Embry’s heart lurched, the vampire’s unsure grin the first day of school playing in her mind’s eye. “Of course, I understand that,” she said as clearly as possible, willing her voice not to shake. “This is a tragedy and I’m personally reeling from the loss of my friend—”
“Very good. Let’s get started.”
Though she was seated, Embry felt as if she’d been pushed back on her heels. She knew the headmaster was upset, stressed, and likely very concerned about the safety of her students, but Embry had never known her not to let her students engage in an actual conversation. Which meant now was the time to throw around her weight, even if that wasn’t something she particularly enjoyed.
“I’m a minor. Surely my father, Lazarus Woodcross, a revered coven leader, who is a valued member of the Table, mind you, should be present for this questioning.” Embry straightened in her chair. She really wished she were wearing something a little more professional than sweats, but that was precisely the point of what she’d just said—she could be wearing aScreammask andHeadmaster Martinelli or literally anyone in their magical community would have to take her seriously. And, honestly, even if she wasn’t a Woodcross, she probably wasn’t the only student requesting in-person parental support for an interview, especially with so many family members at hand already for homecoming weekend.
Martinelli didn’t blink. “As this is currently a school matter, that’s not necessary.”
That heavy feeling of metal coins surfing the shallows of her gut redoubled. Embry did plenty of hard things without Daddy. But none of them usually included actual life-and-death in the stakes. “With all due respect, Headmaster, I’m not answering questions with Inspector Brown in the room but not my father as both my guardian and a highly respected attorney-at-law.”
This was a gamble. Technically, the Table ran the school, but they also worked as the governmental body for all the magically gifted people in North America. Having them on campus was like having federal agents up in your business.
Here, Martinelli allowed her first tell. Her smoke-gray eyes flicked over Embry’s shoulder, toward the sealed doors.
The headmaster returned her attention to Embry and shifted the unkempt ends of her bob behind her ear. Her hair had started to frizz despite the cool morning, giving up on staying smooth in the chaos.
“The Table is leading the investigation as is necessary when a member of our magical community appears to be the victim of foul play. The Ravenwood PD are also involved, as they would with any death on the island.” This was sort of a joke because the Ravenwood PD was a placeholder for the Table—it just had tolooklike a working police department in case any nonmagical folks popped by. The Table would use the building as their home base, which was protocol because it was basically a satellite branch. “All entities are following established protocol and informationsharing as is necessary to resolve this case and find justice for Miss Riddle.”
“Which means,” cut in Inspector Brown, with an apologetic hand thrust out toward Martinelli at his abrupt entrance into the conversation, “you will talk to me eventually. It would be beneficial if you answered our questions at the same time, Miss Woodcross.”
Embry didn’t like confrontation, but she also wasn’t stupid. “I understand that. But I’m not speaking to you without my father present.”
Inspector Brown ran a hand down his mustache, which gave the unfortunate impression of his whole face doing a hangdog droop. His voice, though, was as tough as nails—a solid Boston accent. “Fair enough. Headmaster, let me know when Mr. Woodcross arrives.”
As he left, Martinelli leaned out her office door and instructed her assistant to call Mr. Woodcross. For as wobbly and distraught as Embry felt, she appreciated that Daddy had taught her well enough to keep cool in a matter such as this. The headmaster shut the door, returned to her desk, and said, “While we wait, you and I need to discuss your presence at this school.”
Her tiny Daddy-shaped victory dissolved. Embry’s face felt at once both hot and cold. Like she’d rubbed a glop of that foul-smelling menthol cream Rye favored after a particularly grueling rowing practice atop her cheekbones. But she ignored it all, dialing in.
Embry wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of Martinelli. In front of Daddy, later? Sure. Here? No way. “My presence at the school where I’m your head prefect and therefore the most well-trusted of all students nominated by the administration to serve as peer ambassadors?”
“Embry,” Martinelli said, so pointedly that Embry felt as if the Goddess herself had just zapped her with more than one lightningbolt—the headmaster hadneverused her first name in such a way. “I am well aware of your academic and social résumé. You do not need to tell me or anyone else. In fact, I would advise you not to recite your accomplishments or your family connections in this interview or any other that may be conducted in the name of this investigation as it could be construed as undue influence, or depending on the circumstances, interference, and it is crucial we avoid both during—”
“I would never—”
“But youcould.”
The headmaster’s tone was both decisive and perhaps accusing—as if thecouldactually meant “you are currently.”
Martinelli sighed. “Miss Woodcross, may I remind you that you are a very talented, very connected witch? You may not intend to interfere in our investigation, but your reputation, the reputation of your family, and the collective influence you might wield simply by asking questions of say, someone like Miss Wolverton, who has submitted evidence for our consideration, is of concern.”
“Skye?! You think I’d threatenSkye?!”
Embry knew her reaction was a tad shrieky and uncontrolled, but this was just ludicrous.
“I think you wouldtellyourself you weren’t threatening Skye, but you’d ask her about the video she recorded and about what else she might have told us, yes.”
Okay, sure. Anyone would have questions. She had plenty of them. But Embry could, in theory, see how that would look to anyone who didn’t understand that she was completely innocent and eager to prove it. Then something else occurred to Embry.
“You said studentslikeSkye. Does someone else have evidence to share? Because there was a lot of nuance to that conversation that Skye’s video didn’t catch.”
The headmaster’s lips thinned, and her shoulders shruggedas she threaded her fingers together and set them heavily on the leather blotter before her.
“Miss Woodcross, it’s not just what was said on the video.” It wasn’t? “You were the last person seen with Miss Riddle—the video corroborates this, as well as testimony from several eyewitnesses.”
It didn’t matter how many zits Embry magically zapped, how many raggedy Stitch body parts she repaired, that she’d just been among the ten seniors recognized by her peers as someone they considered for Raven’s Head royalty. The Woodcross name meant nothing, even if it was on the school’s charter and deed; the strength and history of her coven was moot; and every good deed she did in the short time her life crossed with Oakley’s was of no consequence.
In that moment, Embry was the sum of her most recent, regrettable actions and the magical person she was at her marrow: a witch. A witch seen in a fight with a girl who was now dead.
