Nocticadia: A Dark Academia Gothic Romance

The lab coat I’d worn the last time I’d worked in the lab hung from its hook just outside of the door. I donned it, as Professor Bramwell had asked of me, and entered the code for the keypad. The door clicked open to the laboratory, where I found him typing on a laptop at one of the benches. Candles flickered about the lab, giving off an eerie feel, like something out of a Jekyll and Hyde novel.

I licked my lips, where I’d applied the same lipstick I wore on the night of the gala. The shade that’d seemed to snag his attention.

Beside him stood a stereo microscope, and on the opposite side, a large glass dome held two, small, purple Sominyx moths, which didn’t cling to the walls as they should have, but lay on the floor of their cage.

“New pets?” I asked, noticing the small holes in the top of the dome and the bowl of berries provided to them, and of course, a chunk of bloody meat that had me grimacing.

“Test Group Ten,” he grumbled, keeping on with his typing.

“These are the moths you’re using to study the toxin?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have names for them?” A quick examination of the moths showed enough distinctions in coloring to distinguish them. One had a white spot, and the other, a crooked probiscis.

“No. I don’t have names for them.” He still hadn’t peeled his gaze from the eyepiece.

“What a shame. I mean, seems like it would be bad luck not to name them individually.”

Brow cocked, he shot me a glance that turned into a double take, as his gaze seemed to catch on my lips. Clearing his throat, he turned away again, brow furrowed, and I bit the inside of my lip, feeling victorious that he’d noticed. “Feel free, if you’re so inclined.”

“Me? Wow. The pressure. They have to be good names, if we want the experiment to be successful, right?”

“I’m afraid the name is inconsequential.”

Smiling, I turned my attention back to the moths. “By the way, what’s the cat’s name?”

“Bane.”

“What are you, a DC fan, or something?”

“No. I’m simply not a fan of curious cats that like to invade my workspace.”

Without a doubt, he’d inherited the cat. Still kind of cute that he’d allowed it to stay. And had named him. Turning my attention back to the moths, I studied the unnatural kink to their wings, which brought to mind the way my mother’s spine had begun to bow in the latter stages of her illness. How helpless and sad it’d always made me feel, watching her hobble around in pain. A somber ache throbbed in my chest, and I cleared my throat. “So, names. I think the one in the back with the white spot on its wing should be Achilles, and the one in the front, with the goofy proboscis, should be Patroclus.”

From his profile, I caught the lowering of his brows, and I chuckled, thinking about how many muscles the man must flex in a day with all those frowns.

“Is this an obsession with Greek mythology?”

“In your canonical world, I suppose it would seem that way.”

“Dare I ask what it represents in your world?” he asked, making a quick sketch in the notebook beside his microscope that appeared to be the melanization of larva, given the dark pigmentation.

As I peered down at his artwork, a small white scar just below his knuckle caught my eye and had me wondering how it’d gotten there. At his abrupt pause, I glanced up to see his brow cocked in expectation and realized I hadn’t answered his question. “A romance novel I read a while back.”

He let out a disapproving sigh. “I’m sure it was enriching.”

“You shouldn’t knock romance, Professor. It so happens that love is biologically important to human beings. It reduces blood pressure and depression, and improves sleep.”

The contemplative expression on his face twisted to a smirk. “And just how does that benefit you as a reader? A voyeur, essentially. You have no intimate connection with these fictional characters.”

“Says who? I happen to get very attached to my fictional boyfriends.”

Yet another frown. “Boyfriends?”

“I read a lot.”

With a shake of his head, he huffed. “Fine. Achilles and Patroclus,” he conceded.

“Has a nicer ring than Test Group Ten.” I drew my finger over the glass, curious that the moths didn’t bother to flutter off, or startle, at my presence. “What’s wrong with them? Why are they hanging out on the floor of the cage?”

“They suffer with a condition that affects their ability to fly. The muscles used to contract their wings are faulty.”

“And so, you intend to inject them with the toxin in hopes it’ll reverse it?”

“Precisely.”

“Have you had success before?”

“No. The moth metabolizes the toxin before it can repair the muscles.”

“Then, the puzzle is slowing the speed it metabolizes. How?”

“If I knew that, I’d be on a yacht sipping champagne, instead of fielding all of your millions of questions. Again.”

I smiled as the moth hobbled, trailing after my nail that I dragged across the glass. “The ferry ride here was my first time on a boat. First time on the sea. I’ve never actually touched the water, at all.”

In my periphery, he lifted his head from the microscope and turned to me. “You’ve never touched the sea?”

“I was always scared of it. The vastness. The power. The way it could sweep a person off their feet and carry them miles away from shore. Then you’re alone and adrift in the middle of nowhere. With God knows what swimming beneath you.” I stared off, imagining the visual I’d had on the ferry ride. “Deep waters terrify me.”

“Or perhaps it’s the sea who fears the depths of you, Miss Vespertine.” The amusement in his voice and dimple in his cheek told me the comment wasn’t serious, but it left me wondering if there was an element of truth in his humor. If the man buried his compliments that way, or softened his insults behind handsome smiles and poetic words.

“That’s ridiculous,” I played along. “The sea doesn’t fear anything.” Turning back toward the moths, I fought the urge to smile. “Well, these moths are named, therefore this experiment cannot fail.”

“If you say so.” Eyes still peering through the microscope, he reached for the notebook beside him and handed it to me. “I’ve detailed a list of chores for you.” A small Post-It flag stuck out from the side, labeled ‘Vespertine’, and I opened the book up to a list of illegible scribbles.

“Jesus. Did you have to take a class to write this bad?”

He let out a disapproving grumble. “Keep in mind, it’s you who wants this job. Not the other way around.”

I chuckled to myself, trying to decipher the first chore on the list, and got to work on the menial tasks I’d specifically requested not to do.

The hours passed quickly, and once again, it was time to go. Just as he had the night before, he walked me to the bus stop. A sharp tension rattled my nerves, recalling the last we’d walked together and he’d collapsed in front of me, without warning.

“No millions of questions tonight?” he asked, staring up at the stars, as we strolled across the yard.

Smiling, I lowered my gaze. “Okay, fine. Remember, though, you asked for it.

“I take full responsibility.”

“You seem kind of young for a tenured professor with a medical degree. What’s up with that?”

“I was fast-tracked. It pays to have the right connections. Remember that.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, debating whether, or not, to ask the next question. One that’d toyed with my mind for days, and I wouldn’t have been ballsy enough to ask out of the blue, but since he was actually entertaining questions, why not. “Why did you carry me to your car that night? You could’ve left me in the gardens. Someone might’ve found me.”

When he glanced back at me, his brow did that painfully attractive kicking-up thing. “Had I known you were going to blackmail me, I might’ve.”

I chuckled. “You don’t strike me as a man who’s easily blackmailed.”

“And you don’t strike me as a young woman who longs to sequester herself in an antiquated lab with cadavers and parasites, either. Yet, here we are.”

The smile on my face faded as I contemplated why I was still so drawn to this after my mother’s death. Why my curiosities had so much of a chokehold over me. “I feel compelled to do something meaningful with my life. I owe it to my family.”

“You owe nothing to your family,” he said abrasively, as if I’d insulted him. “Passions are useless, if we pursue them for others. They become obligations. Undesirable.”

“This project is your passion.”

“I suppose. In spite of all the political bullshit.” He glanced over at me. “What’s yours?”

It was a question I’d answered so many times, on applications and in interviews, and my benign response of wanting to help people was always the same. But that wasn’t true, either, and in light of his last comment, I got the sense he’d see right through it, so I answered honestly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m still searching for it. I love science. I love learning. And I want to cure Noctisoma someday. Put you out of business.”

“Good luck.” It was clear from the way his lips twitched that he was holding back a smile. “To answer your question about why I didn’t leave you in the gardens that night, I find you to be an intriguing annoyance.”

“I guess that’s appropriate, coming from a man I find to be brilliantly antisocial,” I quipped.

The crease at the corner of his eye hinted at the slightest smile. Man, the guy was stingy when it came to them. “I suppose that’s fair. I have a gift for repelling.”

I snorted and shook my head. “Not the brunette who sits in front of me in class,” I blurted.

“What about her?”

I instantly regretted having brought her up. “She seems to be very …” An image came to mind, of two days before when she’d snapped a photo of him rolling up his sleeves before lecture, with the caption: Professor Hand Necklace [tongue emoji]. “Observant during your lectures.” I dared a glance and found him staring at the ground, frowning, his hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves rolled up over those exquisite forearms she’d captured in her photo. “She’s pretty,” I added, gauging his reaction. “Seems your type.”

A short distance away, the headlights of the bus flickered as it approached my stop.

“Hardly. I don’t have a defined type, particularly when it comes to my students.”

“She’ll be thoroughly disappointed, I’m sure.” At that point, I didn’t even know if I was talking about the girl anymore. “Under different circumstances, she might’ve been the perfect match.”

“Under different circumstances …” The pause in his words carried a laborious heartbeat that smothered my own, as I watched the slightest smile play on his lips. A beat of hesitation. “I might’ve pursued you.”

A nervous rush of breath escaped me. I gripped the strap of my bookbag in some faulty attempt to hold my composure, and swallowed past the dryness in my throat. “And I might’ve let you.” The bus rolled to a stop, absolutely killing the moment. If it counted as a moment. “Goodnight, Professor.”

“Good night, Miss Vespertine.”