Chapter 15 #3
I would think harder about it but my head is full of cotton. I close my eyes again.
When I open them my magic is reaching for him. Faint. Far down. Whatever's in the IV is sitting on it like a hand on a candle, but it is reaching anyway. He shifts in the corner. The thumb leaves his lip. By the time his eyes meet mine he is Professor Aamon again.
"You're awake again."
His voice is level.
It is so level it sounds like nothing. Like he’s reading a label off a jar.
"What happened?" I say. Because I have to start somewhere. "Where—"
"The library." Zeva, from my other side. "Third floor. I found you."
The library.
I close my eyes.
It comes back the way memory comes back when your head is full of cotton—out of order, in pieces, none of it labeled.
A girl whimpering into a hand. Pale green-gold hair sliding down a stack and bolting.
A vampire's shoulder going black. The smell.
My shoulder coming out of its socket. A wall against my back. Teeth.
Teeth.
Then a blur.
A boot. A hand on the floorboards next to my head, knuckles split. Storm-blue eyes.
You took my blood, witch.
A fist coming down.
Sorry Hex.
Oh.
I open my eyes. The ceiling is where I left it. So is Aamon. So is Zeva.
Zeva found me.
Not Kage?
Kage killed a man and left me on the floor for someone else to find, and the someone else was Zeva, which means Kage isn't in any version of this story unless I put him in.
I let my eyes drift. I let them be glassy because my eyes are glassy.
I let my mouth hang open because my jaw aches and holding it shut would take effort I don't have.
The performance is the absence of performance.
The facility taught me that one. Be exactly as wrecked as you are.
Don't pretend less. Don't pretend more. Trust that what is true is enough.
"How long was I—"
"Forty minutes. Maybe an hour."
"Vasreaux." The name surfaces from the part of my brain that catalogues threats. He said it. He said his own name. "He said—I think his name was—"
"Thierry Vasreaux," Aamon says. "Third-year. Nineteenth Quarter."
His voice has not changed. But the way he says the name has more weight than the name should carry. He is filing it. He is putting it somewhere he will come back for.
I close my eyes.
The door clicks. Footsteps—measured, expensive. The smell of jasmine reaches me three seconds before the voice does.
"Calypso." Leyonna's voice. Oh great, the news has travelled to the Dean. "I'm so glad you're awake."
I blink my eyes. She has stopped at the foot of the bed.
Cream suit. Gold at the throat. Her hands are clasped in front of her, professional and calm, and her face is doing the gracious-concern thing she does so well I would believe it if I didn't already know better.
The door is still ajar behind her. Outside the door: presumably Balcour, somewhere, taking notes.
"Headmistress." My voice is a wreck. I let it be.
"Take your time." She comes around to the side of the bed. She does not sit. She rests one elegant hand on the bed-rail. The gold of her bracelet catches the light. "I want you to tell me, in as much detail as you remember, what happened."
It is a request and it isn't. I'm aware of Aamon in the corner. I'm aware of Zeva at the foot of the bed. I am aware of every word I am about to choose.
"I was researching," I say. "For the midterm. Cascade events. Witches who lost control."
Leyonna nods once.
"I heard a sound. I thought somebody was hurt. Several stacks over. There was a vampire—he had a girl pinned to the corner. He was feeding from her. She was crying. He had his hand on her mouth."
"A girl. Did you recognize her?"
"No. She was fae, though. Pale hair. Younger than me, I think. I—" My throat catches. The bandage pulls. I wince as a deep ache spreads around my neck. "I didn't see her face long enough."
"And you intervened."
I grabbed him. I just—I grabbed his shoulder. I wasn't trying to use magic, I was trying to pull him off her. It came out anyway. My hand. There was light. He screamed and let her go and she ran. I tried to follow her but he—"
I stop. The next part is not a lie.
"He grabbed my arm. Twisted it. My shoulder—" My right shoulder is a quiet, throbbing presence under the sling. I can feel the truth of it pressing back against the words. "He threw me into the shelf of books. My head hit. He covered my mouth. He—"
I look at the ceiling. I do not look at Aamon.
"He bit me."
The room is very still.
"I tried." My voice is rougher now. Not performed rough. "I tried to—my magic—I knew what was about to happen. I could feel it building. The way it builds. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop it, I was going to bring the library down. I was going to do it again, I was—"
"Calypso." Leyonna's voice is very gentle. "Breathe."
I am crying. I didn't notice. My face is wet, tears flowing down my cheeks.
"I'm sorry. I—" I swallow. "He was drinking. He was drinking too much. I started losing consciousness. I think I tried to channel through him—I don't know—I don't remember. The next thing I remember is the floor. My cheek on the floor. And the white in the infirmary."
The lie is small.
The lie is the size of a man. The man who saved me.
"You don't remember anything else?" Leyonna. Watching me.
"I–I don't remember anything else."
A beat. Two.
I do not look at Aamon. I do not look at Aamon. I do not look at Aamon.
I look at Aamon.
He hasn't moved. He is watching me the way he watches the resonance stone when it does something I am not supposed to be able to do. Steady. Level. Taking it in.
He knows I am lying.
I see it the same way I see every other thing in his face. The centimeter jaw shift is a five-alarm fire and it is happening right now. His thumb is moving back toward his bottom lip before he catches it and sends his hand to the crook of his elbow. His eyes have not left mine.
He knows I am lying. I can feel it.
He is not saying so.
Why isn’t he saying so?
"I see," Leyonna says. She has not turned her head.
She has not noticed Aamon. Or she has, and she has decided not to.
"Calypso, listen to me. I want to be very clear.
You are not in any trouble. Mr. Vasreaux assaulted you in a place where you had every right to be safe.
The fact that you survived an attack by a vampire much older and stronger than you is a testament to your power and your instincts, not a problem. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"There will be questions. The Vasreaux family will—they will have questions.
" Her voice cools by one degree on the family name.
Old family. Inconvenient corpse. "Those are mine to manage.
Yours is only to recover. Take the rest of the week.
We will reassess your training and class schedule when the infirmary clears you. "
"Thank you."