Page 91 of Fatality on the Field

My siren cocks his head as he says, “When you separate from it, you can see what it looks like from the outside. It happened to me, too, when I got away from my family. You’ll be okay, man. Just let the perspective shift naturally and it will get better.”

The room is quiet for a moment and I realize everyone’s had a moment or two like that—but me. We weren’t bad off or anything, just fairly middle class, and I’ve always made decent but not insane money as an adult. I didn’t have to climb a mountain and look down to realize that the uber-wealthy are out of touch and shittily hoarding resources to pay for their bourgeois lifestyles in a very pre-revolution way.

“Okay, now that we’re all on the same page about rich dickheads,” I say, “what’s the over-under on the press asking about the Fae donors and their relation to me or the college again?”

“Three times, minimum,” Iggy says. “Bonus round if they ask who you’re dating instead of sports-related questions.”

I glare at him and then turn to look at my polar bear. “Do you feel the same way, babe?”

Lucas barks a laugh. “I think at least ten outlets will mention your clothes, dating status, your shoes, your hat, or even Magnus, but ignore how hard you’ve worked on this event. I wish I weren’t so certain of it, but that’s what I’m placing my money on.”

My Fae prince glances at me, his expression mild, but I know he’s taking notes on every word. “You handled the previous press scrum beautifully, Morgana. It will be fine, even if they do go outside the lines.”

I snort. “You mean, I managed to not say ‘fuck you, dime store journalist with a Ring light’ on live TV?”

Channing snorts as she pauses whatever she’s doing. “We should start keeping stats on how many times she slams the press and the Board as politely as possible,” she says. “I’ll add it to the post-mortem.”

Great… now they’re betting on me and we’re only a couple hours into this mess.

fifty-five

LIAM

Morgana has her jaw locked so tightly that I’m worried it’s going to get stuck that way. I know exactly how close to spontaneous murder she’s riding, despite trying to play nice. The effort is wearing her down minute by minute. The second the post-luncheon applause starts to fade, I make a clean cut through the cluster of alumni. Since they just attempted to drown her in backhanded congratulations, I steer her by the elbow out of the room. Kaspar tracks a parallel line three paces behind us, reading every shadow for threats. Even without a word between us, we’re a three-piece ensemble right now with Morgana playing lead, myself on harmony, and Kaspar laying down the bass.

I know staying so close is probably going to fuel rumors, but someone has to and I’m best positioned for it.

My touch is featherlight as we slice through the tight knot of guests. Morgana’s skin, even through the blazer, is running warm enough to startle a non-shifter. She’s not shaking, but her gait has the over-controlled precision of someone who’s been holding their breath since sunrise. This day is taking a toll on her, especially because she keeps discovering more and more atrocities of her dead ex that no one has done a damn thing to change in fuck knows how long. Her injustice meter is off-the-charts, which is provoking the part of her that hunted Magnus Corona down and took his head as payment.

“Three more steps and we’re out of the blast radius,” I murmur for her alone, leaning in just enough to let the words settle like a private joke. She doesn’t look at me, but the corners of her mouth compress to something that could be mistaken for a smile in the right light.

I’ll take it.

Our last obstacle is a tangle of donors from just south of here, each determined to get a handshake and a photo before the moment evaporates. Lucas runs interference on the front edge, acting as if he’s been doing this sort of press-filled shit his whole life—which, I have to assume, he has. He’s got the ‘wealthy benefactor’s sporty golden boy’ performance down with that big, bright grin, a wink for the older ladies, and a disarming ‘aw, shucks’ for the men. Watching him work a room is a lesson in how skilled children raised like we were have networking and PR in their veins. Regular folks don’t stand a chance when confronted with the things our peers are taught by the time they can speak.

He flashes us a smile as we pass. It’s not a call for help, just a subtle confirmation that the path is clear and our six is covered. I angle my shoulder to shield Morgana from the worst of the lens flares as we slip past a local news crew, then pull her into the side corridor. Here, it’s carpeted hush, the cloying tang of hydrangea arrangements, and quiet instead of the drone of a thousand voices. I ease her to a stop under the nearest exit sign and scan the stretch behind us. Kaspar materializes from thin air, hands folded at his back like an old-school bouncer who never needed to threaten violence to get respect.

“Safe,” he mutters, just loud enough for us to hear. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Thank you, Li,” Morgana says, and the words come out husky as she breathes. I know she means it, but I also know she’d rather throw herself off the stadium balcony than ever admit that she wasn’t in perfect control all on her own.

I let the silence stretch for a few seconds before I nod at Kaspar and turn to face her squarely.

“You did perfectly,” I say. “It was absolutely professional, yet firm enough to make certain people know you are not Magnus."

Her eyes are half-shadowed from the overhead fluorescents, but the lines at her mouth betray the effort of holding it together. “If one more person tells me I ‘remind them of the old Dean’, I’ll have to fake my own death to avoid being tried for murder again.”

Kaspar grunts, and I can’t tell if it’s amusement or agreement.

I replay the last hour with perfect clarity, thinking about the moments she almost snapped. There was a board member who called her Miss LeCiel twice, the tech CEO who asked if she was a DEI hire, and the ten-minute monologue from a local councilman about his own days at State U that was full of questionable behavior descriptions. Each time, she let her body do the talking—an eyebrow up, a deliberate pause before she answered, or a water glass held so tight I thought it might crack. She’s unflappable, but it’s the kind of composure that only someone who has survived a trial like hers that went on for months in the public eye can develop.

Honestly, the Society didn’t know how good she was when they set her up to fail so they could off her without remorse.

“Next time,” I say, “pass the bad ones to me or literally anyone else. Channing can take them if you signal her and they’ll live longer if you don’t have to answer those questions yourself.”

That earns me the briefest flare of gold in her eyes. “You’re one of very few people on earth who could suggest I can’t handle some shit and live, you know.”

Kaspar checks the corridor, his posture easy, but his eyes never stop moving. “We have three minutes max before someone finds us. I heard a few Board members planning a ‘quick word’ as soon as you left the main floor, so they’ll be searching.”