Page 77 of Fatality on the Field

“Get the details, no matter what. I want to know what kind of distraction they think they’re bringing, so we can neutralize it. We have several security meetings before the Bowl.”

She starts to rise, then freezes as her tablet lights up with another alert. She scans it, then says, “You just got a request to appear on Bowl pregame TV. They want an ‘outside cultural perspective’ on the event.”

I stare at her. “Is that code for ‘interview the foreign Dean so she can embarrass herself on live TV’?”

Channing shrugs. “Could be, but we can’t afford to ignore the press. I accepted the invite for tomorrow afternoon.”

Frowning, I pretend to be mad. “Who gave you permission to go over my head?”

“Me. I’ll keep you posted, though, as I continue to fill your books. You have a Zoom with the marketing folks in five minutes, you know.” Channing heads out, letting the door swing shut behind her.

I look at the clock, realize it’s only noon, and wonder how the hell we’re going to make it to Bowl day without losing our minds. Des hisses and I nod as her assessment echoes in mind. “Yes, my pretty. We are the best at wrangling chaos. If our enemies want to play games, they’re about to learn how quickly the tables can turn.”

I don’t know what they have, but I’m building my own little army.

forty-seven

LUCAS

When I get back to our house after a long day, I hear Iggy’s voice ricocheting off the first-floor windows before I even hit the porch. Not conversation, not even an argument—just the professor on a rant so heated it’s probably melting the varnish off the banister. If you’ve never lived with a mage before, you might think they’re all solemn rituals and mysterious silence. That’s a lie. I’ve noticed that Iggy is a man whose emotional range runs from a magical version of ‘smug tech bro’ to a frustrated ‘non-magical’ wrangler with a healthy middle zone of muttering death threats at damn near everything in the surrounding area. Of course, that dramatic flair might be because he’s also a damaged rich guy from an old family where the parental influence is worse than my absent ones.

Tonight’s tantrum seems like it’s shaping up to be a top-shelf performance, and I could use a laugh.

I let myself in, squinting at the front room because it’s a fucking mess. And it’s not the charming kind of mess that signals a well-lived-in house, but the result of an absolute fit thrown by an adult. Our not-so-dearly departed former Dean left behind several rooms of uncatalogued artifacts, that we’ve been divesting slowly; unfortunately, this room is still full of leftovers that need more specialized removal efforts and Hurricane Ignatius seems to have forgotten that fact in his rage fest.

There’s a side table loaded with thick ancient tablets that was bare this morning. They’re stacked as carelessly as burnt pancakes, which is crazy. Propped against the velvet arm of the bordello-esque couch is a witch doctor figurine we placed on a top shelf for a reason. The three foot tall, wooden dude has actual teeth in its mouth. If you stand too close, the thing hums at a pitch that gives you a headache, which is why Slade draped a scarf around its head last week. It is no longer on the top shelf nor covered and I have to grit my teeth to walk by it.

What in the fuck is Professor Tight Ass thinking?!

Grumbling in irritation, I scan the perimeter for more moved crap before I get further into the room. I spot the cracked obsidian disc leaning against the hearth and frown. When we put it under the couch, Iggy wrote do not touch across the top in permanent marker, but here it is, the crack pulsing with a slow, blue glow. Above it, perched on the mantel like a forgotten urn at a funeral home, is a heavy brass canister with a blood-red wax seal that Iggy swore was a vampire blood spell. The seal has been broken and I blink in shock at it as it sits, unguarded, and unsealed.

“I am no longer amused,” I mutter as I step carefully, avoiding the statue I thought we put in the basement. It’s a little carved figure about the size of a house cat with hollow eyes that seem to follow you no matter where you stand. It now sits on the coffee table, surrounded by crumpled receipts, a deck of tarot cards, and a half-empty jar of Nutella with a knife stuck in it blade-first.

Morgana is going to lose her shit when she arrives, and I’m not touching even one of these cursed fucking things to help him clean up.

As I finally get across the magical minefield, I see the source of this bullshit. Iggy is in the middle of the back living room, standing with his back to me as he gesticulates wildly at an invisible adversary. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to the elbows, his hair is sticking up like he tried to dry it with a Tesla coil, and he’s got a bottle of scotch dangling from two fingers. Every couple seconds he swings it in the direction of his rant, sloshing the amber liquid dangerously close to the rim. It explains so much and yet nothing at all simultaneously, which means this has to be about talking to his asshole father. I recognize the helpless drunken stupor, so I pause while I calculate the best approach.

“—and if the incompetent whore had even an atom of decency she would have warned me years ago, rather than waiting until my patience was in tatters! The worst part is the implication that I would, what, bed my own half-sibling? How dare she! How dare he! As if I would ever stoop to such—” He finally clocks my presence in the mirror, does a double take, and aims the bottle at me like a pointer. “Wolfberg! Come to join the inquisition? I’ll have you know that I have a salient argument and verifiable receipts to vindicate myself!”

I hold up my hands, palms out. “No inquisition here, Iggy. Want me to grab you a glass for that, or is it a direct-from-source kind of evening now that you’ve spoken to your dad?”

He snorts, dropping his arm to his side as he speaks to the air again. “You see! Even this one gets it! That duty is nothing but bullshit and no matter what he’s suggesting, I am not the rake he suggests. Lucas, my brother-in-mates, pour yourself a dram and then listen well.” His words are slurred, but I just chuckle quietly.

Drunken Iggy’s kind of funny, though his survival instinct sucks according to the front room mess.

“I’ll take you up on that.” I sidestep a stack of what looks like petrified sea cucumbers in a shadowbox on the side table in this room and make for the kitchen. The good glasses are all in the dishwasher, but I find a plastic souvenir cup from the Rose Bowl that probably came with the damn house, and I’m sure it will make Ignatius die inside a little. Coming back into the room, I walk over to the mage and let him pour me a splash then hold the cup up in salute.

“Cheers, bud,” I say before I take a slug, sighing as the very expensive alcohol hits my tastebuds. “Might I suggest that if you’re gonna blow a soused gasket, we could move somewhere not within feet of all the very dangerous magical artifacts you’ve been toying with? It makes my ass clench a bit, dude. We could adjourn to our super secret clubhouse instead and it wouldn’t be nearly as scary.”

Iggy glares at me, pouting as he grips his bottle, but he’s already too deep in the tank to argue. It only takes a few minutes to herd him out the back door to the warded bunker with a firm hand on his shoulder. Once he’s surrounded by only non-lethal knickknacks and throw pillows, I double back to the kitchen, leaving a note on the white board for the next people to come home about our whereabouts and his state. I should put all the shit back, but I just do not feel safe doing it without Slade, at least, so I grab some snacks and head back to the backyard HQ.

I find Iggy hunched forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees, as he stares at his shoes with the intensity of a man expecting them to solve his problems for him. I drop onto the armchair across from him and raise my cup again.

“To shitty families, bro,” I say with a sigh and a head shake of commiseration.

He barks a dark laugh. “You haven’t heard the half of it, Wolfberg.”

But everything about this says I’m going to, and I have a feeling it will be fascinating.