The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

It had crossed my mind that being stuck within the Institute's walls for five years could become tedious, but when I think about it, I could actually be okay with it.

I've spent months sleeping under the night sky wishing I were enclosed by safe walls with warm rooms – I don't want to become a case in point of the phrase 'be careful what you wish for.' 

Though Tia tries to hide it, her shock at my effortless acceptance of my transformation is evident and – despite being aware that I'm acting unusually blasé – I can't give her a reason for it. All I know is that I suddenly feel more comfortable in my own skin that I have in years. I finally feel as though I have a purpose, somewhere to go.

I can't shake the anticipation and excitement, despite the ludicrous circumstances I find myself in.

My bout of contentment proves to be short lived as I collide head on with Malachy Beighley, stumbling forwards, shooting a hand out to steady myself which comes to rest on his shoulder. I swipe it back; embarrassed by my intimate, involuntary action as he holds me in a steely glare, cocking an eyebrow. 

'Having fun, ladies?' His smooth and infuriating voice drawls as a cold shiver creeps its way along my spine. He exudes an air of self-indulgence and self-appointed importance from his piercing blue eyes to his expensive leather shoes. I cast my mind back to this morning's meeting with Ms Fall.

Malachy sat to her immediate left without a first year student in tow, he shows no obvious signs of being appointed as a Mentor. Perhaps he's some kind of prefect or trainee professor? 

'We were.' The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, my hostile tone almost a match for his. Tia barely manages to hide her gasp of shock before hastily sliding her arm through the crook of mine, holding a firm grip on my wrist.

'I was just giving Eve the grand tour, Malachy. Wouldn't want her getting lost on her first day tomorrow!' Tia smiles brightly in a hopeless attempt to lighten the mood. Malachy's icy irises look me up and down, taking in my appearance – judging me. The pause is too long and too awkward. 

'No. We certainly wouldn't.' He finally agrees, keeping his piercing gaze on me. The heat of it is stifling and I squirm uncomfortably, willing myself to look away but having too much pride to do so.

Malachy appears not to notice my discomfort as his eyebrows furrow. He looks confused, as though a difficult and complex puzzle is before him and he must solve it. 

'Well,' he finally drops his gaze. 'Run along then, girls.' He sighs, casually waving his hand in dismissal. White hot rage boils in the pit of my stomach, irritation bubbling over and threatening to spill out of my mouth. I suddenly feel an instant dislike for this utter stranger, and his obvious attractiveness only makes me despise him more.

I grind my teeth as Malachy stares at me in amusement, knowing he has irked me and waiting patiently for my eruption. Tia senses my anger and tugs on my arm, pulling me subtly – but violently – away from Malachy Beighley. She calls a swift goodbye over her shoulder, dragging me with her as I stubbornly refuse to break eye contact with Malachy.

Reluctantly – as we head around a sharp corner – I tear my gaze away; but I can't seem to shake the sensation of his startling eyes boring into my back, amused yet perplexed – as though I'm a mystery he's having difficulty understanding.

Chapter Six

Monday morning begins in a haze of confusion. As I dress at 6:00AM to head down to the cafeteria, Tia informs me that feeding isn't necessary on the second day of transformation. Diana's venom still runs through my veins – its potency will keep my strength up without the need to feed.

It would be a lie to say I'm not relieved about this. As I lay on my bedsheets – tossing and turning all night – the thought of consuming a human being's blood – taken from them unwillingly – didn't fill me with excitement. I'm more than happy to, instead, sit comfortably chewing the fat with Tia for a couple of hours before it's time to consult my timetable. 

My first lesson – to begin at 8.30 sharp – is Counselling. In yesterday's meeting, at the mention of a Counsellor, I felt a surge of relief that the Institute were indeed considering the mental and emotional well-being of us humble first years. Now, however, I feel nothing but dread at the thought of lying on a couch, discussing my intimate and – quite frankly – baffling feelings with a total stranger.

If I don't understand my own emotions, or how I've come to accept this strange new life so quickly, how can somebody else? 

But – like almost everything else at the Institute – I have very little choice in the matter. So, at 8.30 sharp, I find myself in the second floor corridor, stood awkwardly outside a dark wooden door, staring at the silver plaque beside the handle which bears familiar copperplate letters.

Dr Islwyn Griffith

First Year Counsellor
.

The corridors are starting to clear; other students are disappearing into their scheduled classes, until I stand alone in the hall, listening to the silence – penetrated only by the sound of my ragged breaths. 

I take a step forward, raising my hand to knock lightly on the door. The silence is deafening and an indisputable urge to run grips me as I fight a mental battle to keep my feet planted.

It doesn't matter how much I talk or divulge myself to this stranger – what's done is done. I'm now bound to this life I've been chosen for, whether I choose to be or not. I have nowhere to run, no-one to hide me and no will to turn back to the life I once lived.

I have no need for counselling; bizarrely, I'm at peace with my situation. 

A muffled voice beyond the door calls to me to come in. With hesitation, I creak the old door open, stepping over the threshold. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke hits me like a toxic wave, and a rich leather smell mingles with dusty old pages of antique books. Beyond the door lies a historical room with décor true to its age; Tudor-style wooden beams hang from low ceilings, tapestries worn with age adorn every wall, dust-coated book shelves house volumes thicker than bricks.

Opposite a wicker sofa stands a large, cluttered desk, half-hiding a short man who beckons me forward warmly. I step past the open fireplace and the man smiles, his kind eyes wrinkling, showing a more mature body age. 

'Good morning,' He speaks with a gentle voice and all at once I feel my body relax, warming to this person I've never met before. I feel suddenly more comfortable in his presence than in Tia's, even, and his appearance to me seems humble and sweet. 

He extends his hand which I take all too willingly, squeezing tightly as I return his friendly smile.  

'Please, have a seat,' he gestures to the quaint little sofa. I do as he asks and he tightens his velvet suit jacket around his paunch stomach, eyeing me curiously as he picks up a fountain pen.

'My name is Islwyn Griffith,' he smiles, revealing a strong Welsh accent. As the warmth of his demeanour envelopes me and I melt into the cushions – feeling floaty and euphoric – I realise with a start that this is Islwyn Griffith's gift. My strange sense of comfort and his intense likeability are products of skill – his way of relaxing his students, of provoking them into talking about their inner most feelings.

He must be indispensable to Sir Alec – a vital and useful tool, adept at his profession and at tricking confessions. But despite the obvious trickery of his technique, I feel no ill will towards Islwyn. It's virtually impossible to.

He smooths his shirt cuffs self-consciously, rummaging around his desk for a blank piece of paper. He's by no means the most attractive man I've ever met; he's shorter than me, stocky, his dark hair is spattered with grey and his ears are too big, but his Immortality lends him a certain beauty – as it does all of us – and his warmth makes him appear attractive by illusion.

'So, Eve – may I call you Eve?' He asks politely, hoping to establish a familiarity but trying not to overstep the mark and lose my confidence. He flips open a notepad when I nod.

'Firstly may I say; welcome to the Institute. I hope your stay so far has been pleasant and will continue to be over the next five years,' He beams, awkwardly spewing the mandatory rubbish he's obviously been instructed to say to every new arrival.

'For the duration of your stay, I will be your Councillor; therefore, I believe the build up of a relationship between us is essential to your well-being and your education,' I shift in my seat as Islwyn Griffith rattles off his speech; it's rehearsed and fake, as though he's reading from a script.

'Of course, I don't expect this immediately,' He hastens to add, avoiding offending me at all costs. 'But I would like you to know, above all, that I'm not here to probe you. The conversations that take place between us will stay between us, and we may talk about whatever you wish.

I won't push you, judge you and most certainly will not share the information you give me with anyone.

These sessions are for your benefit alone, a way for you to express your thoughts and feelings in a safe, confidential environment. However, I am obliged to tell you that any information you divulge me which suggests you have broken or are planning to break any rules, I am obliged to inform Sir Alec.' He lowers his eyes on this last sentence, as though he's ashamed.

With the formalities out of the way, Islwyn relaxes; losing the monotonous, droning voice and becoming animated. He smiles frequently and studies my face often. I wonder how many have sat on this sofa before me. How many first years has he met in his time? How many break- downs has he listened to? How many rumours has he quashed? How many students does he remember?

How many has he forgotten? 

'How are you finding the Institute so far?' He asks, licking his small lips, happy to be in familiar territory. I shrug a little, not sure how to answer such a complex question. 'What about your transformation? How difficult are you finding it to adapt?' 

I keep quiet, uncomfortable with the idea of talking intimately with a stranger – despite Islwyn's gift. For some, the release of pent up emotions to an outsider – a third party – may be comforting; for me it's nothing but awkward. Islwyn is obviously used to students with difficulties opening up and he remains chirpy, not at all put off by my solemn silence.

'Would you say that, so far, your transformation has been more difficult or easier than you would have expected?' He presses. I consider his question.

I know the answer, but now that I truly think about it, the response is also a complex one. 

'I've found it easier than I would have expected,' I begin slowly. 'But by no means easy to adjust. How easy is it for anyone to have their world and beliefs turned upside down?' I shrug. I know I'm not doing very well, that I'm not sharing as much as Islwyn would like, and I scrabble for a further explanation in order to please him. 'I suppose this is what a devout Christian would feel like on discovering there is no God, no Heaven.'

I'm amazed at my ability to articulate my feelings; never have I been able to speak so clearly, use such grammar and string sentences together to form coherent information.

'I imagine you're correct, Eve,' Islwyn nods enthusiastically, pleased that I'm finally opening up. 'Everything you thought you knew has been challenged, everything you've been told was fiction is now reality. You must be wondering what else you thought were myths are really truth, what legends are actually fact.' 

'Yes,' I nod, realising he's got a point.  

'Of course there are no witches, no demons, no creatures of the night. We are the only unknown species living hidden amongst humans. It will take time for you to completely adjust to your new body and your new way of life – but you will.' Islwyn scribbles on a notepad hastily, trying not to take his eyes off me.

'Do you miss your family?' His question catches me off-guard, knocking the wind out of me. I'm ashamed to admit that since I arrived at the Institute, I've thought very little about my family; but at the mention of them, I feel a sharp pain in my chest where my heart used to beat.

'I – ' I falter as the image of my mother's face floods my mind, a concerned expression in her pretty, green eyes.

Of course I miss my family – I had missed them for two years; coming to the Institute hadn't changed that – but once again, the answer is a complex one.

'I haven't seen them for a long time.' I admit, deciding that honesty – however evasive – is the best policy. Islwyn nods understandingly, furrowing his brow. 

'It must be difficult knowing that you don't have the option to go back and see them now?' He asks.

It's then that the truth – the full weight of my situation – finally hits me: my family are gone.

Or rather – I am gone.

To my parents, I've been missing for two years already – they know no better. But for me, the chance that they might stumble across me in an alleyway, catch sight of me along a busy street – or even that I might swallow my pride and go home – was always a possibility.

Now it isn't. 

'How are you getting along with the other students you've met so far? Your Mentor..?' Islwyn changes the subject tactfully, deciding not to press me about my parents.

I try to push them out of my mind – as I have done so often – but they're lodged at the forefront of my thoughts. 

'The students – ' I frown, shaking my head in an immense effort to clear it, to concentrate on Islwyn's next question.

'Your Mentor?' He repeats, and Tia's face replaces my mother's, pushing away the pain to instead fill me with hope and affection.

'My Mentor is lovely.' I state, smiling to myself. 

'Excellent, and your Creator?' He asks, jotting ink on his paper. 

'A similar feeling.' I think of Diana's motherly warmth yet hesitant distance – much like my own mum. 

'It seems you're settling in nicely,' Islwyn beams proudly, genuinely pleased. 'I feel confident that you will be an asset to the Institute and vice versa. You will do well, Eve.' 

'How often will I see you?' I ask as he sets down his pen and clipboard on his desk. 

'Twice a week.' He replies. I nod, knowing that it's time for me to leave but feeling the need to justify myself. I can't be sure, but I think – despite Islwyn's general warmth – that he's surprised at my nonchalance. To him it must seem like I'm either in a state of shock, or completely blasé about this whole situation.  

'I know that most students probably come in here and pour their hearts out,' I mumble. Islwyn shifts forward in his seat, visibly interested in what I have to say. 'Probably have their... break-down and share their worries and concerns. It's not that I don't have worries, or concerns, or that I don't want to share them with you. I just – ' I trail off, gazing through the window to the scene below.

It's an almost identical view to mine and Tia's bedroom, Islwyn's office can only be slightly to the left and three floors down as the courtyard stares back at me, coated with frost. 

'Eve,' Islwyn distracts me from my thoughts and I turn to face him, noting the kindness in his mature eyes. 'Not everybody is the same,' He says, rising from his chair to walk around the desk. He is elegant, but not in the way Malachy or Ms Fall is; his elegance is more respectful, not of himself, but of others. Every inch of him exudes a caring, considerate nature – as though he lives to help. He perches on the edge of the desk, abandoning formality and authoritative distance.  

'When first transformed into an Immortal; most students are either stunned into silence, or shocked into hysteria. Of all the students I have assessed in the first days of their change, most are hysterical. They rant and rave, they remain in denial, they say they've been kidnapped by an illegal cult – ' I think back with embarrassment to my explosive monologue at the mercy of Sir Alec.