Page 41 of Fatality on the Field

“Damn it, Kas. If you could stop being so fucking smart this morning…”

He winks at me as we cross the middle of the quad and head for the Briarton School of Arcane Magic, Alchemy, Enchantment, & Sorcery. I haven’t been there since I started classes at State U—there was no need. My course of study here is within the law and business school, and I certainly don’t have use for humanoid magic user techniques. Now that we’re approaching the vast building, I wonder if I should have explored it at least. Thanks to Iggy’s problem with the horticulture professor, I know it has an amazing greenhouse I might contribute to, and with him in the family, it might help to convince the woman he pissed off to give him access again.

A thought for later, but I’m pretty charming when I choose to be. I’m sure I can provide Kimiko with enough Faerie-based plants that she forgives the errant mage. I’ll add that to the list for later: send a plant to the woman with an invitation to afternoon tea. A nice, neutral meeting preceded by a gift that’s rare will probably make hefty strides.

“Li, if you’re plotting decor again, I’m going to regret including you in this part of the damn plan.” Kaspar gives me an irritated expression as we come up to the front of the building. He pauses as he looks at the very old school, very human-looking magic building with a sigh. “These fuckers don’t have an ounce of originality in them, do they? At least the rich families back home work to make more and more outrageous and stylish monuments to their egos. In this realm, everything’s either tacky or cookie-cutter. It’s very disappointing.”

Grinning, I retort, “At least this one has places where broody perchers like you can land, friend. Morgana bitched about the science building for days because it lacks those.”

His brow furrows as he thinks about that, and he finally nods. “There is that. I couldn’t land on it in full shift, but half would be fine. Good point, prince.”

“Don’t start that again,” I grumble. “I don’t want it from you or anyone in our family. You know that.”

The dragon chuckles as he jerks his head at the door and then starts up the steps. “Yeah, yeah. No fancy stuff at home; got it.”

He says that, but it’s his favorite way to make me grumpy when he’s feeling spry. I follow him to the doors, and we head inside to find a felt board in a glass case that lists the offices on the top two floors. The other three and the basement are classrooms and labs, it seems. That makes sense for a degree with practical and technical aspects, especially since it has undergrad, grad, and PhD programs according to the signage. I honestly didn’t think this was as big as it must be, and I’m a little impressed.

“It says Ignatius is on the top floor, office five hundred. Wanna bet it’s a corner office?” I ask, my lips curling up as I look at my friend.

“No bet,” he replies as he stabs at the elevator button. “That guy has spent his life perfecting that image of the rich, spoiled playboy academic. It might not be entirely accurate, as we learned, but he’s made absolutely sure that almost no one knows it isn’t. The corner office is part of that vibe.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to help?” We hop on the elevator, pushing the button for five, and Kas shrugs.

“If anyone knows where the rotten people go to clean up their shit, I bet it’s Briarton. His father and the other mages in his family probably have some of that shit on speed dial. The real question is, can he recommend anyone who isn’t corrupted by that shit?”

There’s a reason Kas has been my best friend for hundreds of years, despite our fight over Angeline, and this kind of teamwork is it.

twenty-five

MORGANA

The war zone is my office, and the battlefield is manila file folders roosting on every surface of the desk. They rise in haphazard cairns, threatening collapse the moment a new one is placed. Channing built a second wall with ‘urgent’ printed spreadsheets and invoices, splaying them like a cheap fan across the keyboard so I can see every horrifying task at a glance. The only evidence of my work this morning is the trail of blackish finger-smudges I’ve left in the margins of the Facilities budget, which has taken hours. The room smells of frustration and cold coffee, which is appropriate, since I’m both out of coffee and badly in need of a goddamn break.

This shit is insane; I was gone a week while the damn school was closed!

Des is slithering at my right ear, appearing because I’m so damn angry at all this shit. She’s been quietly menacing, flicking her tongue at memos as I try to dig out of this hole. Every time I move, she readjusts, sending a faint ripple down the length of my braid. She’s more irritable than usual, which tells me I’ve been sitting here long enough that even my snakes are ready to attack the board of State U for this garbage.

The daylight lighting the room from the enormous window is an insult because how is it still this bright? I’ve been here forever, it seems, and I want to stab myself. Squinting at the numbers on a spreadsheet, I will my brain to see past the clusterfuck of red flags and spot a solution that isn’t burn it all down and start again. My hands have that fine, tired tremor that means I’m overdue for a break, but I have so much to do that I can’t fathom it yet.

My door opens with a decisive click, and I don’t even look until the click repeats—this time from Channing’s tongue against her teeth as she surveys the carnage.

“You are going to give yourself carpal tunnel and an eye twitch,” she says, making her way past the teetering stacks with the grace of a woman who has spent most of her life navigating the offices of distracted power-junkies. In one hand, she holds a takeout coffee so fresh the heat is still blooming through the cup sleeve. A brown waxed bag marked with the logo from the Turkish bakery two blocks off campus in her other one. She sets both down with exaggerated care, sliding aside a pile of classified Faculty Senate minutes to make room.

“Channing,” I say, not quite a question. “Did you avoid the campus coffeehouse because Slade isn’t working?”

“Maybe, but you have been here since before seven and you need refreshments whether I like the other baristas or not. So I went afield,” she answers, already in the business of peeling back the bakery bag to reveal a triangle of baklava so gold and crisp it’s going to make me drool. “It is now almost one-thirty, and you have not eaten, hydrated, or acknowledged any of my emails. Even stubborn-ass gargoyles need to take care of themselves, Morgana.” She makes a point of saying it in her ‘mom voice’, which is somewhere between fond and entirely out of patience.

I’d argue, but she’s entirely right and I’ve been a dumbass.

I look at the wall clock, then the mess, and then at her with a sigh of resignation. “I was supposed to stop for a snack hours ago, huh? A little breakfast treat, which I conveniently left in the car, and didn’t want to go get or bother you with.”

“It’s lunchtime now. Congratulations on not bothering me long enough that you’re probably heading towards hypoglycemia.” She wedges the coffee under my nose and hands me the little plastic fork, which I ignore in favor of tearing the edge of the baklava wrapper with my teeth.

Channing sinks into the visitor's chair across from me, crossing her legs and balancing her tablet on one knee. She’s wearing a pantsuit that looks both predatory and aggressively neutral, which is an upgrade. “Eat,” she says, but there’s a steel beneath the pleasantries. She waits until I’ve taken two bites and made at least one appreciative sound before she moves on.

“I should have guessed you’d be overdoing it out of guilt,” she says. “But this is excessive, even for you.” She gestures to the paperwork with a sweep of her stylus, nearly decapitating a small pyramid of ‘Pending — Reconciliation Needed’ folders.

“I have to catch up before the semester starts,” I mumble, licking honey and walnuts off my thumb. “They’re going to have an absolute shit fit if the department budgets aren’t shaved before the board convenes in the new year.”