The Devil's Archivist

Chapter 1

August POV:

The rain at Blackwood didn’t fall; it bled down the stained-glass windows of my dormitory like rot.

I sat at my heavy oak desk, tracing the edge of a thick, cream-colored envelope. No stamp. No return address. Just my name written across the front in sharp, sweeping calligraphy with ink the exact color of dried blood:

August Vance.

It had been slipped under my door twenty minutes ago.

My heart did a slow, heavy thud against my ribs as I grabbed my brass letter opener and sliced through the wax seal—a crest depicting a crow entwined in dark brambles. I pulled out a single card.

Every year, Blackwood takes a price. October 31st. Midnight. In three weeks, August, you will cease to exist. No witnesses. No body. No answers.

A sharp, icy prickle ran down my spine. My fingers tightened on the card until the heavy paper creaked.

"A prank," I whispered to the empty room, forcing a bitter exhale. "Just a sick orientation prank."

Everyone at Blackwood University knew the urban legend. Every single year, like clockwork, one girl vanished from campus. No blood, no forced entry, no ransom notes. They just erased into thin air. The board always swept it under the rug, blaming runaways or mental breaks to protect the school's multi-billion-dollar prestige.

I tossed the card onto the desk. But the second paper hit wood, the bulb in my desk lamp flickered violently.

Bzzzz-pop.

The room plunged into pitch darkness.

I froze. The storm outside howled, rattling the glass panes. And then, right outside my bedroom door, I heard it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It wasn't a knock. It was the slow, deliberate drag of something heavy being pulled down the wooden corridor.

"Who’s there?" My voice was surprisingly steady, even as adrenaline flooded my veins. I grabbed the heavy base of my brass lamp, holding it like a weapon.

Silence.

I crept toward the door, my palm slick with sweat as I reached for the brass knob. I yanked it open, ready to swing.

The hallway was completely empty. Dim emergency lights cast long, twisted shadows down the carpet. Nothing was there—except a single, freshly cut crimson rose lying directly on my doorstep.

Its petals were damp. Not with rain, but with a thick, sweet-smelling oil that stained my fingertips the moment I picked it up.

The Blackwood Archives were buried deep beneath the university's main library, built into a subterranean vault of medieval stone and reinforced steel. It was so cold down here that my breath bloomed into pale ghosts with every exhale.

I needed answers. If someone was stalking me, using the university's gruesome urban legends to mess with my head, I was going to figure out who—and why.

I slipped past the Restricted Access velvet rope, my boots clicking softly against the flagstones. The heavy scent of old parchment, leather, and ozone hung thick in the air. Towering bookshelves stretched into the dark ceiling like the ribcage of some colossal beast.

"Looking for something you shouldn't be, Miss Vance?"

I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.

Stepping out from behind a row of iron-bound ledgers was Christopher.

The Archivist.

He was dressed in a tailored black suit, his top shirt buttons undone to reveal the sharp line of his throat. Dark hair fell slightly over his brow, framing eyes so cold they felt lethal—sharp, amber eyes that tracked every single twitch of my face. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried an aura of quiet, terrifying authority that made every student clear the hallway when he walked by.

"Mr. Christopher," I breathed, crossing my arms to hide how badly my hands were shaking. "You scared me."

"Then you have more sense than I gave you credit for," he said smoothly. His voice was a low, velvet purr—deep, rich, and completely devoid of warmth. He stepped closer, his long, deliberate strides closing the distance until he towered over me. "Students aren't permitted in the Restricted Archives after hours."

"I was looking for the historical records," I replied, forcing myself to stand my ground despite the insane heat radiating off him in the freezing room. "The campus logs from the past ten years."

Christopher tilted his head, his golden gaze scanning my face like he was peeling me open. "And why would a senior political science student be interested in historical logs at eleven at night?"

"I think you know," I challenged, looking right into his dark, impossibly handsome face. "The disappearances. The girls who vanish every year."

For a fraction of a second, his expression hardened into something terrifying. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, heavy, suffocating. He took one more step forward, trapping me against the edge of a heavy mahogany desk.

"There are things in this university far older and far more dangerous than simple student gossip, August," he whispered.

Hearing my first name roll off his tongue sent a violent shiver straight down my spine.

"It's not gossip," I pressed, reaching into my coat pocket and pulling out the letter. I held it out between us. "Someone left this under my door. They're targeting me."

Christopher didn't take the card. Instead, his gaze dropped to my hand.

His eyes locked onto my fingers—where faint traces of the sweet oil from the crimson rose still lingered on my skin.

Instantly, his cold indifference shattered. A dark, lethal rage flashed in his eyes. Before I could pull back, Christopher slammed his hand forward, his thick fingers wrapping tightly around my wrist. His grip was broad, iron-clad, and burning hot, trapping me effortlessly.

"Where did you get that scent?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave—rough, dangerous, and dangerously possessive.

"Let go of me!" I gasped, tugging against him, but he didn't budge an inch.

"Answer me, August!" Christopher growled, leaning down so close his lips nearly brushed the shell of my ear. The intoxicating scent of rain, cedarwood, and expensive cologne hit me like a wave. "Who gave you that flower?"

"It was at my door!" I snapped, glaring straight into his fierce eyes. "Right after I got the letter!"

Christopher stared down at me for a long, agonizing second. His jaw flexed as if he were fighting the urge to tear something apart. Slowly—painfully slowly—his thumb brushed across the soft, sensitive skin of my inner wrist. The touch was so inexplicably gentle it made my breath catch in my throat.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, his golden eyes pinning me in place. "You are going to take your things, you are going to go back to your room, and you are going to lock the door."

"Why? Who sent it?"

"If you value your life, you won't ask questions," Christopher said, abruptly releasing my wrist. He snatched the letter from my hand and slipped it into his jacket pocket. "Consider this your only warning, Miss Vance. You are playing with forces that will consume you."

"And what are you in all of this?" I challenged, taking a step back as my chest heaved. "Are you helping them? Or are you the monster making them disappear?"

Christopher looked down at me, a dark, dangerous smirk curling the corner of his lips.

"Run along, August," he hissed softly. "Before you find out."