Thien—minoring in Art History—is Laila’s best friend.
Their eyes all swivel toward me.
Of course, I’m still wrestling myself out of my very wet, very yellow rain jacket. I pause, one arm in, one arm out. “Um, my name’s Diantha?—”
“Like the Pokémon?” Ray interjects.
“What? No.” I grimace. This seems to be the default expression Ray evokes. “It’s a flower, o-or a Greek goddess?—”
“But also a Pokémon.”
“I’m not named after a Pokémon.” I try to keep my voice even, unaffected. Jovial even.Who the fuck is this guy?
Ray starts to reply, but the lecture hall door creaks ajar. Fingers curl around the brown oak and a figure sidles through, dripping into class like a noontime shadow growing over concrete. His movements are nearly silent, save for the softclickof the door shutting as he presses his back against it.
I take in the man before me.
Ink-black hair cut into a sharp ducktail. A silver hoop through his left ear. Designer sunglasses—maybe Celine or Tom Ford—with completely blackened lenses balancing on the arch of a strong nose, obscuring his gaze. His chin is square, full lips sitting in a heavy pout.
Professor Bowen’s eyes flicker to the figure, and then he does a full double-take.
Why can’t we stop staring?
He’s not impressively tall or unbelievably wide. He’s not a massive brick wall of masculinity. Sure, his shoulders are broad and his waist tapered, but there’s a smoothness to him that stops my breath in my throat. A smoothness to his skin, to his movements.
Like he’s carved from marble.
“My apologies,” the newcomer says. His voice is a deep rumble, vowels inflected with an accent. Russian? Spanish? He pushes a hand through his hair, so dark I only notice that it’s wet when the strands don’t fall back in front of his eyes.
“No worries.” Bowen sounds shocked.
He pushes his sunglasses up into his hairline, and without meaning to, I hold my breath. His eyes sweep upward, and through the diffused classroom light, if I’m not mistaken…
His eyes areyellow.
I blink. Hard. And next thing I know he’s across the front of the room and sliding into the chair next to me. Everyone shifts in their seat. Am I imagining it or has the temperature in here increased significantly?
“Well, you must be…Mr. Orfeo DiPaolo.” Bowen stutters over his last name but keeps his placid tone. Unimpressed.
I don’t lift my eyes from the notebook in front of me.
Orfeo DiPaolo. His name sounds like music—like a threat.
And undeniably, he must be Italian.
“Yes, professor. My lateness is inexcusable. I didn’t want to take my motorcycle, so I had to walk from across town.”
“Motorcycle?” Laila asks, as if he’s just shared that he has a vial of the Ebola virus in the back pocket of his Levi’s.
I can’t help myself anymore. I look up. Orfeo slips out of his leather jacket and begins carefully rolling up the sleeves ofa pristine white button-up. His forearms are thick and corded, his knuckles square. Not overly muscular. Delicate in their vascularity, almost. Thin lines of ink trace the length of his arm and join together in flourishes around his wrist, like the leaves at the top of a Roman column. A chunk of hair has dried and escaped the wrangle of his glasses. It falls in a C shape across his forehead. His scent invades my personal space. Clean, sharp. Like mint or licorice.
“Mhmmm.” He moves the sound around his mouth. “I know. Quite dangerous and ever more so in the rain.”
Bowen points his pencil at me. He’s regained his composure, but I swear we trade a look of mutual shock. “Diantha, you were saying.”
I clear my throat and straighten my back. “Right. Not named after a Pokémon. I’m in my last semester of my master’s in Art History with a focus on objects of the occult, specifically European objects of the nineteenth century.” My mouth has gone dry and I can’t force out the words—can’t bring myself to actually say out loud why I decided to take this class when I’ve never cared much at all for Medieval art.
I want to see the catacombs.
