Haunted Rayne

2 | Protector's Promise

The administration office of Maria J. Westwood had never been known to bustle with busybodies. Few students took their education as seriously as the founder would have intended with its original opening back in 1963. This morning was no different. The students—many of whom had been spoiled with riches since birth—preferred gathering in the gymnasium, pushing their luck, and causing a ruckus. This was one of many reasons the young English teacher, Dorian Matthews, preferred to spend his mornings in a place of solitude before classes began.

Today, that place was right next to Portia Maxwell, the heavyset, redheaded secretary who never failed to make him laugh.

Daybreak filtered through barred windows along the northward brick wall, and Portia was trying to brighten the screen of her computer to offset an unwelcome glare. "Can't see a damn thing," she muttered. "Been working here for eight years, you'd think they'd grant this secretarial goddess a few curtains by now. It is certainly within budget. I can tell you that."

Dorian stood over her in a pair of silken blue slacks and a white button-down. "Portia, have I ever told you that you're my favorite person?"

"Oh, come now, beautiful, you know the rules," she said, her jade eyes shimmering with amusement. "It's against M.J.W. policy for teachers to view student files, so quit asking."

"Under normal circumstances, I would understand, but she's going to be one of my students, Portia."

"Yes, and you can review her modified record on your tablet first thing in the morning, my little raven-haired pumpkin. Same as everyone else. This is not a new protocol." She smirked. "Besides, aren't you a little old for gossip?"

In her mid-forties, Portia Maxwell was already twenty years his senior, but since Dorian sometimes exuded the energy of an eighty-year-old man, and Portia often resembled a bubbly sixteen-year-old, they both liked to joke that he was the older one.

"It's not gossip if there's a story," said Dorian. "The kids have been talking about her since yesterday. I mean, don't you find that a little bizarre?"

"Really? What are they saying?" Portia suddenly gasped and drew an imaginary zipper across her lips. "Nope! Nevermind! You are the snake in my garden, and I do not like apples. Now, go."

"You can't kick me out," he said with a laugh. "I'm here on special invitation. To meet with the headteacher."

Portia perked her shoulders. "Oh, you're being sent to the principal's office? Do tell."

"Miss Wilson said she needed to speak with me about the new student. Thus, my concern. She's never done that before."

"Hm. I don't blame you for being curious then," Portia said, turning her attention back to the computer monitor, "because yes, there's a story there."

He slapped the desk. "I knew it."

In the right pocket of his slacks, Dorian's phone rang. He held up a hand, apologizing to Portia, and excused himself from the office. "Hello?"

"Hey, big guy. You still breathing?" a lively voice asked. It was his sister, Deborah.

"Getting better every day," he said with a smile.

As he turned around to meander the hallway, one of his students slipped past him, heading towards the infirmary. Dorian's smile faltered for just a moment. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating a fresh bruise along the side of his jaw.

"Lucas," he called out to the student, pulling the phone from his ear. "Are you alright?"

The young man turned around, the luster of his fawn-like hair contrasting the garishness of the bruise. He nodded, as if to answer, and then continued toward the infirmary. Dorian paused but made no attempt to pry any further.