“Leo.” I nod toward my most friendly captor. “Good seeing you.”
For Friday night’s lecture, Bowen asks us to meet him in the quad outside of the Art History building, warning us that temperatures will be below freezing so we should dress accordingly. We’re not going to the catacombs, not yet. He seems to have some other half-assed field trip in mind. I’ve taken so many university classes since moving to America, there’s almost nothing that can excite me enough to distinguish one lecture from another.
When I walk up to the stone stairs outside the building at two minutes to seven, the only other person there is Diantha, bundled in her biggest winter coat and wrapped in what appears to be a stack of tartan scarves.
Great.
I keep my distance, taking a seat on the other side of the steps.
Our brief interaction had been exciting, I can admit that. Whether it was her intellect or that long, dark cascade of hair she has—fuck, maybe even her magic—she made me feel something.
If all I wanted was to fuck her, I could probably summon enough energy to glamour her into talking to me.
But that is not it. She rouses something in me other than lust. Something other than bloodlust.
Bowen shows up five minutes late, looking like he just crawled through Echidna’s sewer system to reach us. His trousers are wet almost up to the knees and his face is so pink and raw from the cold, I fear he may need some sort of medical intervention.
“Hello, hello, hello.” He adjusts his wool hat with one hand and waves us forward with the other. “Come, come,come.Why are you all so afraid of being close to each other?”
I feel Diantha’s eyes slide over me as we meet Bowen at the bottom of the steps.
“Well, I see once again a distinct lack of courage from your generation. I’ve scared everyone off with the threat of cold, eh? Their loss…” He digs in his briefcase for a moment.
Diantha shifts on her feet beside me. She looks cold. The shadows under her eyes have faded, but there’s something in the gentle tremble of her lips that makes me want to wrap my arms around her, haul her over my shoulder, and, oddly, punch Bowen in the face.
Maybe that’s a separate surge of emotion I’m feeling.
As if she can hear my thoughts, Diantha’s eyes snap to mine. Dark, wide, imploring. Maybe she expects me to look away, but I can’t. Her gaze heats me, ignites a warmth in my chest and fuels my hunger. Thatalivenessshe brings out in me is suddenly back.
“Hey.”
Oh, we’re speaking again. How nice.
I arch a brow. “You’re cold.”
A little laugh escapes her. “Of course. It’s eight degrees.”
“She speaks,” I say softly. “And she laughs?”
Diantha narrows her eyes and parts her lips to form a rebuttal.
“Aha!” Bowen rips some papers from his bag and begins to pass them out. “Focus up, children. Tonight we’re going on a tour of the Paquet Manor. Are either of you familiar?”
“The eighteenth-century mansion on the far side of campus?” Diantha asks.
“Exactly, Miss Moro. Bit of a hike, but worth it as we’ll get a chance to look at some Venetian tapestries that were imported by the Paquets at the turn of the last century. A dubiousacquisition, undoubtedly, but I’m not here teaching a class on ethics…” He picks up his pace.
“It’s been a long week,” Diantha mumbles, careful not to audibly interrupt Bowen’s diatribe. “I didn’t mean to come across so…”
“Brusque? Improper? Discourteous?”
She bites at the corner of her lip to keep from laughing. A curl has escaped the protection of the scarf wrapped around her head and it dances over her face, catching in her eyelashes. “Any other synonyms you want to try out?”
“No, I’m quite satisfied.”
“Well,” she says, batting her lashes at me, “you’ve also proven your point.”
“And you missed me, didn’t you?” I cast my eyes down toward hers, attempting an angry pout to conceal my own smile.
