CHAPTER TWO.

Harold Girard walked hastily over clumps of brown, arid grasses, mumering prayers–that sounded like an anaconda's whispers just before it pounced on a small mouse, through his whithered lips that had a tawny shade, and dehydrated throat.

He slouched his black, leather bag that had a long strap meant to go round his body–from his shoulder to his waist, over his head–with a gasp, down on a small tuft of shrunken weeds and in return, couple of tender clicks sourced upwards as the big bag touched the grounds and the weakened stems of plants snapped into (a lot of) pieces.

He wiped his sweaty forehead with with the back of his palm. It was mid summer already but still, it seemed like the sun was still enraged that it had disappeared during the winter and yet, people managed to survive without it. So now, it was back to glow, and bloom, and burn them, too.

His brown pupils shifted from one building, to another, and yet another. They were all identical–with a colour of fresh cream and perches here and there of blue; the kind of blue that made dawns glorious and impeccable–the morning atmospheric filter.

The buildings were tall, too, almost reaching the milky clouds, and very close to their crests–which arched into one another like a spear, were small, analogue clocks.

Harold Girard squinted a little at the clock to the building on his left, he had eight minutes before he was late for the curfew. Eight minutes before he would be spotted and sent back to his pack!

It'll be a shame. A disgrace. An humiliation. A scandal if he, the pup of the Alpha of The Sundown Pride didn't make it to the second day in Golden Lake University because he couldn't find his dorm on time.

He glanced from one building to another again and for the first time ever, he wished he wasn't socially awkward.

Ever since the death of his mum– the Late Luna, he'd been almost hermetic and so far, too, he'd had no problem until then.

Being phlegmatic had kept him away from the extra pressure, and stress, and whatever came with being a sociable individual which he knew nothing of. But at that instant, he wished he wasn't that way because he'd have been able to join one of the very many cliques that helped each other find their rooms.

Seven minutes.

Harold picked up his bag again and tiredly put its long strap over his head and on his shoulder. He unconsciously squeezed his face–like a crumpling sheet of paper. His pointed nose twitched mildly–left and right, as he took short strides–stepping on dessicated twigs in the process which he didn't seem to notice, towards the building closest to him; the one that stood in between the two others like Jesus on the cross with the two thieves on each side.

The scowl that had managed to etch itself on his face; making more prominent his jaw that was well carved out, like the work of an adroit sculptor, seemed to be more striking and distinctive as he got to the mahogany door that had some inscriptions in ink black on it.

The scowl was one of the very few things that said, and showed, and told everyone including him, his father, and his father's second-chance mate, that he truly was the Alpha's pup. They had the same intimidating scowl.

Other than that, he was an omega–the Omega, who believed in ‘zero violence’ and wouldn't command a pup not to mention a pack!

Similar attributes between him and his father was almost non-existent, and the mutual scowl was like a strand of t Ihread holding a boat ashore from drifting out into the infuriated, blue sea.

Six minutes.

The interior of the building was quite riveting. On the antiquated walls that extended downwards were obsolete sconces–apparently no longer in use and clinging to the walls like dead, white spiders, left and right.

Cacophonies, and series of laughers, and muffles burst out randomly from different rooms as Harold Girard walked slowly past them like a groom walking down the aisle towards his bride.

The only certain thing, or rather, close to absolute certainty, was that any–and all the rooms he'd walked past were potentially his.

Florescent lights that hung from the pale white ceiling buzzed incessantly like a swarm of irritated bees, and it was heightened anytime Harold walked directly beneath them, still with his bag hanging from his shoulder.

Five minutes.

As he got closer to the end of the corridor, he noticed an unusually dim staircase that spiralled upwards onto another floor. There seemed to be something mysterious yet beguiling about the stairs. Something he couldn't figure out.

Harold Girard walked slowly, like an hypnotized individual towards it. He couldn't tell if the magic which he'd heard originated from the witches–and wizards, was what was luring him to the stairs. He knew nothing about magic, and vampires, and very little about werewolves, too. The best he could do was hope that the urge he felt to climb up the stairs was leading him right.

He walked past the last room along the corridor which happened to be an office and for the first time since he'd spotted the stairs, his attention was diverted by a couple of furious  whispers as those who were in the room lashed each other with their tongues.

Four minutes.

He stopped on his tracks right in front of the office that had its very well polished cedar door closed to assuage the words being said in the enclosed space. Harold's heart performed a three seconds long drumroll like during a military parade.

Definitely, things weren't as perfect as it looked in Golden Lake University and Harold was beginning to know that. The supposed flawlessness of the school was a facade.

The school had secrets. Shocking, outrageous and abominable ones.

He took things a step further and planted his ears on the cold door not daring to breath.

“... Death!” He heard one of the men whisper violently to the other.

“Wilkes Milton, you say, right?” The other man replied, in a tottering voice.

“Yeah, a Vampire. He...” The man stopped all of a sudden and ten  lengthy seconds of hush, calm, and stillness followed before a couple of deep sniffs.

“Someone's at the door!” the man announced. He sounded dangerous and indignant–definitely someone Harold didn't want to meet.

Three minutes.

Harold's heart thumped hard against his ribcage as he slid away from the door and as quietly as he could, he scampered towards the shadowy stairs. He heard the door to the office opened with a mild squeal.

It shut violently after one intense minute of fear, and excitement, and thrill, and the whispers continued.

Something wasn't right.

Two minutes.

The upper floor which revealed itself to him slowly like the red cottons of a live concert opening to reveal the artistes was exactly like the floor below.

It had florescent bulbs that bath the broad corridor with white light and an unending buzz, and old walls with sconces attached to them, and rooms, too–the same number and perhaps, size.

Harold Girard still didn't know his room and he felt stupid and angry with himself for wasting his time and risking his studentship listening to gossips among lecturers.

One minute.

From what Harold saw of the building when viewed from outside, the building had about five floors and so far, he was on the second!

Thirty Seconds.

Harold knew his time was up–or almost. He welcomed the seism of rejection, and defeat, and futility that stormed his brain as he slumped slowly against a wall that separated two room from one another. On the bright side, his father–the Alpha, and the rest of The Sundown Pride didn't expect much from him; they never had so, it wouldn't be too much of a shock if he showed up the next day, the reason being that he couldn't find his dormitory before the curfew.

The only thing his pack knew him as–with all certainty, was that he was a failure. A dud. A washout. A failure, a flop and the underdog!

Fifteen Seconds.

The door to Harold's right opened and a dark, gloomy flash of light escaped from the room and landed at his front. He was curious to what–or whom it was and as he peeked into the dark room, he was yanked into the room and instantly, the door shut.

It all happened so quickly and Harold thought for a second that it was a dream. Maybe all of it was, how could he have even made it into Golden Lake University?

He opened his eyes slowly and saw the frame of a boy that sat on one side of the bed with his arms folded. He had smoky black eyes which were soft and muted, sultry, and dark, yet, they managed to stand out and glint in the dark room.

“No thanks?” The boy said with a shrug. He was just as tall as Harold and most likely the same age, too.

“Uhm... Thanks?” Harold stuttered.

“By the way, this is your room and please, don't ask me how I know,” the boy said with an hint of disregard. “I'm your roommate. A vampire, too.”

Harold nodded as the stranger before him spoke. He was sure awkwardness radiating from him the same way heat had from the sun a few minutes ago but his supposed roommate either didn't mind or didn't notice.

“Wilkes Milton's the name. What's yours?” The boy added.

A globule of saliva got caught in his throat. This was Wilkes! The guy he'd heard from the lecturers.

“Harold... Harold Girard.”