“Good. Now get the hell out of here before one of your colleagues sees us talking like this and your infallibly proper reputation is ruined.”
Doc laughs and turns to leave, but not before I catch his last retort.
“If anyone ever had the power to ruin me, Miss Milan, it’s you.”
Twenty-Nine
STEVIE
After Saturday’s stunning outdoor adventure with Ani, spending my Tuesday morning cooped up in the archives feels more like detention than research, despite the relaxing beach cottage glamour. But the attacks this weekend have only served to underscore the urgency of our mission—a mission that keeps expanding at every possible turn.
We must find the Arcana objects.
We must protect said objects.
We must figure out the Dark Magician’s plans.
We must devise a counter-plan.
We must inform and protect our fellow students and faculty.
We must sharpen our magickal skills—especially mine, the weakest link in the Brotherhood when it comes to active powers.
Oh, and we still must translate Mom’s prophecies—the original mission, still firmly in place, more important than ever.
There’s a word for this.
Futile.
Kirin’s downstairs in a meeting with Trello and Janelle Kirkpatrick, still working out the so-called kinks in her security clearance—kinks Kirin has planted himself. All alone in the archives, surrounded by stacks of my mother’s cryptic words and my own attempts at understanding them, the despair hangs heavy in the air.
I rest my forehead against the cool wooden table and shut my eyes. Exhaustion hangs heavy in the air, too.
“Stevie? You okay?”
“Stevie’s not home right now. Please leave a message.” I lift my head, smile at Kirin across the room. “How was your meeting.”
He glances at the ceiling and purses his lips. “The phrase circle-jerk comes to mind. The good news is I managed to buy us another couple of days.”
“How’d you swing that?”
“Easy.” He takes his usual seat across from me. “I let it slip that you and I were working hard on Tarot Language and Symbology and that the Farinkhoff manuscripts should not be disturbed. So naturally, Janelle headed straight for them.”
“Farinkhoff manuscripts? Never heard of them.”
“Neither have I, but Janelle will be busy looking for books that don’t exist for quite some time. Such is the price for being a busybody”
“You’re thebestkind of evil.”
Kirin smiles, holding my gaze across the table. Things have gotten better between us—easier. He hasn’t tried to kiss me again, which is… respectable. Disappointing, but respectable. And probably for the best. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between translations and theories, I look at him across our table and can’t help but wish he’d just stand up, shove all the books and priceless manuscripts to the floor, throw me down on the table, and—
“What about you?” he asks. “Any luck?”
Blinking away the fantasy, I reach for the notebook I’d been working on earlier, grateful for some other place to force my gaze. Because if I spend one more minute staring into those eyes, I’m pretty sure I’ll throwhimdown on the table.
“Listen to this.” I flip to the last page and read the latest prophecy of doom:
Illusion fills the offered space
