But the professor heard them. At the head of the group, near a copse of blue jacaranda trees that sheltered the statue, Professor Phipps stopped talking and turned to face them.
“Miss Dallas Bright.”
Dallas went rigid as Phipps’s eyes found hers in the cluster of umbrellas. One by one, the students turned around to stare.
Loren ducked her head, the weight of all those eyes unbearable.
Phipps was frowning. “Would you care to share with the rest of us what you’ve found so important as to interrupt my tour?”
Dallas lowered her chin in feigned embarrassment and shook her head. If Loren hadn’t known Dal her entire life, she might’ve fallen for the act. But she could see, clear as day, the smirk playing on the generous curve of Dallas’s lips, painted a shade identical to her hair. A glamour, Loren knew—no lipstick could look that perfect. She would give Dallas hell for that later; she shouldn’t be using her magic so carelessly, not when the Tricking was running rampant and hospital beds were few and far between.
It was why magic staves had been invented in the first place. The Tricking was a disease that had been around for centuries; if a person abused their power reserves and used their magic for anything and everything—such as makeup glamours—they were more likely to contract the sickness. It plagued immortal people with old age and eventually killed them.
A Focus served as a conduit, the staves a channel for a person’s magic to flow through, resulting in a decreased risk of contracting the Tricking. It wasn’t a permanent fix, but it worked—for now. Witches and warlocks had been using magic staves for so many years, that few of them could perform magic without one now.
“No thank you, Professor Phipps,” Dallas replied in a saccharine voice. “I apologize for interrupting you.”
The professor gave a thoughtful hum. “Well, as someone whose job is to answer my students’ questions, I would certainly hate to leave yours unanswered, Miss Bright.”
“My question?” This time, she wasn’t faking the surprise glinting in her gaze.
“Iammarried.” Although he wore a poker face, amusement danced in his eyes. “And even if I wasn’t, I am two hundred years old. Which is far too old for you.”
Students snickered. Girls pressed their hands to their mouths, and grinning boys elbowed each other in the side.
“Now,” the professor went on, “can we focus on the tour, Miss Bright?”
Splotches of color bloomed across Dallas’s cheeks, but she smiled and replied sweetly, “You have very keen hearing, Professor.”
He merely smiled and resumed his tour.
The tour was nearly at a close when Loren slowed to a shuffle before a crumbling building surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with loops of barbed wire.
Oblivious to Loren having stopped, Dallas continued walking, taking the shelter of the umbrella with her, her kohl-lined eyes trained on Phipps’s ass. Loren rolled her eyes so hard she swore she saw her brain.
“What’s in that building, Professor?” The storm threatened to swallow Loren’s words.
The students slowed as Professor Phipps turned around, holding his clipboard above his head to shield himself from the rain that was increasing in tempo. Suddenly, there was nowhere to look without meeting a pair of curious eyes. Loren felt her shoulders curl in for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning, and she interlocked her fingers to keep from fidgeting.
“That building,” he said, “is strictly off-limits.” He made to turn away, but Dallas spoke up.
“No, seriously,” the witch said as she made her way toward the fence, shaking a strand of hair—frizzed by humidity—out of her face. “What’s in it?”
“Seriously, Miss Bright,” Professor Phipps said in a mocking tone, “it’s off-limits.” He started walking again, his pantlegs soaked by the lawn. But he barely made it two feet before his reluctance to talk about the building set the entire group of students to whining.
The professor stopped walking. Turned around. Despite the clipboard he held above his head, his hair was darkened with rain.
Dallas smirked and said of the students, who were belting out their own questions about the building, “It seems we’ve gained a small army.”
The professor surveyed Loren and Dallas for a long time. When the murmuring finally quieted, he relented with a sigh and gave up holding the clipboard as a makeshift umbrella, instead using it to gesture to the building. “This is the Old Hall. It was where classes were held when the academy was established several thousand years ago. When the new academy was built to accommodate the growing number of students, this building was forgotten. It was no longer used for anything except storage.”
The vampire who held the roster said, “Is it true there used to be a secret society on campus?” Nowthiswas the kind of information Loren was looking for.
“What kind of secret society?” Loren asked.
The vampire’s eyes met hers. “A blood magic society. They would sneak into the building at Witching Hour and perform ancient rites to see who was worthy of joining their cult—”
“Not a blood magic society or acult,Stephan,” corrected the professor. “It was more a society of outcasts. According to the stories, it was a social club a small number of humans organized to make new friends. They chose the Old Hall as a place to hold their meetings and other activities—a place they could call their own.”
