I close my eyes, get a hold of myself.
“Stevie, now is not the time or the place,” I say firmly. “Now get to your next class before Professor Broome writes you up for tardiness.”
“Professor Broome is not an egomaniacal control freak.”
“Are you saying I am?”
She glares at me, her smart mouth still twisted in that smirk, her anger still simmering. “What else would you call a professor who drones on and on about fear magick, too scared to face his own fears and trust someone once in a while.”
“Drone on?” I shout, knowing that’s not what we’re arguing about but seizing on it anyway—anything to avoid the raw nerve she just scraped. “Do you have any idea how important it is to learn proper defense against mental manipulation? Clearly not, or you wouldn’t be so damned stubborn and insolent.”
“Clearly not,” she says, imitating my voice. “Or I’d be able to defend myself against your boring-ass lectures!”
Mere inches separate us, and despite the ridiculously immature turn this argument has taken, all I want to do is kiss her. It’s completely inappropriate, totally unethical, absolutely forbidden by Academy policy, but it’s taking a good deal of mental magicks of my own—thoughts of icy rivers, of puppies, of wrinkly old grandmothers and hot garbage and other things that make my cock shrivel on command—to stop me from claiming her right here.
Instead, I turn my back on her, return to the safe harbor of my desk.
“I meant what I said about staying safe,” I tell her, going back to my paperwork. “I don’t want you wandering around campus at night without an escort.”
“I’m perfectly capable of assessing situations and handling them accordingly, Dr. Devane.”
She grabs her bag and huffs toward the door.
Shit.
I set down my pen. “Stevie, wait. Can you just…”
“Just what? Trust you?”
I lower my head. Point made.
And then she’s gone, every last one of those damnable old ghosts rushing back in to fill the space.
Forty-Three
STEVIE
The archive drawers containing Mom’s research seem to go on forever, packed not just with her notebooks, but with books and scrolls from all over the library.
Professor Phaines told me she was working on many different things, all of them connected to her prophecies. When she left the Academy, they decided to keep the research and her notes in place, figuring that there might be something to be gleaned at some future date.
“After all,” he told me earlier with a wink, “Melissa Milan was a talented seer, and many of us never stopped believing that.”
I’m glad at least Professor Phaines falls into that camp. At this point, he’s the only one involved in this project that I still trust.
I haven’t spoken to Dr. Devane since my outburst on Monday. In today’s class, we were content to ignore each other. And Kirin? Still a no-show. I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks now, and though I can tell he’s reading my texts, he’s not responding to them.
Ani told me the guys have plans tonight, which means Kirin’s not dead in a ditch somewhere—the only accessible excuse, as far as I’m concerned. And as much as I’d love to fly on over to their little super-secret, Keepers of the Grave cave again, I haven’t heard a peep from my avian familiar.
So that’s it. Kirin’s officially ignoring me.
And I’m officially heartbroken.
Sucks to admit it, but there it is.
“Everything okay, Stevie?” Professor Phaines asks, and I look up from my spot at the table, startled.
“Sorry. What was that?”
