Chapter One – Beauty in the Fog
The taxi struggled along the path, slowing to navigate the sharp curves cut through the mountain to reach the impenetrable fortress sitting at its very top. A medieval castle centuries ago, Veridien Academy should have been an unlikely option for an educational institution, especially for the offspring of affluent families. The draw bridge had been removed and the moat filled with stone and dirt, over which large slabs of granite had been placed to press down the bloody history of the place.
Through the car window, Lawrence observed the looming construction. Once he went through the gates, he'd be on his own, despite his uncle's and Marius Vassier's assurances to the contrary. It was only an observation; he preferred to work alone, and this was his first true shot at real fieldwork. Whatever he'd done at the police academy until now barely counted as homework.
"Here will do," he told the taxi driver.
"Are you sure, young man?" The driver was well into his sixties and close to retirement. Too often for Lawrence to ignore it, he had stolen glances at him through the rearview mirror. "It's quite a hike to that school."
The way the driver said the last words made Lawrence wonder about the myths surrounding or involving the academy. The place commanded respect, fear, and unnatural superstition. It was expected that the locals would tell tales about it.
Later, when he'd go down to the village, he'd casually converse with the people there, see what kind of rumors they enjoyed spreading about the old educational institution.
"It is fine," he confirmed and waited for the taxi to slow down to a stop around a bend.
When he got out, the first thing Lawrence noticed was the thin layer of ice covering the tarmac. The elderly driver was better off not risking his and his passenger's lives on these curves.
Snow came early here. Lawrence rubbed his hands together, enjoying the cold. Vassier had insisted on purchasing a high-quality pair of gloves for him, but he intended to use the extras so lavishly offered as little as possible so he could return them in good enough shape to be resold. The private investigator had removed the price tags in front of him to ensure that Lawrence wouldn't just put the gloves aside, with no intention of using them at all.
He understood why both his uncle and Vassier insisted so much on his projecting a certain level of wealth. Credibility was essential for an undercover agent. But the closest he stayed to his true self, the less likely he was to make mistakes. He would balance things.
The taxi disappeared from view, its taillights slowly fading into the morning fog that had yet to lift. Lawrence inhaled, then exhaled, taking in the mist of his breath becoming one with the haze surrounding him.
The air was fresh and sharp. His lungs were thankful for it, but Lawrence became quickly aware that breathing in too deeply made him dizzy. The elevation would take a bit of getting used to, he duly noted.
The snow that had fallen overnight clung to the needles of pine trees, but it hadn't been abundant enough to cover the earth with a soft blanket. That would happen later, without a doubt. It was barely mid-October, and here the weather was harsher already.
Lawrence grabbed his luggage and began climbing the demanding slope. Choosing to walk by the road instead of on it, he made sure he wouldn't slip by accident. The fashionable boots Vassier had insisted on purchasing for him had reasonable grip, but Lawrence still considered his old footwear better. That pair was stashed at the bottom of his luggage, just in case.
The driver couldn't have known, and Lawrence preferred to keep things to himself, but he hadn't gotten out of the taxi early just to enjoy the exercise.
It was one thing to study the crime scene on maps and imprecise drawings made on blackboards at the police academy – the cadets usually enjoyed the illicit nature of speculating on ongoing investigations – and another to see and examine the place himself.
According to what he knew, he wouldn't have to walk far. Right ahead, to the left, the ground gave way, and a ravine stretched alongside the road, like a wound opening inside the earth.
Of course, to get closer to his destination, Lawrence needed to abandon the road altogether. He wasn't expected until eight sharp, which gave him enough time to conduct his examination of the place where Lukas von Keller had fallen to his death. Or been pushed to it.
The thin snow crunched underneath his feet as he walked in earnest. The slope grew sharper here, making the chasm to the side look menacing and dark.
At least the air was still. Strong winds wrapped around Veridien Academy, its thick walls and tall spires. Lawrence took a moment to catch his breath and observed the old castle, rising like a long dark shadow, not so far from where he stood. Guarded by sharp cliffs from three sides, the castle could only be accessed from the side where the moat used to be. The fog bathing the ground made it appear as if the dark building floated, like a figment of imagination or a fairytale.
He was about to move again when an incongruous sight stopped him from advancing.
Someone was there, standing at the highest point above the ravine – according to Lawrence's approximate calculations – about a dozen yards away from him. The fog engulfed the lower part of the stranger's body, so at first glance, Lawrence thought he had to be completely naked.
It was a young man, with light blond hair and skin so white that it was easy to miss him by how well he blended with the fog around him. The same as Veridien Academy, he appeared to be floating above the ground, like a character from a fantastic story.
His arms were hanging by his sides. From the position of his body, Lawrence garnered a wealth of information. The young man was lonely, saddened, maybe even ready to take a reckless last step.
Cautiously, Lawrence put his luggage down. Then, with measured moves, he shimmied out of his coat, which he slowly folded over his arm. He needed to make just the right amount of noise so he didn't startle the man. From the corner of one eye, he considered the distance between him and the chasm to the left. A wrong step was all it would take.
Closer and closer, the stranger came into view completely. He wasn't naked. He wore dark navy pants, which Lawrence recognized as being part of the Veridien uniform. But his feet were naked, and the toes curled over the edge, the ravine opening below.
Lawrence considered his options. In two steps, he'd be there and snatch the young man before the unthinkable happened. But if his assumptions were wrong, he risked making a fool of himself before even stepping inside Veridien. It wouldn't bode well for his first day.
He stopped when the stranger turned his head, alerted by his presence. Lawrence thought his eyes were playing tricks on him for a moment.
Because he was staring at a shockingly beautiful face. It wasn't the perfect symmetry that made it so, but the slight imperfections, such as a bottom lip that looked too full and petulant, or the purple shadows underneath the eyes.
Eyes as pale and clear, yet dark, as river ice.
"A bit chilly today, isn't it?" Lawrence asked, eager to break the spell that knocked the air out of his lungs momentarily.
The stranger stared at him for a long moment that hurt Lawrence's face. Under that watchful gaze, he found himself breathless once more.
"What an old man thing to say," the stranger said in a warm, unhurried voice.
Lawrence struggled with the ticklish sensation sneaking close to his skin at the sound of the stranger's voice.
"Is that for me, Sir Galahad?"
The soft mockery was evident. But as he turned, the beautiful stranger no longer appeared to teeter close to the edge. He had moved away from it, abandoning whatever thoughts had plagued him earlier in favor of the solid ground.
Lawrence offered his coat without another word. Now that the initial shock of staring into the very face of beauty was beginning to wear off, he knew who the young man was.
Bastien Hawthorne. The main suspect, according to the von Kellers. His uncle had advised him to keep an open mind, and Lawrence intended to do so.
Bastien took the offering the way a king would accept a gift from a vassal. With deliberate moves, he draped it over his shoulders. Lawrence bit his lips not to smile. While the Hawthorne heir wasn't a small man by any means, that big coat swallowed his entire frame, making him look like a kid.
A lost one.
Lawrence stared at Bastien's naked toes.
Bastien, who appeared to follow his every move, chuckled. "Where is your noble steed, oh gracious knight? The damsel in distress, as you can see, lost not one crystal shoe, but both."
"If you don't mind me carrying you--" Lawrence started, thinking too quickly, and speaking even faster.
Bastien burst into laughter, throwing his head back and startling Lawrence. He had a graceful neck, unblemished skin, and rows of teeth so translucent white that they made Lawrence think, tritely so, of strings of pearls.
A pink tongue darted out, licking the chapped lips. Still, they were lovely, and Lawrence stared. He hadn't known men could be so beautiful. He had thought the pictures of Lukas von Keller and Bastien Hawthorne in the papers showed two handsome young men but nothing beyond that. Now, faced with one of them, the alive one, he had to reconsider what he knew.
Both Vassier and his uncle had been cautious when informing him of the nature of the relationship between the victim and his supposed murderer. But Lawrence hadn't been shocked or disgusted; having been trapped in educational institutions with mostly other males since his teenage years, he understood enough of the longing and desire that led to such occurrences.
He'd never been one to indulge in vulnerabilities of that kind. Though he could see now, more than ever, why some vague initial attraction could very well turn into a burning, imperious need to kiss another man.
Because he wanted, against everything that stood to reason, to kiss Bastien Hawthorne out of the blue. The rogue thought shocked him. It had to be the effect of the fog, the elevation, the dizziness and breathlessness that came with them.
"You are quite forward, aren't you? How should we do it?" Bastien looked even more attractive when he smiled than forlorn and lost like earlier. "Should I ride on your back, or will you treat me like a damsel in distress and carry me bridal style?"
Lawrence was at a loss for words. It seldom happened to him to be left without a reply. The many occasions when he didn't answer people's questions were usually caused by his lack of interest in their inane suggestions.
This time, however, it wasn't by choice that he remained speechless. Along with the force of the startling attraction he experienced toward none other than the undercover investigation's main suspect, it most likely made him appear dull and dim-witted.
Lawrence didn't want to touch Bastien Hawthorne. It would be strange, appalling, and against the purpose of his business at Veridien.
Lawrence wanted to touch Bastien Hawthorne. His flesh was like living marble, and he yearned to know if it was warm.
"Should I choose, then?" Bastien teased him mercilessly, moving closer.
He did his best not to flinch when Bastien raised one hand and attempted to move it through Lawrence's coarse hair. It grew too fast, and he was due for a haircut. He had planned to do it soon, but investigating the crime of the century at Veridien had made him forget about such mundane things.
Bastien snickered. "Your hair is like wool. Quite stubborn. I bet you're the same." The tips of his fingers grazed Lawrence's scalp before slipping away. "Don't worry. I like it," Bastien added and winked. He pulled the coat around himself tighter. "Ah, my feet are freezing."
Lawrence knew he'd be mocked for his intention but offered his opened arms nonetheless. The shocking thing was that Bastien seemed to consider accepting it by the way he moved, holding the coat together over his chest with one hand and sneaking the other out so he could wrap his arm around Lawrence's neck.
"Bastien."
They both stopped and turned in the direction of the sound. It was another male student, dressed in the Veridien uniform, the sun on his breast visible from afar. He had short chestnut hair and dark eyes and seemed to be irritated by what he was seeing. Lawrence noted the student's height. He was taller than average, and a wiry, strong frame lay underneath his clothes. The way he held his hands in the pockets of his pants suggested indifference, but Lawrence knew the opposite was true. His own basic instincts warned him about this young man.
Their eyes met briefly. New school, fresh enemies – that was nothing he hadn't experienced before.
"Anton," Bastien drawled. "You're ruining my fun."
Bastien's playful jab had teeth, Lawrence noticed. Anton moved his attention to his fellow student, and most likely friend.
"First lesson starts soon. You weren't in your room," Anton said in a reproachful voice he didn't bother hiding.
"Don't be such a guard dog," Bastien said, abandoning Lawrence in favor of walking toward his fellow student. "I just went for a walk."
"Barefoot?" Anton asked. Although he didn't have an overcoat, and a thin wind was starting to blow, he took off his uniform jacket. His eyes darted briefly to Lawrence as he pushed the winter coat off Bastien's shoulders.
Bastien was quick to catch it before it ended up falling and getting dirty. He stretched out his arm. "Sir Galahad," he said, and Lawrence hurried to take his property back.
Anton put a protective arm around Bastien who now wore his uniform jacket and was walking with purpose in the direction of the academy.
Bastien didn't turn to glance at Lawrence or even say goodbye. Anton, however, did and stared hard at him. A veiled menace was quickly dispatched. Lawrence understood.
Bastien Hawthorne wasn't to be touched by the likes of him. Anton defined class disparity for him, and he'd only needed one glance to make himself sure he knew where Lawrence stood on the social ladder.
Lawrence wasn't bothered by it at all. As long as it didn't interfere with his investigation, he'd play by the rules imposed by the academy and those who ruled it. With students coming from powerful families, they were a part of it, even if not officially or conventionally. Lawrence had met a few such people in his life, and he knew where he stood.
***
The big oak doors groaned on their hinges as Lawrence walked into the vestibule. The housemaster was there to greet him, so he stopped immediately in expectation.
"Mr. Garth," the housemaster said, without allowing him enough time to take in the old tapestry covering the walls. "Welcome to Veridien. I'm Herr Becker, your housemaster, and will see that you are properly settled. Now please, let's make haste. Lessons start early at Veridien, so there is much for me to do. As for you, you are excused for today. Follow me."
The housemaster had an imposing presence for a man of around fifty, standing at barely three quarters of Lawrence's height from the ground. His thinning hair was combed over his head, and his weathered eyes, hiding behind thick-rimmed glasses, didn't leave any room for guessing his choice of career. He looked like a man who enjoyed studying old texts and enforcing rules just as ancient.
His dark wool coat cut as perfect a figure as its wearer, and the way Herr Becker moved, fast and precise spoke of outstanding efficiency.
They were walking now through a long corridor that ran along the outer wall. In the old times, it must have been a vantage point for archers. The small apertures through which light filtered into the damp hallway let him know as much. A slightly damp smell reminded Lawrence of how old the building was.
"Modifications have been made to accommodate the students' needs, as you will see. Don't let the medieval air of the place fool you," Herr Becker continued, showing that he could be quite chatty for a man dedicated to studying and the quietness of libraries. "The ingenuity of the human mind is endless. That is what we cultivate here, at Veridien. You will find our curriculum demanding, Mr. Garth. But in the search of excellence, everything is allowed, and, above all, encouraged."
Lawrence followed the housemaster into a square room sparsely but tastefully appointed with several statues, at the end of which a spiral stairway led higher, into one of the tall towers.
"I understand that you seek to deepen your knowledge of Classical Greek and Latin. At our institution, these are more than simple academic pursuits. They will serve you well in your travels overseas. Serving the country is our motto. You will leave this place an educated man, I can assure you, Mr. Garth. Ancient languages do more than string letters together, the way modern ones do. The layman may consider them obscure, but they reveal understandings that would otherwise remain concealed to the uneducated eye."
Lawrence's fabricated academic backstory recommended him as a student destined for the Foreign Service, the cultural department, after his graduation that involved several institutions, the police academy included. It served well – under the circumstances – that he had studied Classical Greek and Latin on his own, as hobbies. History had always fascinated him, especially the ancient part of it. Marius Vassier had been over the moon to learn about his extracurricular activities and studies. You'll fit right in, my boy.
Lawrence planned to fit in precisely as much as needed. Forming alliances, getting entangled in friendships – even fake ones – would complicate things unnecessarily. That was his logical brain insisting that he forget about his earlier encounter with Bastien. No, not the encounter; only the effect of it, something Lawrence now found positively ludicrous. A more romantically-inclined person would have consider themselves under a spell. Lawrence knew that wasn't the case.
"You are a man of particular talents, I hear. I look forward to witnessing your performance during lessons," Herr Becker continued.
He walked up the spiral staircase without breaking a sweat. It wasn't an issue for Lawrence, either; a sound mind in a sound body had never struck him as anything but practical. However, their climb was steep and made him believe that whoever used to be sent to the top of the tower in the past must have found themselves guilty of terrible sins, whether toward God or the lord of the castle.
Lawrence considered it rather adequate. His interest wasn't to mingle with the others and form attachments – he kept repeating that to himself. Beyond the purpose of his investigation, he had no intention of getting to know his fellow students.
His quarters were, as he'd expected, the only living space at the top of the tower. No more than a monk's cell, it still provided enough room for a student's bare necessities: a narrow bed, a desk placed underneath the single window in the room, and a large armoire from a different time.
Another thing Lawrence noticed right away was the ceramic bowl serving as a sink, complete with a faucet made from stainless steel. The materials were beautiful looking but also sturdy. Pipes had been threaded through the walls to concede this little modern luxury to the exiled occupying the room. Wood paneling had been carefully placed over the work done to conceal them from view.
All in all, Lawrence couldn't have asked for more.
"We apologize for the drab amenities," Herr Becker said. "Since we were noted of your arrival with such short notice, it was the best we could do. The common lavatories are located on the ground floor."
"Thank you, Herr Becker," Lawrence said politely. "I find them more than adequate."
The shadow of a smile flew over the housemaster's thin features. "A man who knows his place. You will get far in life, Mr. Garth, despite your humble provenance. Humble compared to your fellow students, whom you will soon meet, of course. Focus on your studies, and Veridien will provide all you need to succeed."
In other words, don't even hope to make friends among your betters. Lawrence understood well what wasn't spoken out loud.
"A chambermaid will oversee the cleaning while you are attending lessons," Herr Becker continued his orientation lesson.
"I am perfectly capable of making my own bed." Lawrence realized that he hadn't even considered this detriment to his planned investigation. He didn't need strangers going through his room while he was away.
"Ah, that military education of yours," Herr Becker remarked with a small mocking sneer. Lawrence didn't bother to correct him. "We do things differently at Veridien. You will get used to it. I'll leave you to get acquainted with your new room. But we'll be expecting you at lunch."
Lawrence bowed politely and waited for the housemaster to make his exit. Another thing that didn't appear to be a habit at Veridien was locking doors, or at least some of them. There was no key in the lock, and someone as perfect for his job as Herr Becker wouldn't have neglected to inform him of where he'd find one.
Challenges. Lawrence didn't mind them. The faculty, through Herr Becker, informed him that they were wary of him and his unexpected transfer. The reason for their lack of trust could come from accepting a middle-class student in their midst or something far more nefarious. An open mind wouldn't be enough to decipher the secrets of this place, Lawrence decided, as he started unpacking.
It struck him moments later that Herr Becker had never mentioned where and when lunch was served. Lawrence smiled to himself. Petty people were as good as transparent most of the time.
TBC