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“The decor was a gift from Mr. Belus,” the dean replies.
Odin and Vili exchange glances, and I can tell from that look that the treaty between the major families is the only thing holding back a disdainful comment about Uranos.
Each of them sit at the opposite ends of the table, while Dean Westmore gestures at us to take our places.
“Professor Segul,” he says. “Please join me to sit beside the guest of honor.”
I would sooner sit beside Dr. Raring, but I smooth my expression into a mask of professionalism.
Odin raises his head to study my features as I approach. Right now, I’m imagining him seeing a younger and darker version of Crius. According to my father, they’ve worked together since the early nineties. Odin’s religious beliefs means he won’t touch trafficking or brothels, however, he still supplies Crius with drugs, alcohol, and ‘protection.’
“Have we met?” Odin asks, his voice tinged with curiosity.
“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” I reply.
“Professor Segul is on sabbatical from the London School of Finance,” Dean Westmore says, his voice bursting with pride. “He’s here to replace Professor Eckhart while he recovers from his accident.”
When Odin’s eyes narrow, I realize my mistake. An academic wouldn’t hold the gaze of a crime boss. Not unless he was completely ignorant of his organization.
I offer Odin a polite smile. “Apparently Professor Eckhart’s on the mend, which will cut short this lucrative little jaunt. I understand you’re in the distillery business. How is that faring in today’s economy?”
Some of the tension leaves Odin’s features, and he dismisses me with a non-committal comment that neither of us pursue.
As the silver service staff arrive with watercress soup, everyone relaxes into quiet conversation.
The door opens, and I glance up to see a member of the security staff stepping in, wringing his hands.
“What’s happened?” Odin’s voice slices through the polite chatter.
“Young Mr. Bestlasson wasn’t in his apartment—”
“Did you track his ID card?” asks his father.
Tension from around my lungs melts away, and I can finally exhale.
If Crius had an ounce of common sense, he would order his men to strike before the Bestlasson boy even got a chance to step on the stage. The relief I feel is almost enough to allay my concern that the student ID cards contain trackers.
“We logged the movement of his card, sir.” The guard sways on his feet. “It’s in his apartment.”
“Then my nephew is somewhere on campus,” Odin states. “Because no students may enter or leave without their cards.”
The security guard clutches his middle and erupts into a coughing fit, and my five percent of optimism expands into fifty.
Dean Westmore rises from his seat and hurries around the table. “What did you discover?”
Vili Bestlasson also rises. “Yes,” he hisses. “Tell us.”
“He probably left with the other members of his band—”
“Band?” asks Odin.
“Tin Soldiers on Mars—”
“Pluto,” says Dr. Xander.
Odin’s gaze sweeps to the other side of the dining table, where Dr. Xander turns a deep shade of red. “It’s a David Bowie tribute thingy. Let’s see. There’s the Gabrielsson twins, Erik Haig and of course Veer.”
Silence stretches out for a few beats. I keep perfectly still.
