41. Stella
41
Stella
This, in fact, did not change everything.
“Worthless, again,” I groan, slamming the third drawer of the second filing cabinet shut.
My Leprechaun partner in crime looks up from fiddling with the box on the table. He’s been trying to parse out what it’s measuring, but as far as I can tell, he hasn’t discovered anything yet.
“They don’t say anything?”
“Not anything worthwhile,” I tell him, pulling a folder out and laying it out on the table. “Take this one for example. Red O’Malley, unfortunate name, that one, hawk shifter. His chosen career after graduation is said to be a commercial fisherman.” I click my tongue as I shuffle through his records. “I don’t understand. They’re giving them jobs that should make their spirits soar. You’d think a hawk shifter would be overcome with his animal’s desire to hunt. Instead, he’s suddenly able to stay in his human form and deny his spirit what it craves?”
“Right,” Blue drawls, pulling the file closer to him. His green eyes flick side to side as he reads. “Why not put them into a job that their spirit would hate?”
I sink into the chair opposite him and bury my face in my hands. I gently massage my scalp as if I can stimulate my brain externally. “Do you think it’s the proximity to something they’d crave, like the freedom to fly and fish for a hawk shifter, unlimited access to blood for a vampire phlebotomist, upholding law and order for an angel, that keeps the spirit docile enough to be controlled?”
Blue runs his fingers through his greasy blue hair. “Then why would they have demons as cops? That’s the exact opposite of what their spirit would want.” He flips the pages into another file. “See, this one here. Babs Orion, siren. She’s a lounge singer.” He scrunches his face in confusion. “Do you think it has to do with the spirit type? Maybe a siren doesn’t need as much to be controlled, so they’ll let her sing, but a demon is more likely to break out of the programming if they’re around what they enjoy, so let’s keep them away?”
I pace around the room, going through the drawers again to see if anything else sticks out. “Maybe. Are there levels to simplynatural? Like a level one, two, three? Could it be that some are more … cleansed?” I shudder. “I hate that word for it, but I don’t know how else to say it. Like some spirits are made more Authentic than others.”
Blue kicks his legs up on the table and scrubs his hands down his face. “I think that’s likely. There’s no way this program could be one size fits all.”
My wings flex and wrap around my shoulders protectively, and my conversation with Paul Rider comes to the forefront of my mind. “The dignitary from Missurd asked me if I would be more amenable to following some of the rules set forth for my kind if I was allowed to keep my wings out. Could that be a part of this? Was he offering me a lower level of simplynatural?”
When he makes eye contact with me, I notice that the shadows in his green eyes are somehow deeper than they were when he woke me up. “It could be levels. Or it could be that they are showing off how much they broke the spirit that they have no reaction to something that would previously drive them mad with wanting. And some are harder to break, so they can’t risk having them around temptation.”
“But how are they doing it? Do you feel broken?” Blue has to be a semester, if not more, ahead of me, but he does not seem to be transforming like the other upper-level students are.
He runs his hands down his neck and chest in an accessing way before shooting me a sultry grin. “Still whole, banloach .“ I fight back an eye roll.
This male is infuriating as much as he is alluring.
I point at a thin door, almost like a closet. “Did you go in here?”
He shakes his head. “No, haven’t made it there yet.”
When I open the door, I stifle a squeak of surprise. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but it wasn’t this. Inside is a wheeled unit that would look more in place at a hospital. It’s got a screen and several tubes and wires that run through it. I feel like I’ve seen one before, but I cannot place where. Blue jumps to his feet and runs his hands over it. Two thin tubes seem to run between multiple spots in the machine, and several pumps, levers, and dials are on the front of it.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask out loud, not expecting an answer.
“It looks like a dialysis machine,” Blue replies, poking the screen.
“Don’t turn it on!” I hiss. “What if it alerts someone?” I take several pictures from every angle, making sure I get close-ups of the strange symbols above the dials and levers.
“Come on, Stella, where’s your sense of danger? What’s the worst that could happen?” He rests a hand on my hip, and I feel the heat of his touch through my clothing.
He lights me on fire solely from his presence.
But I can’t trust him.
Every time I am with him, it feels like something rests on the edge of my consciousness, begging to be acknowledged. I cannot shake the feeling that he knows what it is and is keeping it from me. Until I am sure he’s not hiding anything, I can’t trust him.
I spin around, crowding him until he backs away from the machine.
“What are you hiding from me, Blue?” I ask without pretense.
He grins lecherously, hooking my chin with his knuckle. My skin burns where he touches it, and the fire seems to run through my veins and concentrate between my thighs.
When he leans forward, lips millimeters from mine, my breath catches in my throat.
“Everything, Stella. And nothing at all.” He buries his face in my neck, dragging his nose up the column of my throat until his mouth is poised beside my ear. “If I could tell you, I would. But that is not how it works.”
“So something, or someone, is stopping you from being honest with me?” My voice is foreign in my ears, with a breathy quality that I’ve never heard except when someone rests between my thighs. “Did someone trap you, Blue? Are you here on a wish?”
His tongue darts out and licks my ear, and his husky chuckle rumbles all through me. “Clever, clever.”
It’s not a confirmation, but it’s enough for me to believe that my assumption is correct. Which means there is someone powerful enough to figure out Blue’s name, trap him, and demand wishes.
And those wishes have something to do with me.
My body is responding to his proximity, heat causing me to ache between my thighs. I want to turn into him, pull his body against me, and see how those slim hips fit between mine. I slip my hands around his waist, pulling him closer still, urging him to crowd me.
With a groan, he pulls himself away, backing to the other side of the room.
Rejection stings my chest like acid reflux, and I bolt to my feet, my first instinct to flee.
“ Banloach ,“ he says gently like I am a wounded animal. “I am not ready to redeem my fee for the ledger.”
“It wasn’t about that, but good to know this is all transactional.” I wrench open the door on the opposite side of the room, shocked to see it open into the woods behind the gymnasium. “Let me know what I owe you.”
“Stella, wait,” he says, but I don’t stick around to hear what excuses he has.
I’m mortified. I basically threw myself at him, despite the hurt I experienced earlier tonight, and he made it very clear he is not affected by me the way I am by him.
It’s all a game to the leprechaun.
I should have known better. I should have expected it.
I don’t know why I even tried after what happened with Clay. Clearly, my instincts when it comes to the Raven are all wrong.
With a quick flex of my wings, I take off, not wanting to risk him catching me on foot, so I fly back to my room instead. The sun hasn’t even begun to crest the sky yet, and the darkness embraces me like a lover as my wings get a workout I didn’t realize they were longing for.
My face is still flushed with exertion and embarrassment as I touch down outside the Mythology tower. I’m so distracted by my whirling thoughts, that I don’t realize I’m not alone.
A handsome male leans against the tower’s stone wall, his face in his phone. Despite the early hour, he’s dressed in a well-tailored, dark suit. It’s hard to tell in the single light over the door, but I think it’s navy blue.
He looks up at me with a grin that drips with malice.
My eyes widen as I take in the figure before me and take a step back on instinct.
“Miss Mikers,” he says in a voice I’ve heard more times than I care. “Out for a late-night flight? Or is it early morning?” He stores his phone in his pocket and takes a step towards me. “I always find it hard to decide which it is at this time. I like to think of it like a glass of water. Half full or half empty, late night or early morning. It’s all a matter of perspective, yes?”
I don’t say anything as he takes another step towards me.
I’m frozen in place. He always gave me a bad vibe when I saw him on television, but it’s a million times worse in person. Something about him sets every part of me on edge, down to a primordial level.
He is a predator, and I am his chosen prey.
But he doesn’t realize I will not go down easily.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Sinclair?”