Page 97 of The Villains of Winter

Before Elliott could defend him, Callum commanded him, “Do not ask either of them, Perseus or James, about anything related to the cult. I can’t prove it. I can’t confirm–but trust me, alright?” Callum breathed. “Two deaths is a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Elliott nodded. He retrieved iced meat for the bridge of Callum’s nose. His nose was marginally fractured, if not slightly broken by Claude’s fist. His nose stopped bleeding after an hour.

Afterward, Elliott changed out of his clothes and he offered Callum his laundered pajamas to change into as Callum ditched his bloodied clothes. Callum shoved the final evidence of the fight–the torn clothes, shrapnel of glass, the stained towels, the plastic gauze containers–into a trash bag.

“What do we do then?” Elliott asked after Callum tugged on a pair of Elliott’s boxers, hauling a fresh shirt over his head as he put his legs through the navy flannels. For a few moments, Callum was silent, staring at the cedars and the bird nests at the window sill. He kept himself silent in deliberation.

“We let Claude Montclair risk his own life finding out what happened to his son. All we know is that we can’t trust Perseus or James–”

“I wouldn’t trust me either,” James said, stepping into Elliott’s room from the dark. He stood at the front door with the Exeter Athenaeum badge. “Admittedly, though, you’ve injured my feelings, Callum. Why can’t we trust me?”

Elliott parted his lips, but Callum stood in front of him. “Claude Montclair has convinced himself I killed his son. As I told Elliott, all I did was find the body. We can’t trust you or Perseus to cover for us when you hardly know anything yourself.” Callum set his eyes on him. “Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right.” James’s expression remained composed. “How does any of that relate to Elliott?”

Callum handed him the electoral vote. “Claude Montclair learned I voted for his son. He’s hell-bent on proving I conspired to steal the senior elector position from him. He has this violent fantasy in his head that I took matters into my own hands.” Elliott heard the firmness of Callum’s voice between them. “Elliott and I know that’s not true. Elliott came to me and he asked me to vote for Lucien. I conspired with Elliott and the rest of the electors to send the tyrant as the honorarium.” Sic semper tyrannis.

James attempted to glance at Elliott to confirm that was their conversation, but Callum blocked his path. Callum stood as though he would protect Elliott from the fellow upperclassman with his own body, if needed. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins. He hadn’t protected Niall three years before. He hadn’t believed him.

“You conspired with Elliott?” James questioned. “How did Claude know your vote after the matter?”

“That’s what I want to find out,” Callum said, an edge to his words as he glared at James. He silently wondered if James had broken into the electoral chamber, given that James had broken into the office of the registrar plenty of times before. “No one is permitted to see the individual votes before the ceremony, not even Lucien.”

“Who signed the final vote?” James asked. That would be the last person to have the entirety of the votes.

“Perseus Swann.” Callum regarded him with equivalent distrust as he regarded James. “Perseus retrieved the votes to hand to Lucien. However, he couldn’t have known the votes, the encasement was locked.”

“He knew.” James spoke far beneath his breath. Neither of them heard him. None of this is personal, you know that, right? It’s unfortunate when these tragedies happen, but it’s for the best. Callum, Valeria, and the rest were outvoted. You understand these matters.

James’s jaw clenched.

Lucien Montclair uncovered the cabal and he extorted me throughout midterms last trimester. I had to shut him up. He wanted the drummer kid, what did it matter if he was your friend? Lucien would’ve exposed all of us…

“Are you wearing one of Elliott’s shirts?” James realized he recognized the comic book characters. “I take it you’re wearing his boxers under his pajama trousers. Did you spend the night with him?” Did Elliott have a night terror and James hadn’t been there?

Callum’s dorm was directly across the corridor from Elliott. Callum was an art history major. Future politicians that would learn to destabilize foreign nations slept downstairs. Future strategists that would pretend to quell the economic uprisings slept upstairs. Painters, opera singers, actors, historians, philosophers, orchestral instrumentalists slept in between.

At times at Æscwulf College for Statecraft and Art, the students of the arts and humanities were merely ornamental, if only to entertain the masses. A beautiful detraction.

“Claude came when I was asleep. Elliott lent me clothes.”

“His wife clawed me. I imagine he lost his temper. Do you need anything?” James asked him, he observed the faded blood marks in his hair, and Callum shook his head. James smiled, comradely, “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re fine.”

Callum bristled. It rarely, if ever happened, but someone frowned with an intense dislike of James Wilde. His affectation of a caring, concerned young man only reminded Callum of his perspicacity as a thespian. James’s infectiously charming smile was charismatic against all reason. Ill-placed and ill-timed. Callum almost lost his life to a dangerous man. Why would James smile in a grave moment? It only served to make Callum wonder how often James was delivering an exemplary performance around everyone. If he was always acting.

If he had ever been himself.

Who was James Wilde?

What was he capable of?

Even though Callum was an inch shorter than him at six feet three, Callum kept his eyes even with James. “You know what occurred to me? The rest of the electors and I believed that Lucien was Julius Caesar. I don’t believe that anymore. I believe he was a vulgarian that deserved to be dead.” His voice went cold. “I think you are Julius Caesar.”

“Does that make you Mark Antony then?” James’s mouth curved into a smile of amusement. “You will outlive me, is that it? Who will be our Cleopatra?”

“You did not deny it.” Callum had a suspicion that James knew exactly what he meant by the epithet. It was not a compliment in his favor. “As far as you’re concerned, I am Cassius.”

“You are a treasonist then?” His entertained smile widened. James quoted Augustus Caesar from the records of Plutarch with the impression of a statesman. “‘Proditionem amo, sed proditiorem odio.’” I love treason; I hate the traitor.