Kirin’s skin turns the color of old milk, but he presses his lips together and gazes skyward, as if he’s thinking. “Those are pretty generic terms. Back in the days before magick was widely known, a lot of witches and mages called their spellbooks and journals names like book of shadows or book of mirrors. It was all part of the necessary secrecy, I suppose.”
“Right, but this feels different. Book of shadow, book of mists… She mentioned it twice. And she repeated the chant several times, too.” I tell him about the rest of the dream. “I just wonder if it was an actual book or scroll or something.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he says dismissively, then scoops up Mom’s notebooks. “You should go. You’ve got Devane’s class next—you don’t want to be late for that, trust me.”
Kirin laughs, but it’s forced and tight.
I narrow my eyes, watching as he locks the books back in the file cabinets.
He’s lying to me. His energy went from open and excited to dark and evasive in about five seconds flat, and I have no idea why.
What is it about this shadows and mists business?
When he turns around again, his smile is brighter, but his energy is totally anxious, and he’s having a hard time meeting my eyes.
So Kirin is keeping secrets.
And something tells me if I’m going to figure out therealtruth behind Mom’s prophecies, I’ll need to start keeping them, too.
Twenty-Six
STEVIE
If I thought our vigilante road trip had bonded us in some deep, unbreakable way, or that Dr. Devane’s excellent selection of rock-climbing gear and tea-blending supplies was indicative of his fondness for me, he’sdamnquick to squash all those childish fantasies.
“You’re late,” he announces as I try to sneak into class unnoticed. His eyes flick over my body so subtly I doubt anyone else saw it, but I did.
So much for the unnoticed part.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I got hung up at the library.” I offer a quick smile—one I hope is at least alittlebit disarming, considering what they charge for this lipstick—then scan the room for an empty seat near a friendly face. As far as friendly faces go, looks like I’m out of luck there—Baz is closest to fitting the bill, but he’s already boxed in by Carly and Emory.
Unlike the big lecture hall from my intro Tarot class, this room is tiny, the desks arranged close together. Twenty pairs of eyes track me as I squeeze between rows to the lone available seat in the middle of the room, wishing Dr. Devane would just carry on with whatever lecture I interrupted.
But he waits in silence until I’m firmly in my seat, my tablet powered on, my tapping finger poised and ready to tap out whatever wisdom he’s here to impart.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks, his hospitable tone dripping with mockery.
I glare at him. “Great, thanks.”
“Ready to be, I don’t know, educated? This is, after all, an institute of higher learning, correct?”
“Sure thing.” I give him a mock salute. “Learning mode—engaged.”
His nostrils flare, his icy energy like a warning shot blasting right over my head. “In my class, we respect one another’s time, Starla Milan.”
“Stevie,” I remind him, but it’s too late. Snickering starts up in the back, catching on like kindling.
“Twinkle, twinkle,” someone sings, and I don’t have to look to know it’s Emory. Carly may be the face of the brand, but out of all the Claires, Emory and Blue seem to be the worst actors.
“Carry on, Doc,” I say, shooting him a pleading glare.
“It’s Dr. Devane, Miss Milan. Professor Devane is also tolerable. Not Divine, not Doc, not any other nickname or insult you might be considering.”
I press my lips together. Wow, Doc has aserioushard-on for authority. He’s kind of cute when he gets all riled up, too.
Holding back a smirk, I decide to honor his wishes—for now. This is his classroom, after all, and he has the power to pass or fail me. I probably shouldn’t piss him off just yet.
“Sorry, Dr. Devane,” I say. “It won’t happen again. The lateness or the nicknaming.”
