Lost Souls. Lisa Jackson
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Shakespeare was surprisingly popular and Kristi figured the fascination with the class had more to do with the sexy, unlikely professor than the Bard or his works. She slid her computer onto the desk to take notes and checked out the other students, several of whom looked familiar. Mai Kwan, her neighbor, was seated near the front of the room, several rows below Kristi, and a couple of girls who had been with Lucretia the day she’d come into the diner were huddled together near the windows. But the kicker was that just before class was to start, who should stroll in but Hiram Calloway, Kristi’s would-be apartment manager. She turned away quickly, hoping that he didn’t notice one of the few vacant seats was next to Kristi. Fortunately, he found another desk, near the back of the room.
Good.
The door slammed shut behind Hiram, and Emmerson checked the clock on the wall, then hit a button behind the podium, killing the music. Straightening, taking the entire class in with one broad look, he said, “Okay, I’m Professor Emmerson, this is Shakespeare two-o-one and if this isn’t the class you signed up for, leave now and make room for someone who intended to enroll. For those of you who have heard that this is an easy class, a guaranteed A, you, too, are welcome to exit.”
No one moved. The class was silent except for the ticking of the clock.
A cell phone chirped loudly and Emmerson looked directly at the kid in a baseball cap who was fumbling in his pocket.
“That’s the next thing. No phones in class, and not just ringing. If I sense one is vibrating, or if anyone looks at his or hers to read a text or even to check the time, you’re history. Automatic F. If you don’t like the rules, then drop the class and take it up with the administration. I don’t care. This classroom is not a democracy. I’m the king, okay? Just like the ones we’ll study, only, I hope, not quite as self-serving.
“While you’re in here”—he held up two hands to indicate the entire classroom—“with me, we’ll be studying good old Willie Boy like you’ve never studied him before. We’re not just going to read his plays and his poems. We’re going to learn them. Inside and out. We’ll read them as they are meant to be read, the way Mr. Shakespeare—or depending upon your viewpoint, whoever wrote them—meant them to be read. For the purposes of this class, we’ll assume they belong to William Shakespeare. If you’re one of those Francis Bacon freaks who thinks he did it, even though he wouldn’t have had a lot of time, or Edward de Vere enthusiasts, or for those of you who think Christopher Marlowe, even though he supposedly died in 1593, took up the quill in his dead hand under Shakespeare’s name, or, for that matter anyone else, again”—he pointed toward the back of the room—“there’s the door. I know there’s a movement to prove that poor, illiterate William couldn’t possibly have written anything so sophisticated or knowledgeable about the upper class and Italy and all that rot. I also know some of academia think that his works were really written by a group of people. We’re going to have a lot of lively discussions about Shakespeare’s work, don’t get me wrong, but the whole ‘did he or did he not write them’ subject is taboo. I don’t care who wrote them, okay? That’s for another class. I’m only interested in what you think of the work.” He walked around to the front of his desk and rested his jean-clad hips against the edge. “I assume you all received a syllabus via e-mail for this class. If you haven’t, double check your inbox or spam folder and only if you really didn’t receive one, call my office and I’ll shoot another your way. Most of your assignments will come through the Internet and that’s why you all have an address ending with allsaints.edu. If you don’t have one, or think you don’t, check with the registrar or admissions. It’s not my problem.
“For those of you who did check your syllabus, you’ll see that we’re going to begin with Macbeth. Why?” His smile was a little wicked. “Because what better way to start off the year than with witches, prophesies, blood, ghosts, guilt, and murder?”
He had everyone’s attention now and he knew it. Glancing over the captivated students, his gaze moving from one rapt face to the next, he nodded slowly. His eyes found Kristi’s and held for a split second. Was it her imagination or did he linger just a little longer on her than the others?
No way.
It was just a trick of light.
Had to be.
And yet, his grin seemed to shift a little before he looked away, as if he knew a deep secret. An intimate secret.
What the hell was wrong with her? Just because he was good-looking she was thinking all kinds of ridiculous things.
“Besides,” he said in his deep voice, “in this classroom, I get to decide what we do. I like Macbeth. So—” He clapped his hands together and half the class jumped. Again the knowing smile. “Let’s get started….”
“Kristi!” As she was walking briskly past the steps of the library, she heard her name and her stomach nose-dived. She recognized the voice. Turning, Kristi spied her old-roommate-cum-assistant professor, Lucretia, black overcoat billowing, umbrella held in one fist, hurrying toward her. The skies were threatening a downpour, the wind was kicking up, and the last thing Kristi wanted to do was have a chat with Lucretia Stevens in the middle of the quad. “Hey, wait up!”
There was no escape.
She paused and Lucretia, breathless, half ran to catch up with her. “I need to talk to you,” she said without preamble.
“Really.”
Lucretia ignored Kristi’s irony. “Do you have a minute?” Other students, heads bent against the wind, hurried along the concrete and brick paths intersecting the lawn in the middle of campus. Some were on bikes, some walking, and one zipped by on a skateboard. “We could go into the student union and get a cup of coffee or tea or something.” She seemed earnest. Worried.
“I have a class at eleven and it’s across campus.” She glanced at her watch. Ten thirty-six. Not much time.
“It won’t take long,” Lucretia insisted, grabbing hold of Kristi’s arm and trying to shepherd her toward the brick building that housed the student union, café, and on the other side, the registrar’s office. Kristi pulled her arm back, but walked with Lucretia into the cafeteria-style restaurant, where they headed to the coffee counter and waited behind three girls ordering coffee drinks. Kristi perused a display of scones, muffins, and bagels, then ordered a black coffee while Lucretia asked for a caramel latte with extra foam. Kristi tried not to notice the minutes ticking by as they waited for their drinks, but it ate at her that she’d be late for her next class, The Influence of Vampyrism on Modern Culture, taught by Dr. Grotto.
Once they were served, she followed Lucretia through scattered tables where students were clustered, talking, studying or listening to their iPods. She noticed a couple of Lucretia’s friends, Grace and Trudie, locked in a deep conversation at a table near the back door, but Lucretia, as if to avoid them, headed for a corner booth that hadn’t been cleaned in a while. She took a seat with her back to her friends.
Kristi settled in to her side of the booth and realized she now only had twenty minutes to get to class. She was doomed to be late. “Better make it quick. I don’t have a lot of time,” Kristi warned as she blew across her steaming cup.
Lucretia let out her breath, then glanced over her shoulder as if she expected someone to be watching them. Satisfied that they weren’t being observed or overheard, she leaned over the table and whispered, “You’ve heard that some of the students—girls—have gone missing from campus.”
Kristi pretended only mild interest. She nodded. “Four, right?”
“Yes.” Lucretia bit at the corner of her lip. “So far they’re just missing….”
“But…you think…something else?”
Lucretia didn’t touch her coffee, just let it sit on the chipped Formica table near some used packets of hot sauce and mustard that someone hadn’t bothered to throw away. “Well, I just think something’s going on. Something weird.” She lowered her voice even further. “I knew Rylee.”
“Knew.