His eyes were cast downward, fixed unnaturally on Dana's hands, as though there was nothing else in existence but him and the book she held.
Not Dana.
Not Vanessa.
Just the object.
"Who's that?" Vanessa asked, her voice low but sharp, every muscle in her body coiled tight as she stared at the hooded figure.
Dana didn't answer.
Her eyes didn't blink.
Her grip on the book tightened, fingers digging into its worn cover as though it belonged to her, as though it had always belonged to her. She waited.
For a word.
For a step forward.
For violence.
But the figure didn't give her any of that.
Instead, he turned, slowly, deliberately, and walked away, taking the next turn in the corridor. The shadows swallowed him whole, and then he was gone.
Vanessa and Dana moved instantly, boots pounding softly as they rounded the same corner.
Nothing.
No sound.
No presence.
No trace.
"What… what was that?" Vanessa asked, breath uneven now, her chest rising and falling too fast.
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating.
"Let's leave," Dana said finally.
Her voice was steady, but her nerves jittered beneath her skin, betraying her.
The walk back to where he had told Elaine to wait was filled with thoughts he hadn't allowed himself to have in a long time.
Old thoughts.
Buried ones.
Had he seen it clearly?
Yes.
He exhaled quietly as he moved through the corridors, steps impossibly light. He hadn't touched that book in years. Not since he'd sealed away the things inside it, memories he didn't want, truths he refused to face.
And yet, there it was.
In her hands.
What was she doing with it?
One conclusion surfaced, cold and unavoidable, someone was onto him.
Someone suspected him of being the Phantom.
And there was only one person in this school obsessed enough to chase that idea.
Mr. Hance.
It wouldn't have shocked him to find him with the book. But the Soul Leech?
That made no sense.
Soul Leeches fed on memories, yes, but that book was empty. Hollow. A void stripped of feeling and emotion. The very thing that should repel her kind.
Unless…
"Mayb—"
"Allan."
The voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.
Slightly pitchy.
Dusty with fear.
Elaine.
He had reached the corridor of vast paintings, the one he had abandoned her in without explanation.
"Where did you go?" she asked, her tone off. Her eyes were dilated, fear swimming just beneath the surface.
"Thought I heard something," he replied easily.
He stepped forward, running his fingers over the frames, one painting, then another, taking small steps.
"Did you check any more?" he asked. "Find the brown paper?"
"I checked a few," Elaine said, moving to his side. "Nothing."
She paused, watching him closely noticing be was walking farther and farther but wasn't checking behind, just his hands brushing them.
"You're not checking behind them," she said. "You're just… touching them."
"I know."
She frowned. "What are you doing?"
"Sometimes," Allan said quietly, "you can feel the oldest energies through touch. You don't search blindly, you listen more of feel If I may say. You pick the one that's calling."
"And which one are we looking for?" she asked.
"Stored," he replied.
"And beckoning."
She waited for more.
Nothing came.
"if we could do it this way, then why haven't we been doing it rather than searching for the past hour?"
Her question lingered, unanswered. And the truth was, he didn't know how to explain it. He hadn't used his abilities since he began staying with her and her mom though he hadn't stayed for so long, just a couple of days, but then he was already used to being normal, or perhaps thought he could, he hadn't been in this place. This cage. For a short time, got carried away by the feeling.
He'd gotten used to pretending he was something else.
Seeing the book again reminded him that pretending didn't erase what he was. Maybe.
They continued walking, Elaine fascinated by the paintings and they're details, for a moment, forgetting what they were searching for, or that they were searching for something.
Then he stopped abruptly.
The painting before them was magnificent.
A fair lady stood at its center, clad in a wedding dress so white it bordered on unreal. A veil concealed her face, her hands lifted as though she were about to remove it. Diamonds caught the painted light, her skin nearly the same shade as the gown itself.
Beautiful.
Otherworldly.
But what the human eye would miss, what was almost microscopic, was the second image layered behind her.
Blood.
The canvas behind the bride was soaked in it.
At that exact moment, pain tore through Elaine's body.
Not just her neck.
Everything.
It was sharp and consuming, but no sound escaped her lips. She stood frozen, pupils blown wide, agony locked silently inside her.
Allan didn't notice.
He stepped forward, lifting the painting gently from the wall.
Behind it lay something like an inbuilt safe, no lock, no keyhole.
His hand reached for it, and something sharp pierced his shoulder.
He turned.
Elaine stood there, eyes completely black.
Her nails were long now. Jagged. Filthy. One of them buried deep into his right shoulder.
His expression didn't change.
"Don't," she said, voice distorted and wrong.
"Touch it."