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“Your employment here was not contingent on that,” Emmett repeated to her firmly. “You’ll have two level-one-hundred lectures. It should be easy for anyone who got an invitation to the annual vampire ball in New Orleans.”
She was stunned. Emmett really had done his research on her. Or Calum did, and he told his staff. Her thoughts couldn’t leave the prince alone.
“You’re going to have to tell me how you managed that one.” Emmett winked at her. He swung the door open to his office and ushered them inside. “I wasn’t kidding about those first-hand accounts of encounters with Romanian lycanthropes. They’re on my desk.” He motioned towards it. “Go ahead inside and look. I need to speak with Dr. Welsh briefly. We can go over your class schedule too.”
Fern perked up. “Is he here?”
“If he’s not in his office, then he’s typically in the library. I’ll be back in a moment. Please, get started.”
Fern nearly burst of excitement, momentarily distracted by the idea of magical research. “You certainly know how to tempt a woman.”
“A woman, no,” Emmett laughed. “A fellow nerd, yes.”
Emmett slipped away and shut the door behind him. As tempted as she was to follow him, she was more enticed by the promised manuscripts.
By the time Emmett stepped back into his office, Fern had a million theories on the relationship between lycanthropes and human populations in Eastern Europe. Emmett handed her another Walker's biscuit—which he seemed to have an endless supply of—and started aptly taking notes.
For the first time in a long time, Fern wasn’t thinking about what her siblings might need or if she was appearing too excited or too dorky to someone else. Even her thoughts about Dr. Calum Welsh were silenced.
It was a long time before they even got around to discussing Fern’s class schedule.
Chapter Thirteen
After the unprecedented events of her arrival, Fern’s first few weeks at the university were shockingly routine. If sharing a faculty lounge with fae and having a baobhan sith as your running buddy could be called routine.
It didn’t take long at all for Fern to fall in love with the Department of Highland Magic and all its constituents. She spent long hours at the library and exploring the various buildings around campus, letting herself get lost.
Dr. Calum Welsh remained a mystery to her. It was impossible for their paths not to cross. He kept his promise and was overseeing her initial dissertation research, but their conversations were clinical and to the point. They didn’t speak of the kiss they’d shared. If she had questions about Scotland’s magic, he would redirect her to Mara or Emmett and change the topic.
The seasons had changed, and they were fast approaching Mabon. Fern couldn’t access her own magical abilities, but it didn’t stop her from educating herself on her family’s history. Mara had introduced her to another witch on staff, who was tutoring Fern in everything she could while their powers were bound. Fern was a natural.
Fern also introduced Finley to Mara and Emmett. After the last time Finley had seen his sister, he demanded proof that her colleagues were treating her well. That evening ended with Emmett carrying Finley out of the pub to keep him from hitting on Mara—for his own good, not Mara’s. Emmett and Finley now worked out together on the weekends.
As promised, the classes that Fern handled were easy. She had a talented group of students and scheduled her lectures for Tuesday and Thursday, leaving her the rest of the week to continue her research.
Calum had provided her with her own office in the library to use and gave her an endless supply of materials to sort through. She was disappointed when he had sent another proxy in his place to deliver the stacks.
As Fern entered her classroom that afternoon, she didn’t know that she was about to turn right back into the destiny that she had tried to deny.
The lecture hall was fairly standard fare; it fit two-hundred students, but Fern’s class was only half full. She didn’t mind. Each student in her courses wanted to be there, and that made all the difference.
The autumn wind knocked the door open further than Fern had intended, sending a scurry of leaves into the classroom with her. She turned around and slammed it shut, smoothing her hair back into its bun as she approached the podium.
“Good afternoon, class,” she smiled cheerfully. “Apologies for my tardiness. Luckily, I am the only person in this group not partially graded on attendance.” There was a murmur of laughter throughout the hall as Fern dropped her bag on her desk and started her lecture.
This class was an introduction to Celtic mythology, with an assumption that most of the students were literature or history majors of some sort. At the midpoint through the semester, Fern was lecturing on some of the lesser-known spirits that were unique to Scotland and Ireland.
“Can anyone tell me what a bean-nighe is?” Fern asked the class, perusing the raised hands and picking one student at random. “Go ahead.”
“A bean-nighe is more commonly known as a washer woman spirit,” the student answered proudly.
“Correct.” Fern nodded. “They are not banshees although there are some similarities. Bean-nighe are always female spirits who are doomed to wash the clothes of the dead near lakes and rivers. They’re said to be powerful omens of death, and if you see one, be careful it's not your clothes that she’s washing.”
The students—all of them human—chuckled at Fern’s reference to seeing a bean-nighe. Fern smiled in response, but her stomach twisted.
I should ask Mara if she’s ever seen a bean-nighe.
Fern saw a hand go up in the lecture hall, and she indicated for the student to ask their question.
