“It means that whatever you’re feeling,” he says softly, “whateveranyof us is feeling, it’s not magick.” He takes my hand, his touch warm and gentle, and presses it to his chest, holding it in place. I feel his heartbeat, wild and strong and powerful, its frantic rhythm a mirror to my own. Gone are the ghosts from his eyes, replaced now with heat and passion, with possibility, with wonder.
“It’s something infinitely more powerful,” he whispers, leaning in close, “and infinitely more terrifying.”
His warm breath carries with it the sound of the ocean, the roar of the waves against the shore, the distant howl of a wolf beneath the moonlight, and he lowers his mouth to mine, our lips nearly brushing…
A hard rap on the door startles us both, and I turn away, heat shooting through every one of my limbs.
Doc clears his throat, resuming his position behind the desk.
“Come in,” he calls out.
Agent Eastman enters, stern and severe as ever—a much-needed bucket of ice water dumped right down my pants.
“Dr. Devane, I was hoping you could spare a minute or two before your next class.”
Doc glances at his watch, his forearm muscles rippling in a way I never quite noticed before and probably shouldn’t be noticing now, but holy hell my heart is still dancing inside my chest, my blood still singing with the unexpended energy of that almost-but-not-quite kiss.
“I’ve got about ten minutes,” Doc says. “How can I help you, Agent?”
Eastman glares at me, probably remembering how annoying I was the day he checked out my security system. “It’s aprivatecampus security matter, if you don’t mind.”
“I—”
“It’s fine,” I say, saving Doc the awkwardness of shooing me out after what just happened. Or didn’t happen. “I’ll be back in a few minutes for class.”
Doc holds my gaze another beat, a whole bunch of unsaid things passing between us, then finally nods.
The moment I reach the hallway, my phone buzzes with a text.
Thank you for the tea, Miss Milan.
Then, seconds later, another one.
And for keeping my days full of surprises.
Thirty-Six
STEVIE
With the faculty and staff under intense scrutiny from APOA, the next week is pretty grueling on the classroom front. All the professors are upping their game, pushing us to learn more, do better, and quote-unquote make good choices, which basically translates to more homework and much harder tests.
In the face of everything at stake, it’s hard for me to prioritize things like ten-page essays comparing and contrasting the symbolism of clouds and birds in the swords suit, but I have to remember that until I reach an agreement with Doc and the other guys about getting more people on Team Keepers of the Grave, the search for the Arcana objects is our responsibility and no one else’s. I can’t expect the faculty to put classes on hold or give me and the guys special treatment just because we’re trying to save the world from the invasion of the Dark Arcana.
I mean, I’ll probably ask for extra credit when all is said and done, but still. Right now, we have to keep living our regular lives, just like everyone else.
Doc and I have not revisited our conversation—not about letting a few more students and professors into the circle of trust, not about the Brotherhood bond, anddefinitelynot about the near-kiss that still sends my stomach somersaulting every time I think about it. It’s just as well, though. We’ve all been so busy juggling school work and the mission to find the objects, there’s not a lot of time for personal detours. Not now.
After much nagging and tantrum-throwing, Janelle Kirkpatrick finally got her security access, so after locking all of our sensitive work in a password-protected file cabinet, Kirin and I have been spending most of our time in the stacks. It’s not easy dodging her creepy, lurky, highly-overperfumed ass, but so far we’ve managed to do just that, combing through dusty books and manuscripts in search of legends and lore that might help us recreate the Book of Mist and Shadow.
But my luck runs out today when I wander off on my own to fetch a book for Kirin from the section on Arcane Occult Languages. Just before I reach the row I need, hushed, angry voices from between the shelves stop me cold.
“Don’t you want to help your mother?” The first one hisses.
“I do,” comes the second, clearly terrified even at a whisper. “I’m trying my best.”
“Try harder,daughter, or your precious house of cards will crumble. Do you want to end up like Amelia?”
Amelia? If she’s talking about Amelia Weatherby… She was one of the Claires—a friend of Carly’s who left the Academy last month when her aunt Danika Lewis was executed on live TV for the crime of witchcraft.
