Page 92 of Fatality on the Field

“Which board members?” I ask. The answer matters, even more than Morgana might realize.

He ticks them off on his fingers. “The big one with the paisley tie, the thin woman who never smiles, and the two suits who follow them everywhere. Didn’t log their names, though I’m sure I should have for later.”

I turn back to Morgana. Her energy has shifted, the internal storm now narrowed into a single, diamond-hard vector. I recognize it for what it is—a readiness to break the world’s jaw if it doesn’t yield.

“Walk with me,” I say, offering my arm not because she needs it, but because we both understand the message it sends.

Unity, authority, and—above all—control.

She accepts without complaining and her grip is steady. “Let’s get this over with then. I don’t want to be ambushed when I’m less able to process than I am now.”

As we move up the corridor, past a series of framed oil paintings of former Chancellors and Deans, the weight of tradition tries to press in from every side. They don’t have one of Morgana yet and that’s absolute shit, since she’s been here several months. It doesn’t fly with me and I’ll make certain someone hears that complaint before the day ends.

I hear the sound of snooty old fart voices ahead and frown. Kaspar waits just out of sight as we approach the lobby, his arms folded and his face set in a mask of stone. He angles his chin at me, a signal that we’re clear to proceed. Morgana and I round the corner together, and the board members freeze for a half-beat at our approach. I meet each of their gazes in sequence, deploying the tiniest smile as I do.

“Hello, again,” I say, my voice carrying just enough to demand attention. “My guard said you may need to speak to my gracious hostess. Since she’s agreed to escort me today, you’ll want to address it now or not at all. I’d prefer my enjoyment of the Bowl and the after-parties not to be marred by such things.”

The man with the paisley tie recovers first, pasting a version of a smile on his face that would make a wax figure seem genuine. “Of course, of course. We just wanted to congratulate the Dean on a—well, an impressive event, considering the circumstances.”

He means ‘considering your criminal record and your monstrous reputation’, but he’s too well-trained to say it.

The thin woman leans forward. “It’s a shame the press focuses so much on spectacle and gossip, but I suppose that’s the world we live in.”

“It’s what the people encourage, unfortunately. Those with little power always soak up the sun of those who are standing in the rays,” Morgana says. Her voice is icy, but polite as she gives the woman a fake smile.

The tall man looks like he wants to say more, but I tilt my head and he decides not to. They file away, the local donor trailing last, her expression a strange mix of curiosity and—if I’m not mistaken—envy.

As soon as they’re gone, Kaspar drops the statue routine and actually exhales. “I hate politics,” he mutters.

“That’s why you’re not the one doing the handshakes,” Morgana says, the words gentler than her mood has been in hours. “It’s also why I shouldn’t be the one doing it, but I don’t have that luxury.”

I risk a glance at her profile, and see the faintest trace of relief. “VIP suite,” I say. “Let’s get you there and make sure no one else tries to corner you.”

We fall into step again, the three of us, and for a minute it feels like maybe the day isn’t lost. On the way, I can’t help noticing the fact that the Daybreak emissary my father sent still hasn’t shown, and the knot in my stomach is back, winding tighter with every floor we climb.

Curiouser and curiouser…

About twenty feet from the VIP elevator, another set of sharks spring a surprise on us. Five rich people who look like a flock of crows dressed up for a summit rush up before I can push the button. There are three men in perfectly cut blazers, all with donor badges swinging from lanyards and two women, both silver-haired, both with jewelry so understated it loops around to ostentatious again. I’m not sure who they are, but they definitely think they’re important.

They arrange themselves in a loose horseshoe, blocking our path as they ooze snobbery. It’s ridiculous, really, as my personal wealth probably quintuples theirs before I inherit anything if Alwyn dies. That’s simply the narrow view of the supernaturals in this realm, I’ve learned; they have no idea what vast riches beings from anywhere but here have that dwarf their own. It’s an oddly specific xenophobia that I never see them realize. Also, it always makes me chuckle because traveling to Hell or Faerie alone would shock the living shit out of them.

“Dean LeCiel!” The portly man booms her name with a sneaky smile as he spreads his arms, as if they’re old war buddies. “Splendid event, just splendid. The whole luncheon went off without a hitch. You really must be proud.”

He steps forward, and I see the fine beads of sweat at his hairline—he’s not used to working this hard for a social victory. Morgana’s answering smile is so thin it would slice diamonds, but she returns the handshake with zero blood drawn.

That’s my girl.

The woman with darkly shadowed eyes is next. “I have to say, this guest list was a masterstroke. So much engagement, such vibrance—especially from all our friends in the supernatural community.” She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t have to. The dig is clean and deliberate, but Morgana absorbs it like a brick through a stained glass window.

“Thank you,” my mate says, and then just a shade louder adds, “The Fae contingent are very pleased to have been recognized as full partners this year. Daybreak was especially gratified to see such a meaningful seat at the table.”

I could kiss her for that, but I keep my face still. The Courts have never been invited to be this involved in such an event before and that was a major discussion point. Even our hybrid or full blood players and athletes do not get the recognition they should in this realm. They often get derision and suspicion instead, which this partnership hopefully will dispel.

The portly guy’s smile turns brittle and he doesn’t respond to Morgana directly. Instead, he redirects to me. “Prince Spéirgheal, we were just saying how unusual it is to have both you and four emissaries at the same event. It’s quite a departure from the Corona era, I must say.”

I make my smile a fraction larger than his. “Tradition is only valuable until it ossifies. Those who run large institutions must appreciate the advantages of dynamic changes that adapt to the current times.”

The second man, a greyish-ghostly gent with a habit of smoothing his hair every time anyone else speaks, tries to wriggle in with, “Adaptation is the hallmark of State U. It’s just—well, there are always growing pains, aren’t there?” He looks at Morgana with the vague expression of a man waiting for a root canal. “We wouldn’t want any more damage done to our reputation.”