Pretty Girls Make Graves: Paperback

1

Nothing shatters the magic of my first day at Blackfriars University quite like a naked priest swimming the backstroke in the water fountain.

Until the moment I come face-to-dong with Father Sebastian Pearce, I’ve been enraptured by this place. Blackfriars is everything my life in Emerald Beach, California was not – I love the gothic arches and ancient, cobbled pathways, the hidden nooks and lichen-covered stone fountains. I love the storybook British names and customs for everything. I love lining up with the other students in our black subfusc robes for the matriculation ceremony, and looking up at the blackened church spires piercing the grey sky.

And turrets. I adore the metric fuckton of turrets (a ‘fuckton’ is the only thing I can correctly measure using the metric system, but I’m learning) at my new university.

Blackfriars is all my Hogwarts dreams come true.

At least, that’s how I felt this morning. But then I tripped on the uneven cobbles and tore my skirt, and then squirmed for two hours on a hard church pew while a dusky-haired priest performed the High Mass. In Latin. My initial enchantment gave way to boredom and a numb ass. I’ve never attended a High Mass before (or a Low Mass or even a Medium Mass). My sole exposure to the Catholic Church has been watching scenes from my father’s horror movies, and they usually end in someone summoning a demon and getting their brains sucked out through their nostrils.

A little nostril-sucking might’ve livened up this ceremony.

Blackfriars University is very into religion. The campus
used to be a Benedictine monastery before King Henry VIII went on a bit of a beheading spree. There’s a whole story about the so-called ‘Black Monk,’ Benet of Blackfriars, who made a last stand against the king before the monastery was closed. Since it reopened as a school, Blackfriars has stubbornly held onto their Catholic heritage despite numerous attempts to convert it to Church of England. As far as I can tell, there’s not much difference between the two churches except that a CofE matriculation ceremony would be five minutes long instead of three hours, and in English. And my father never made a movie about it – not demonic enough for his tastes.

Not that I spent my summer memorizing the school’s history. Not at all.

Because that would be a dorky thing to do. The sort of thing the old George would do – the George who got straight A’s and whose only friends were dead punk rock musicians. The George who ate her school lunches in a bathroom stall and never said two words to anyone in case they landed her with her head down a toilet.

And I’m not that George anymore.

New school, new country, new me.

I can be whoever I want to be. And if the students at Blackfriars – the most insane, over-the-top liberal arts school in the world – can’t accept me, then I’ll have a blast anyway.

That sounds depressing. I swear it’s not. I’m so excited about this year.

All around me, students whisper to each other or stare at
their phones as the priest drones on. I try to talk to the girl next to me, but she wrinkles her perfect nose as if I smell bad. I probably do smell bad. I arrived by train from London with only minutes to spare before the ceremony, so I haven’t even been able to take my bag to my room before they called us to enter the church. So I stare straight ahead with my suitcase wedged awkwardly on my lap and think about all the classes I’m excited about this semester.

Not semester. Term. I’m learning the lingo.

We’re finally dismissed, and I discreetly massage my numb ass as we shuffle outside. The main quad – Martyrs’ Quad – fills with students, leaning against the historical fountain and snapping selfies with their friends. How do they have friends already? We only just got here. The porter barks at one group to get off the immaculate green lawn, but they ignore him.

“I don’t know who he thinks he is, trying to tell Orpheans
what to do,” a girl scoffs to her friend as she walks past. They throw the lawn-ruining students an admiring look.

Now I’m curious. Orpheans?

There are ten of them – five guys, five girls – standing around on the grass and completely ignoring the porter as he hops about angrily and jabs his finger at the STAY OFF THE GRASS sign. I’ve never seen anything like them before, and I come from Emerald Beach, so I have seen a lot.

They look like characters from a story – some twisted gothic tale of crumbling estates and rich widows filled with longing. The girls wear floaty, calf-length dresses and blazers with the sleeves rolled up. The boys’ trousers have pleats that could draw blood. Their tailored jackets and wing-tipped shoes drip with a certain kind of wealth and power. In Emerald Beach, if you’re wealthy, you shove that wealth in everyone’s face. But this lot look like they couldn’t care less about fashion. They’re pale with flushed cheeks, like they’ve just come from tending the horses or whipping a recalcitrant servant.

Two of the guys in particular stand out. One leans against
the fountain, his arm slung casually around the waist of the prettiest girl. Angular and elegant, he has one of those petulant mouths with a full lower lip that my friend Claws would say is begging to be bitten, and eyes the deep blue of the ocean at midnight. The other, despite his starched shirt and black tie, has a kind of messy, sloppy look, with a mop of golden hair falling over one eye and a smile that might be called cheeky if not for the cruel twist at the edges. He takes a long drag from a cigarette and – with carbon grey eyes trained on the porter – grinds the butt into the grass with his heel.

The girl who called them Orpheans catches me staring, and breaks off into giggles.

I hurry away. The hope that’s fluttered in my chest since
graduation takes a beating. It’s going to be exactly the same as high school. If people like that are the norm, I’m out of my league. Everyone here already knows each other. They met at their fancy boarding schools or yacht races or private clubs or wherever the fuck rich people make friends.

I’m on the outside.

Again.

But you know what? That’s fine with me.

I squeeze the handle of my suitcase as I think about my best friend, Claws. I need to channel her attitude. She wouldn’t give a fuck if no one liked her – but then, she runs a crime empire so she’s probably not the best example.

It took me until senior year to make a single friend, and I left them all to come here. I left my mom, my house, the Brawley theatre – all the places in the city that remind me of Dad. And I deluded myself into believing things would be different. Despite its Catholic leanings, Blackfriars is supposed to be a bohemian, artsy-fartsy college. There’s got to be at least a few kids here like me – the lonely, weird outsiders…

Yes, I know you want to hear about the naked priest. I promise I’m getting there. Existential crisis stuff first, okay?

I can’t bear another minute in the quad, being the weird
American who’s laughed at by strangers. I know it’s only in my imagination because I’m tired and raw, but it’s ruining my new school buzz. So I do something I’ve never done in my life. I slip away into the shadows, and bunk off the orientation seminar.

Claws will be so proud.

As the students are being herded into the dining hall, I dart along a covered walkway, peering into the open doors of small lecture theatres and classrooms beneath gothic stone arches. Everything is so old and grand and cool. I wonder what kind of ghosts linger in these walls. My bright-red New Rocks make a clomping sound on the cobbles.

I pass under an archway and along a rose-lined walk into St. Benedict’s Quad, thinking I’ll head toward the college meadow for some fresh air, when I spy a narrow gap in the towering hedge. I step closer. An iron gate hangs open an inch, revealing a secret garden.

A covered walkway of gothic arches frames the hidden courtyard, which bursts with tall herb bushes and scraggly orange trees that obscure my view across to the other side. It’s so different from the neat roses and manicured lawns of the rest of Blackfriars. There’s something forbidden about it, something wild. Somewhere deeper in the garden, I hear water trickling and splashing.

I can’t contain my curiosity. I push the gate open and step
through.

The path steps down as I enter the courtyard. I breathe in the fresh, herby air, and feel some of the tension slip from my shoulders as I push through the overgrown—

Oh.

Oh.

My hand flies to my mouth.

A man floats on his back in the central fountain, spinning in lazy circles as the spray from the tip of Orpheus’ lyre cascades off his chiseled body. And what a man he is – probably in his early thirties, and built like a Greek god. Everything about him glistens, like his skin is dipped in gold. His smoky black eyes contemplate the heavens, and his strong jaw is relaxed, his lips falling open in silent reverie. A smattering of ink along his abdomen draws my eye down to that lickable V of muscle, and below that, to a package that any god would envy. Heat flares in my cheeks.

He’s so perfect it makes my throat hurt.

Beside the pool is a pile of clothes – a black shirt folded neatly on top of what looks like designer jeans and some chunky boots, and a white collar nestled on top.

It doesn’t take a true-crime podcaster to figure out this guy is a priest.

A very naked, very hot, priest.

Turn away. Just turn away and run back the way you came and he won’t even see you—

Too late. The man lifts his head, and his anthracite eyes widen as they see me. I expect him to flail about for something to cover himself, but he seems to sense it’s pointless. I’ve already got an eyeful of the goods.

Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks up into an amused
smile.

“Hello, there,” he says.

It’s the most anyone has spoken to me all day. His voice is rich and deep and friendly. It crackles at the edges, like a blazing, cozy fire. And that British accent…mmm…

Pity I’m about to be struck by a lightning bolt for having
such thoughts about a priest.

I can’t speak. My face burns with fifty shades of get-me-the-fuck out of here.

The priest flips over and dog-paddles to the side, resting his hands on the edge. “I don’t suppose,” his voice is so perfectly British, all clipped and fictive and wonderful, “you’d mind terribly passing me that towel.”

I nod, still unable to form words. I pick up the towel from the corner and hold it in front of me like a medieval shield
protecting me from the power of his peen. The priest pulls himself out of the water, swinging his legs as he dries his face. Holy father. Droplets roll down the Celtic cross tattoo over his heart, and my throat dries as I imagine licking them off.

Which is insane. That’s not a George thought at all. That’s
something Claws with her three besotted boyfriends would say.

This must be what jet lag does to my brain.

“You came up today? You’re supposed to be at the orientation,” he says without shame as he rubs the towel in his hair. He has great hair, I notice. It’s longer than I’d expect from a priest, down around his shoulders, with a little curl. It’s dark like his eyes, and hopelessly disheveled. I’m a sucker for long hair.

And British accents. And sexy tattooed priests swimming in fountains.

I’m going to hell.

“I…I…”

He slides a pair of boxers over his hips. I’m transfixed by the material of his trousers as he pulls them on.

“The pool in the rec center is closed for renovations at the moment,” he says, which I think is supposed to be an explanation.

I nod, as if it’s totally normal to swim in a fountain instead of, say, going for a run instead. Maybe it is normal in England. I don’t know.

“I’m Sebastian Pearce.” He buttons his shirt, hiding away that beautiful ink. “I’m one of the dons here at Blackfriars. I believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my colleague, Father Duncan, at matriculation.”

I manage to choke out some words. “Was he the old man
chanting the lyrics to a Cradle of Filth song?”

He laughs at this, his whole face crumpling with joy. “We do love dead languages around here. And religion. There’s a persistent rumor that a student will receive automatic graduation if they can recite the gospels from memory in their original Greek. And you are?”

“An atheist.”

“Ah, excellent. I do love a challenge.” He cracks his knuckles. “But I was actually asking about your name.”

“Oh, it’s Georgina. Georgina Fisher. But everyone calls me
George.”

“George. I love it. A nice British name. Well, George Fisher, if you ever need to talk about this harrowing experience, you know where to find me.” He grins as he slides his feet into a pair of immaculately-shined dress shoes. “I mean, I’ll be at the church, not usually in this fountain.”

I swallow. “Right.”

Silence stretches between us. He seems utterly comfortable with it, but I’m desperate to fill it so I don’t keep picturing his body. “What do you teach?”

“History of Religion.” He fixes the collar around his neck. With his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, I notice the tattoos on his arm depict figures from Greek mythology – Theseus slaying the minotaur, Cassandra witnessing the fall of Troy. He sees me staring at his ink. “Not just Catholicism. All the religions, new and old and everything in between. I’m only picky when it comes to the salvation of my own soul. Are you lost? Would you like me to walk you to the dining hall?”

I shake my head. “Not lost. I…I guess I was feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

“It’s hard being away from home, especially if your home is across the ocean.” He makes it sound as though I’ve come on some epic quest, like Odysseus making his way over the seas from Troy, instead of drowning my nerves in daiquiris on the ten-hour flight. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll show you to your room and then you’ll have a bit of time to get used to the campus at your own pace.”

Sebastian walks me back through the secret garden to St. Benedict’s Quad. It’s no longer empty of people, and it takes us forever to navigate to the other side because he’s stopped every few feet by senior students or fellow dons. Sebastian has a heartmelting smile and friendly words for every one of them.

We finally reach the opposite corner and head through another gothic archway into a quieter quad with another
immaculate lawn and an ancient-looking stone well in the center. “This is Cavendish Quad. There are four staircases, and each one has its own scout, who cleans the rooms and looks after the students.”

In the far corner of the quad, Sebastian introduces me to a stony-faced woman named Sally, who is my scout. “You’re supposed to be at orientation,” she snaps at me.

“George’s train arrived late. She’ll catch up on the details from the other students. You know what those lectures are like – most of it is self-explanatory. Dining hall hours, library usage, instructions for the laundry machines, how not to get recruited by a secret society with designs on taking over the world.” Sebastian asks Sally about her new border collie puppy, and the woman’s sour expression dissolves into smiles. Sebastian Pearce has that effect on people. I drag my suitcase up the wheelchair ramp, my cheeks flushing with heat. I can feel strands of hair whipping around my face and yup, my pits could knock out an elephant.

He’s a priest. It doesn’t matter what you look like or smell like because he’s not interested in anything except your immortal soul.

“Goodbye, George Fisher.” Sebastian’s eyes twinkle as he takes my hand in his. My fingers tingle with the warmth of his touch. “I hope Blackfriars is everything you wished for.”

Me too.

I stand awkwardly at the foot of the staircase, waiting for the scout to return from her office to give me the key to my room. As I watch Sebastian’s perfect ass stroll back across the quad, I’m seized by an overwhelming and uncharacteristic urge to be reckless.

Before I have time to think about what I’m doing, I pull out
my phone and navigate to the Blackfriars app, which lists my class schedule. I slide my finger across the screen, deleting ‘Gender and Social History of Popular Music’ from my schedule. I click another button to enroll in the ‘History of Religion.’

Yup. Booked my one-way ticket to eternal damnation.

Dark Academia
Book 1 - Pretty Girls Make Graves
Book 2 - Brutal Boys Cry Blood