“Trust no one, Miss Milan. That is your first lesson.”
“Even you?”
A tiny smile tugs at his lips, but he locks it down, ignoring the question. From the briefcase, he pulls out a stack of papers and file folders, setting them up in an orderly row before selecting one and paging through its contents, taking a few notes on a legal pad as he does. The pen is silver and black. Expensive-looking, just like he is. His handwriting is small and neat.
I’m dying to ask questions—who is he? Who sent him? Who paid for him? What did the guard mean, get the job done?—but I don’t dare interrupt.
Thing is… I do trust him. I can’t get a read on him, but some part of me, some voice inside, tells me he’s here to help. Circumstances being what they are, I’ve got no choice but to listen to that voice. For now, anyway.
I shift in my chair. My traitorous stomach lets out an embarrassing grumble.
A dark eyebrow arches beneath his hairline, but he doesn’t look up from his task. Just reaches into his case and procures a bottle of lemon Kombucha and a Tupperware container, sliding it across the table to me.
My mouth waters at the sight of the rich, colorful bits visible through the plastic.
“Eat, Miss Milan. We’ve got much to accomplish today, and we need you strong.”
“Thanks, but I can’t take your lunch. I’m—”
“No need to stand on ceremony.”
My stomach rumbles again, screaming at me to dig in.
“I don’t suppose you have a napkin or something?”
Still not looking at me, he retrieves a packet of hand sanitizer wipes from his briefcase, and slides it my way. I tear open the wrapper, the pungent smell of alcohol so clean and bright I could almost cry. I wipe my face—dry skin be damned—then scrub my hands, doing my best to cleanse away the prison grime.
I feel like a new person already.
Without wasting another moment on politeness, I pop off the top of the Tupperware and dig in, devouring the veggies and hummus inside, the boiled egg, the cubes of cheese. The Kombucha tastes like nectar of the Gods, fizzy lemon goodness exploding across my tongue, filling my body with much-needed hydration and nutrients.
Maybe it’s my last meal, and this is all some crazy setup. Maybe it’s poisoned. I don’t care. Nothing has ever tasted so delicious, and with every bite, my body begins to heal again. I feel the bruises fading, my muscles strengthening, the kinks working themselves out of my back.
Miraculous.
After a few more minutes of non-conversation—me happily scarfing down the food, him scratching in his note pad, he finally sets down the pen and lifts his chin, meeting my gaze.
The air between us crackles. I grip the edge of the table, as if I need to steady myself for whatever comes next.
“My name is Dr. Cassius Devane,” he announces. “I’m a professor of mental magicks at the Arcana Academy of the Arts, an extremely powerful mage, and youronlychance at getting out of here alive.”
Eight
STEVIE
The food, so delicious minutes ago, turns into a lead ball in my stomach.
The man—Dr. Devane—gives me about five seconds to absorb the shock of his drone strike, then says, “It’s in your own best interests to set aside any preconceived notions you have about our institution. In case you haven’t noticed, your options areseverelylimited, and you’re not in a position to negotiate.”
The initial shock fades fast, his tone like ice water to the face, and I’m out of my chair so abruptly it tips backward and slams against the floor.
The Academy?
“How did you find me? How did you know I was here?” There’s no hiding the accusation in my tone. The malice.
“Miss Milan,” he continues, “I realize this may be difficult to accept. But whatever your parents told you about us, there are—”
“You knew myparents?”
