Before we begin our little excursion across campus, John stops to make a call using the phone at the front desk, his slender shoulders drooping as he leans over the polished countertop, one boot kicked out behind him like a schoolgirl speaking to her best friend.

I only catch half of what he mumbles into the receiver because he had a soft, temperate voice, so I assumed he was informing someone—whether it was Virgil or the poets—that we were on our way and to wait for us wherever they were.

It all felt like I was in a thriller or a James Bond film, waiting to meet the mastermind behind the entire series of events. But my eagerness wasn't limited to just me; Ovid and Homer were already standing outside the front doors, occasionally grimacing at John through the frosted glass until he finished his call and hung up the phone.

"They're waiting for us over in Monmouth," John informs me when he comes back over, a cheery smile returning to his face.

"Monmouth? Isn't that in Wales?" I blurt, and John laughs at my ridiculous observation. 

"No, not that Monmouth—Monmouth Hall, Dante. It's an old, abandoned science building on the other side of campus. We've been holding our meetings there for a while now, and a few of the boys host parties from time to time." He explains, "So far, the university hasn't caught on, and if they have, they don't seem to mind as long as we don't cause too big of a commotion. Parasites, all of them. Our families feed money into this establishment to keep them quiet."

I bob my head and try to process this information as I'm led back outside, into the cool air. To think that a bunch of students could run rampant in an old building without consequences at our age was something strange to me. My parents, had they been alive, would have been beside themselves if they'd heard half of what John was telling me. 

"Finally!" Ovid exclaims when we both appear, the wind kicking up his dark locks of hair and blowing them in his face. "By the time we get there, everyone's going to get tired of waiting for us to show up and leave. They've done it before."

"Only because you like to take your sweet ass time," Homer mumbles, and contently pops a butterscotch under Ovid's prudish little glower. 

"Jesus. You two idiots argue like an old married couple," John interrupts them before they can scuffle. "This is supposed to be Dante's night. Let's make it a good one for him, yeah? I'm sure you two remember what it was like when you first joined, don't you?"

The boys don't say a word, but an exchange of solemn looks tells me all I need to know.

This was serious business. 

___

Monmouth was one of the spindly buildings I had seen that morning when I rounded the road onto the campus. It looked more like an abandoned church, and the structure itself was quite large and intimidating when we approached it for the first time. Some of the windows had been boarded up, and caution tape had been plastered across them in several places.

"There's caution tape all over!" I tell Homer, who offers me a butterscotch as we're on the tail end of the group, "It looks like a crime scene happened here."

"Yep," he replies. "Several students have jumped from the top-floor window and killed themselves since this place was built. They finally closed it down in the 1960s, and since then, nobody's wanted to touch it with a ten-foot pole. Oh, and just a word to the wise? Don't mention the suicides in front of Virgil. It makes him broody, and when he's broody, we're miserable."

"And why is that?" I reply, but Homer turns and joins the others on the heavy concrete steps, so I have no choice but to follow, my questions hovering between us.

Entering the old building for the first time felt like cracking open a vault full of dust-covered antiques. John holds the door open for us, and I'm the last one inside, my heart pounding so hard in my chest that I thought it would splinter my ribcage right through.

The main floor had a checkered floor that had once been black and white. The ceilings were vaulted so high that what faint light filtered in turned the walls gray. Every inch of the place was covered in some form of dust, but the most fascinating thing about it was the displays.

There were taxidermied animals in large glass cases—birds I had never seen with feathers as vibrant as anything. Lions were frozen in mid-roar, never to taste blood on their tongues again. Since this was a science building, they also had jars with things like fetuses and other assorted bits floating around as I passed by and glanced at the displays around me.

"So we meet again," Ovid greets a real-life skeleton standing before him. "This is Jeffery," he informs me with a toss of his hair. "He's our mascot. Don't mind the fact that he's missing his head; someone used it as a prop in a Shakespeare performance a few weeks ago during a party, and they were too drunk to remember where they put it."

"And if by someone, you're referring to yourself, aren't you, Ovid?"

We all turn around when a voice with a timber that sends tiny shock waves through my arms and legs comes floating out from behind one of the display cases containing a black panther. My body is instantly assaulted by the sudden urge to sit near the owner of that voice and feed him poetry just to listen to him speak.

"Dante," John speaks up when no one else does. "This is Virgil Corinthian, the founder of Monmouth and our poetry club."

It was too simple of a title for the man who steps out from behind the display case. If Ovid had been captivating and Homer easy on the eyes, then Virgil surpassed them both, even in his cream knit sweater and wool trousers. It had to be the eyes, or maybe the hair, but then those were just two simple things that made up the beautiful creature standing across from me. 

"Hello, Dante," Virgil greets me warmly. "I heard you're interested in joining our club."

There was nowhere for me to run.