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Chapter Eleven
My appointment excused me from classes all day, but the assignments still have to be done and turned in on time. I use them as an excuse when Jag knocks on my door.
"Cora, we still need to talk about what happened at your appointment. It doesn't only affect you, you know."
Confused about why that is yet not wanting to see any of them until I'm sure I won't flip out, I put him off. "Jaeger, I can't afford to get bad marks the first week of school. We can discuss it after dinner."
He doesn't reply, but the retreating footsteps indicate he's giving me a short reprieve. Frowning at my textbook, I let out a fatigued sigh-- everything for the last year has just been so freaking hard. Including this damn chapter that talks in circles about those in a position of power leading the masses. Having no clue why it's required reading, I dutifully take notes to write a summary.
By the time I finish with my algebra work, a stress headache is forming. Probably a hunger one as well since I skipped lunch again. With nothing left to do and my stomach gnawing a hole through my back, I put my school work away and brace myself to face the impending inquisition. If I'm careful about it, maybe I can slip in some questions of my own.
***
The empty living room is a brief but nerve-wracking respite. I'd prepared to face a bunch of grumpy men and...nothing. They couldn't have needed to talk too badly. Debating if it's worth knocking on doors for an escort to the cafeteria or finding something here, I settle for exploring the kitchenette.
Noodles in a styrofoam cup takes care of the food situation, but while I was hunting, I found a cupboard full of odd implements. Now I'm wondering if the kitchenettes I thought to be over the top for a college actually have a dual purpose— and the classes are making more sense as well.
While the water heats in the microwave, I line up the contents from the lower corner cupboard on the counter. A beep signals the water is done, but I'm engrossed in the mortar and pestles, empty glass vials, beakers, measuring implements, and other various items that look like they're straight out of a science lab. Or a sorcerer's workshop. I attempt to shake off the outlandish thought, but something is definitely not within the realm of logical explanation. Unless that logic comes with weird glowing tattoos, a dead girl, and a husband in a coma with one of those tattoos. Not to mention the crazy, scary men in robes that run the school.
Realizing it's too quiet in the suite, I put everything back in its place as best I remember and reheat my water. As soon as it's done, I fill the cup, leaving it to sit, and go to find the guys. Knocks go unanswered, and none of the doors are unlocked. There's only one conclusion— they're not here.
***
Jaeger
"Is the girl showing any signs of ascension yet?" Dean Atwater's chin rests on his steepled fingers, blue eyes inquisitive, but his relaxed manner is deceiving— the man is a deviant. Even for one of the Order his pursuits are licentious. With his respectably styled blond hair just going gray at the temples and pale skin still mostly line free, he appears to be in his mid-thirties, but from what I've gathered he's closer to three times that.
Drake glances at me, silently asking if I want to answer, but I shake my head. We all need to get used to the new dynamic. In a twist none of us saw coming, Drake had taken Damien's place right there at the crash site. All of our marks had flared, but while Damien's had faded quickly, the rest crescendoed in a flash of blue light before one by one settling back into their tattooed appearance, Drake's being the last to go dim. The clearing of the dean's throat brings me back to the matter at hand, causing me to raise my brows expectantly at Drake.
Expression devoid of anything but a pleasant boredom, Drake answers the question. "Not that we've noticed. So far she prefers to stay in her room. She wasn't pleased to find we were her roommates, nor is she particularly interested in being in our presence."
That last bit would have been better being left off. Dean Atwater's brows beetle together in warning. "The Malbec girl may have taken the deal, she'd have been an idiot not to with what we offered, but in case you gentlemen didn't understand the first time— keeping her here is on you. The agreement has made it prudent for her to do well with her academics, the rest— pushing her to ascend prematurely, is on you. The board would have already dealt with your little anomaly if it weren't for who she is."
Holding a finger up and possibly signing my own death warrant, I interject. "We've attempted several different manners of approach. It's early yet, and Cora has voiced her opinions on making sure she does well. In time her grief will fade, and we'll be her best option. At this point she's still insisting on wearing her wedding rings and using her married name. Constant reminders of events and the part we played in it all aren't endearing us to her."
Silence reigns throughout the room. Feeling like a complete shit for pushing our failure off onto Cora, I ignore the almost tangible sensation of recrimination coming from the others. The dean hums speculatively in his throat, eyes focusing inward as he considers my explanation for Cora's dislike. Determined to look anywhere but at the guys, I study the room.
Not much has changed since I was here last. The dark paneling and built-in bookcases line the walls, interspersed with framed awards, accolades, and pictures of the dean with various important figures. Running out of things to look at, my gaze drifts to the beige carpeting. It's a bland neutral color, high-end, of course, for the dean, but it doesn't have anything interesting to hold my attention either. Until it does.
My eyes are just tracking back to the oversized black marble-topped desk when I register what I saw. Two decent-sized indentations behind the dean near the wall, well away from the door and the rest of us. Being full-up from the last rite allows me to use an extra sense to feel out my surroundings. There's only the barest hint of malignant other before it disappears, as do the impressions of what I believe to have been footprints. It could have just been a fellow board member. ButI don't believe my own excuse; things haven't been right since Damien went crazy on Cora a year ago. With his obsession escalating, to the point that Cora was granted an order of protection against him, and then the wreck, I've suspected that something was done to him to cause it. My bet is that the senior members of the Order were behind it, but so far I've been unable to find any proof of it. Finding out who was, or still is, in this room spying might be the lead that I need.
With the disappearance of the person or entity, the dean comes back to himself, seemingly having reached a decision. And now conspiracy theories run rampant in my head that there's someone else directing events behind the scenes. I'll have to talk to the others and hope like hell they keep it to themselves. Damien had been my counterpart, and adjusting to my new coterie is a work in progress.
"I expect weekly updates before the meetings. You're under a deadline, boys— if I suspect you're not doing your utmost to precipitate the awakening of the girl's abilities, the chairman will take matters into his own hands." We all remain frozen at the implications until the dean barks out a curt dismissal that has us giving short nods of respect and retreating to the hall. Cora had been in her room when we left— hopefully she hasn't had enough time to get up to anything that will have repercussions for all of us.
When I voice as much, the others pick up the pace to get back to the dorms.
