Chapter 37 #2
Reasonable hypothesis, but they’re barking up the wrong tree, completely off base.
“The energy you’re talking about has been withering for years,” I scoff.
“Sure, WMO built academies in places of power, that’s common fucking knowledge, but there has been a steady decline in how much earth-energy the academies received from the land ever since.
It’s going the way of innate magic—soon to be extinct. ”
“Extinct?” Theo exclaims. “But, Mr. Quinlin said it was weakening, not dying altogether.”
“And how do you know so much about ancient power becoming obsolete?" Feniks snaps. “There have been no official statements on the matter from the WMO.”
“It’s my family's business to know everything about every power. How else can we stay at the top?” Or rather, how does he think The Conclave stays on top? Knowledge is power. Always was, always will be.
“Gods, you make me sick,” Wilson spits. “Listen to yourself, is that how you really think?”
Of course, I think like this, I have to. Without power, I will never get free of my father.
“Ludo says there’s an entrance to the tunnels in Defectivum,” Wilson suddenly adds.
I must have missed more of their cryptic sign language. Figures. More secrets. “Then can we just fucking go check it out? All this talk is giving me an earache.”
“For once, I agree with you,” the dud says. “No need to wait, right?”
“We’ll go, pulu. But not without getting you something to eat first,” Feniks toadies. “I don’t want you passing out on me.” What a fucking simp. I watch the professor fall further under her spell as she smiles sweetly at him.
I can’t tell if it’s genuine or just a new level of manipulation.
“Fine! If you insist. I can’t deny I’m ravenous,” the dud replies, batting her eyelashes. “How about Ludo and I go grab sandwiches for us all, then let’s meet back at my room in thirty minutes?”
Oh, how nice. A picnic in a Defectivum dorm with a dud, a moron, and a pussy-whipped teacher. The thought makes my lip curl. But then I admit to myself—it’s still a more appealing lunch date than Jordan.
◆◆◆
The little dud and her overgrown shadow head out, and I spin around to face the Professor.
"Where’d that information come from?” I demand, “About the twins and your cousin on their last day here?
" I need to know, because whoever Feniks talked to, I’ll get more info from them.
I have no scruples about getting informants to talk.
Feniks ignores me and picks up his laptop, then a battered leather jacket, and stalks out. I didn’t think it was possible to feel more irate than I already do.
Learn something new every day.
He stops in the shadow of the administration building, fishes out a cigarette, lights up, then blows smoke right in my face.
I know it’s a deliberate taunt because he smiles at me as I take a step further back.
The urge to wipe that smug look off his face with my fist is almost unbearable, but I can overcome my instincts if I have to.
"You are walking a dangerous line, Feniks.
How did you find out Wes and Dono were hanging out with Max on November 1st, and all this business about the laundry facility? "
Hmm, maybe I should compel him to answer me.
"We’ll discuss this later," he replies dismissively. The answer is infuriating, and my fingers twitch.
Fuck. I begin to grind my teeth as he throws his cigarette on the ground and starts walking away. "Where the fuck are you going?" I snap.
Feniks arches a brow. "To get a couple of things from my car, then to Defectivum, to meet Theo and Ludo, like we just agreed. Paranoid, Drakeward?” The look of amusement on his face makes me want to gouge his eyes out.
“You can follow me if you like,” he continues.
“Make sure I don’t make any deviations.” With that, he strides out, leaving me in a quandary.
It’s demeaning to chase after him like a puppy, but I also don’t trust the bastard one little bit.
Fuck. I head across the quad; Feniks is a few yards ahead of me. I’m so consumed by my thoughts that I almost get run down by something speeding up the driveway, a fucking Cybertruck of all things. And by ‘almost run down’ I mean the thing would have hit me if I hadn’t jumped out of the way.
The urge to unleash my frustration on something is overwhelming. Destroying some little prick with terrible taste in vehicles might be just what the doctor ordered.
You don't nearly take out a Drakeward and just drive off. I succumb to my road rage and stalk after the truck speeding towards the far side of campus. It blows past Defectivum, disappearing around the corner. I jog in the same direction, watching as it hums to a halt next to the building site.
I’m preparing to unleash my anger as the razor wire-topped gate of the building site automatically slides on its track and a distinctive-looking stranger, flanked by a couple of rent-a-cops, exits.
I say distinctive, because even from here I can see the scar that dissects his face from the hairline, through his eye, down to the jaw.
It’s quite the statement; I’m sure a healer could have improved the look, but the thug chose to keep the slash aesthetic.
Scar-face and the guards walk towards the Cybertruck as the driving door opens. The man who exits has bodyguard written all over him. The cheap black suit plus holster bulge is a dead giveaway. He stands on guard as the passenger side swings upward and Alistair Singleton-Smith slides out.
What the fuck is Jordan’s father doing here?
The posse from the building site huddles with Singleton-Smith. I’m extremely intrigued.
ME: Can you hack a Cybertruck's camera?
STRIKER: Y
I thumb in the registration and current location.
STRIKER: $$$?
ME: Yes. Can you do it now? I need eyes and ears asap
STRIKER: ?_? 7
I take that as a yes and lean back into the shadows.
Maybe I’ll see something useful. Blackmail, along with manipulation and threats, are all things I learned at my father’s knee, and I’ll happily stoop to some snooping if it gives me a one-up on Singleton-Smith.
My cashmere snags against the rough stone wall, but I keep my gaze fixed on the little pow-wow.
I’m out of range for an extended hearing spell.
Fuck, I need to get closer, so I cut across the overgrown grass that separates the back of Defectivum from the construction chaos.
I angle my path, pretending to head for the woods to the east. When I reach the treeline, the security fence is barely thirty feet away.
Singleton-Smith and scar-face have already gone inside the compound.
Before unleashing the spell, I scan my surroundings. There are just the usual campus dregs in the distance, a couple of bored-looking laundry drones, and a rent-a-cop patrolling the far perimeter.
Here we go. Stretching out my arms, a classic sonic enhancement spell hums beneath my fingertips. I send a thick tendril of my magic snaking towards the compound's defenses. Immediately, it hits a solid ward and dissipates. Access denied. There’s a heavy-duty ward around the place.
So, along with the razor wire, guard dogs, and gun-toting watchmen, there is extreme magical protection around the site. Odd.
Hidden by the shade of old-growth trees, I shift tactics, channeling Wes and Donovan's ridiculous air dart obsession. Sometimes an air dart can find a weak spot in a magical shield and work its way through.
Here goes.
The results? The hairs on my arms stand on end as an intense force of magic repels me.
Interesting.
I try again, keeping the spellwork going for another fifteen minutes.
It’s fucking magically exhausting, and I haven’t found a single chink in the security wards. I’m about to give up when the security gates swing open. Jordan’s dad and the scarred man emerge, deep in conversation.
Finally.
I immediately cast; I’m a little too far for either to be 100% effective, but at least I’m getting something.
“...until it stabilizes…can’t afford more…
“...I’m banking rolling…”
“...hard to get replacements…”
“...don’t care, no…”
“...moving the bodies is…”
“...done…”
Singleton-Smith leans into the little group. Even from here, I can see the threat in his posture. Then, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, ringing a primal warning bell. I flick my gaze over my shoulder, into the deep shadows of the trees behind me, and freeze.
Standing there, silent as a wraith, just watching me with unnervingly calm eyes. Dean Crankshawe.
Busted.
The dean doesn't bother with pleasantries, just lifts her cell phone to her mouth, her gaze never leaving mine.
“We’ve got a problem,” she says
◆◆◆
Several men with AK-47s escort me across the grass until I’m in the center of an odd group: four security guards, two snarling German Shepherds, plus Dean Crankshawe, Alistair Singleton-Smith, his driver, and a mystery scarred man.
“Cosmo, how…interesting to see you here,” Singleton-Smith says, his expression inscrutable.
“Dean Crankshawe said she sensed a listening spell. Imagine my surprise when I find the caster is you. Seems,” he pauses, waiting to find the most devastating word, “so proletarian. It begs the question, just why would you be using such an intrusive little charm around me and my activities?”
The scarred man cracks his knuckles in a fucking cliche move.
I ignore him and focus on the WMO president.
Everything he says is bullshit, and he knows that any words he gets from me will be just the same.
I’m just about to embroider a reason for my presence when that oblivious fucker Alexis Feniks saunters towards us.
Stupid, arrogant, asshole. I know, or I’m at least pretty sure, I could have talked my way out of this—but Feniks? Clueless. He’s going to fuck the whole thing up.