger's hooded dark gaze that sweeps over me with peculiar intensity.
The first thing I notice about him is his height. I'm five-foot-two, so practically everyone I meet is taller by comparison. But this man? He's really tall. Like, guaranteed-to-tower-even-over-supermodels tall, and I'm already dreading the need to crane my neck if I were to look him in the eye. Doing that always makes me feel I'm at an automatic disadvantage, and I hate it.
And as for the second thing I've noticed—-
It's what has me silently gulping, since I don't think I've ever seen a man so beautiful...that he can actually give me a run for my money. His hair is a jet-black mass of unruly waves, just a tad longer than what may be considered normal, and my fingers are itching to brush away the dark lock of hair brushing over his left brow. His nose is strong and refined, his cheekbones proud and high, and his jaw chiseled to perfection...just like the rest of his body. The perfect fit of his white buttoned-down shirt emphasizes the sculpted breadth of his shoulders, and the way he's rolled up his sleeves to his elbows leaves the muscles in his forearms wonderfully exposed.
When he takes a step forward, I can't help but do the same. There seems to be an invisible pull between us, almost as if the heavens have created this man just to tempt me to sin—-
"Hello."
Oh Lord.
Even his voice is another form of seduction. It's just the right blend of deep and husky, and though there's also this odd note I detect in his voice, I'm too enamored to make myself care.
"I believe you're not supposed to be here."
The worlds startle me, but as he's now merely inches away, I'm distracted by the way his nearness has my senses tingling.
"You probably aren't aware of it because you're new, but this place is private property."
It takes an extra moment for me to get past the 'private' part, and when my eyes fly up to him in disconcertment, he only shrugs, saying, "Everyone knows who you are, Ms. Mariposa. You're the only new student for the year, and so everyone has been understandably...curious."
Listening to him, I finally realize what that odd note was I detected earlier and what I'm hearing right now. That odd note is now mirrored by the glint in his dark gaze, and I also see it in the way his lips presently curve into a smile that's as beautiful as it's taunting. That odd note—-
It tells me that this man knows what I've been through. What I've been accused of. But instead of making him feel fear, pity, or sympathy towards me—-
All I can see in him...
All I can feel from him...
It's a cold and almost amused kind of speculation that's no different from a cat's curiosity towards a mouse it wants to toy with...before gobbling it whole.