I wait another minute, but the phone is silent.
There’s nothing more I can say, and Nat and Isla know it. Wrung out and exhausted, I pay the bill and head back to the dorms with my witch sisters, none of us daring to speak another word.
If Doc can’t fix this, I may have just signed a death warrant for every person on campus.
Thirty-Five
STEVIE
The next morning, I invent a new brew for the special occasion of encountering the wrath of Dr. Devane. I’m calling it Get On Your Big Girl Broomstick and Deal With Him—the perfect blend of energizing pu-erh, yerba mate for focus and endurance, and melted chocolate—you know, just in case this is the very last thing I get to drink.
I also brew a special to-go pot for Doc—a soothing blend of lavender, mint, vanilla, and chamomile I’ve christened Calm the Fuck Down.
It’s going to be a long and grueling day.
So, with an hour to spare before Mental Magicks, I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk into his classroom, ready to do battle with the one man who’s challenged me more than anyone else at Arcana Academy.
He’s seated at his desk in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his pale blue tie held firmly in place by the silver academy pin. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, and for a brief moment, he doesn’t see me.
He looks calm. Peaceful, despite the stress of everything going on.
But his energy, unguarded for the moment, is tired.
Now or never, girl.
“Dr. Devane?” I begin, holding up his tea mug like a peace offering. “I made you some—”
“Oh, Miss Milan! What a lovely surprise.” He turns to me and grins, his teeth glinting like the fangs of a wolf, his tone dramatic and exaggerated. “Come in and shut the door please.”
I do as he asks, then turn to face him, once again holding up the mug. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.” He gestures for me to take a chair at the front of the classroom, all his calm, peaceful energy sailing away. “You look well. How are you feeling this morning?”
“I’m fine,” I grind out, dropping into the chair. “Doc, can we kill the theatrics? I came here to say—”
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
“Fine,” I repeat. “I need to—”
“Well, I’m so gladoneof us is rested.” He rises from the chair behind his desk, pacing the room before me. “Care to know how I spent my evening?”
I fold my arms across my chest and glare. So it’s going to be one ofthoseconversations. Okay, then. Best to let him get it all out of his system now.
Because I didn’t just come here to apologize. I came for a fight. And what I have to say next? It’s going toreallypiss him off.
“No?” he presses. “Come on, Miss Milan. I thought sharing was your new favorite pastime.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “Get it off your chest. I know I deserve it.” After all, when I texted for help last night, I did give him permission to yell at me for it later.
“Allow me to enlighten you,” he says. “Rather than unpacking my belongings into the terribly small apartment to which I was highly encouraged to relocate—the one located above a store that sells nothing but incense that smells like hot garbage and old socks, mind you—I had the distinct pleasure of tracking down two first-year witches, inserting myself into their dinner plans under false academic pretenses, and using highly unethical forms of mental manipulation to make them believe they’d overheard you and your friends talking about a movie you’d seen rather than whatever highly sensitive information you deemed safe enough to share with your friends in a public space, after we spent the better part of an evening not ten days past stressing the importance of secrecy above all else. If that weren’t maddening enough, I also had to pick up the check.” Doc shoves his hands through his hair, fuming. “Do you understand how expensive Café Marchande is, Miss Milan? Do you understand what Goddess-awful dinner companions Blue Haydensport and Emory Sanchez are? Do you understand how much trouble you’re in right now?”
Doc’s still pacing like a wild animal, his energy so wound up he can’t even shield it from me. Certain he’s said all he can on the matter, I give him a moment to pull himself together before attempting a response.
“May I speak?” I ask.
“Oh, by all means. Please do speak, Miss Milan. At least this time, we’re alone.”
Ignoring the dig, I say, “Firstly, I came here to apologize—that’s a given. I take full responsibility for what I did. It was reckless, stupid, and if you hadn’t been there to clean up the mess, things could be a hell of a lot worse for all of us right now. I know that, and I’m sorry, Doc. Truly sorry.”
