Page 24 of Night and Silence

One of the nice things about a don’t-look-here, as opposed to true invisibility, is that people still see you: they just don’t notice you until you force them to, like, say, by backing into them while standing somewhere you’re not supposed to be. I ran, and the students who were gathered to get a glimpse of the crime scene made space for me without even realizing it, shifting a step forward or a step back. Better yet, they returned to their original positions in time to keep the officer who was pursuing me from building up any real speed.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Come back here! Stop!”

Call me a cynic, but no one who shouts “stop” like that has ever had my best interests at heart. I kept running until I hit the edge of the creek. There wasn’t time to skid down the side. Yes, it would have been safer, but it would also have slowed me down enough for the officer to see me before I hit the bottom, and I needed to break his line of sight.

I jumped.

It wasn’t a long way to the bottom, maybe eight feet, but I wasn’t braced for a solid landing, and jumping off of things has never really been my thing. My left ankle buckled as I hit the bottom, and for a heart-stopping second, I thought I was going to land face-first in the frigid water. It was shallow, a small, rushing creek rather than any kind of pond, but that would still be enough to wash the blood off my piece of stolen glass. I pinwheeled my arms frantically, fighting to keep my balance.

For once, in a battle between me and gravity, I won. Quickly, I limped across the creek and collapsed on the far bank, the precious bundle of glass and tissue still safe and dry in my pocket. I could feel the strained muscles in my ankle smoothing themselves out, knitting every little rip and tear, and it itched like fire.

The campus security officer ran up to the edge of the drop-off. I froze, muddy and bedraggled, on the creek’s far bank. The spell was holding. I could feel it all around me, sticky as cobwebs. It had to hide me. It had to.

Seconds ticked by. The officer raked his eyes back and forth along the bank, never quite focusing on me. He scowled.

“Asshole kids,” he muttered, and turned on his heel and stalked away.

I stayed where I was for another count of ten, holding perfectly still. When he didn’t return, I gingerly rose, testing my ankle and finding it completely healed. There are some advantages to being my mother’s daughter. Relative indestructability is one of them. It’s not enough to balance out the part where she thinks she’s better than me and wishes I’d died human, but hey, every family has its issues.

Still cautious, I moved into the shadow of the bridge and counted to ten again. When the officer didn’t reappear, I released the don’t-look-here, filling the air under the bridge with the cloying scent of cut grass and copper. Before it could dissipate, I grabbed it with both hands, twisting it back into my human disguise, modifying it until I no longer looked like the woman who’d been spotted crouching near the car. It didn’t take much—a new hair color, red instead of barely blonde, slightly sharper features—but it would help if the officer was still on the lookout.

The pain in my head came back, even stronger. I was nearing my natural limit on illusions. Tough. I’d keep casting them until I had Gillian back in the safety of her father’s arms, and my stupid skull could learn to cope.

Once I was sure the illusion would hold, I shook the shadows off my fingers and started down the bank, looking for a place where it would be easy to climb up, yet where I wouldn’t attract unwanted attention for appearing where the officer was waiting. Every little bit helps when trying to evade the law.

I couldn’t ride the blood yet. Not here, not when there was a chance it would overwhelm me and cause me to drop my illusions. It would need to wait until I was safely in Bridget’s office, out of sight of casually prying eyes.

Bridget and Quentin were still on the walkway when I came back. Madden was sitting nearby, tail thumping, being cooed over by a group of students who seemed to think he was the best dog ever. Judging by the grin on his canine face, he agreed. The third bipedal member of the group was more relevant to my interests: May. I walked a little faster. Bridget and Quentin gave me guarded looks as I approached. May, on the other hand, snorted.

“You look ridiculous as a redhead,” she said. “Mom did you a massive favor when she went off and found a new husband who didn’t look anything like her old one.”

“Sure did,” I agreed—although having seen August, I suspected the problem wasn’t my hair being red, it was my hair being as pigmented as a normal person’s. I looked to Bridget. “I have what I needed. I’m assuming May does, too. Can we go to your office?”

“Yes,” said Bridget, looking unsettled. “I . . . I wasn’t aware you could do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” She gestured vaguely toward my face before glancing toward Madden’s little fan club. They were all human. She shook her head. “Follow me.”

Madden came away with a small tug of the leash, and we followed Bridget from the crime scene, down the side of Wheeler Hall, and to a small, unassuming door painted a bland shade of tan.

“Faculty entrance,” she explained, producing a ring of keys. “Not meant for student use at any time, always locked from the outside. Makes it easier when we need to avoid justifying our grading choices.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Sorry, sorry.” She slotted a key into the lock. “I babble when I’m nervous. It’s a dreadful habit, but that doesn’t make it any easier to do away with. Come on.” She pulled the door open. We followed her inside.

I never went to college, and yet somehow I’ve spent more time at UC Berkeley than any non-student has any business doing. The halls were strange and familiar at the same time, just enough like the chemistry department where Walther worked that I felt like I could understand the basic layout, just different enough that I knew I’d get lost if I took my eyes off Bridget for a moment. Madden’s claws clacked against the tile. There were windows, but they were high and small and most of the blinds were drawn, casting the hall into a comfortable twilight.

“I thought there’d be classes going on,” said Quentin.

“Oh, there are,” said Bridget. “Mostly a floor below us. This is all offices and faculty space. It’ll doubtless be gutted the next time someone gets it in their head to renovate and ‘modernize,’ replaced by some sort of commons that leaves us nowhere to do our work in peace, but for now, we can get about without treading on students every time we turn around. Love them, Lord knows we do; that doesn’t mean they make the process of educating them any easier when they insist on being present all the time.”

She stopped in front of a door that looked like every other door in the hall, save for the nameplate next to it, which announced that this was the office of Dr. Bridget Ames. “It’s funny, you know,” she said, as she unlocked the door. “My colleagues all think I’ve gone very modern and progressive, since I went and got married and didn’t change my name. They approve, for the most part—my entire publication history is tied to my maiden name—but they didn’t expect it of me. Hard to explain that my groom hasn’t a surname to share with me.”

“If he ever needs to do anything in the mortal world, he’ll probably go by Etienne Ames,” I said.

Bridget looked pleased. “Hadn’t thought of that,” she said, and opened the door. “Forgive my mess.”