Chapter 11
The Archives smelled of old paper, binding glue, and the specific kind of despair that came from scrubbing a century’s worth of dust off a floor made of imported Italian marble.
I technically wasn't supposed to be here. The Archives were "closed for reorganization" by order of Dean Marrow, which in Northcrest speak usually meant "we are hiding something incriminating."
But I wasn't looking for incriminating documents. I was looking for a book on Null Theory Arthur had mentioned last week, before the world went to hell.
I was crouching behind a towering stack of "Pre-War Elemental Treatises" when I heard the scrubbing.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
It was a rhythmic, miserable sound. I peeked around the leather-bound spine of a grimoire.
There, on her hands and knees in the center of the aisle, was Amelia Vance.
She looked... wrecked. Her platinum blonde hair, usually pulled back in a severe, perfect chignon, was fraying at the edges.
She was wearing a gray "Student Worker" jumpsuit that looked like it was made of burlap and sadness.
And she was scrubbing the floor with a ferocity that suggested she was trying to erase her own existence.
I froze. Amelia Vance. The Ice Queen. The girl who had made my freshman year a living hell. The girl whose family had tried to sell me to the Brotherhood.
I should have felt smug. This was karma in its purest form.
But looking at her—sweating, broken-nailed, and vibrating with silent rage—I didn't feel smug. I felt... pity? No. Not pity. Recognition.
I knew what it looked like to be trapped in a life you didn't choose.
"Missed a spot," a voice chirped.
I flinched back deeper into the shadows. Arthur.
The Head Archivist walked into the aisle, carrying a stack of books and looking irritatingly cheerful. He was wearing a tweed vest, because of course he was.
Amelia didn't look up. "Go away, Arthur."
"Actually, you didn't miss a spot," Arthur said, crouching down beside her. "I just wanted to see if you still had your fire. You've been quiet for twenty minutes. It's unnerving."
"I am plotting your demise," Amelia muttered, dipping her brush into the bucket.
Arthur grinned. From my vantage point, I could see the way his eyes crinkled. He liked her. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Arthur Penhaligon—the kindest, most human person on this campus—liked Amelia Vance.
"There she is," he said softly. "Break time."
"I don't get breaks. Marrow said—"
"Dean Marrow isn't in my Archives. I am. And in my Archives, we take tea breaks at 3:00 PM." He held out a hand.
I watched, holding my breath. A week ago, Amelia would have slapped his hand away. She would have made a comment about his lack of magic or his blood status.
But today? Today, she hesitated. She looked at his hand like it was a lifeline.
Slowly, shakily, she reached out. Arthur pulled her up effortlessly.
"Fine," she said, dusting off her knees. "But only because I'm dehydrated."
"Of course," he winked. "Come on. I found a first edition of The Theory of Magical Constraint I think you'll hate."
They walked past my hiding spot, heading toward Arthur's office. I pressed myself flat against the bookshelf, heart hammering.
As they passed, I saw Amelia’s face. The mask was gone. She looked young. Terrified. And... hopeful.
"You're an idiot, Arthur," I heard her say, but her voice lacked its usual venom.
"Probably," he agreed.
I waited until their footsteps faded into the office before I let out a breath.
I had come here for a book. But I found something else.
Amelia Vance wasn't just a villain anymore. She was a recruit.
I slipped out of the stacks, abandoning the Null Theory search. I needed to tell the Triad.
The war had shifted. We had a new player on the board.
By the time I made it back to the penthouse, the weather had turned.
"He's planning something big," I said, bursting into the room.
Rhett was sharpening a dagger on the coffee table. Kai was sketching sigils. Lucien was staring out the window at the darkening sky.
"We know, babe," Rhett said, the shhhk-shhhk of the whetstone filling the silence. "The guy eats magic."
"Not that," I said, locking the door. "Amelia."
"What about her?" Kai looked up, frowning. "Did she try to curse you again? I'll turn her into a ficus. A really ugly ficus."
"No," I shook my head. "I saw her in the Archives. With Arthur."
"Arthur?" Lucien turned from the window. "Is he safe?"
"He's... flirting," I said, still trying to process what I’d seen. "Or something like it. He’s civilizing her. He gave her tea."
"Tea isn't a redemption arc, Lina," Rhett grumbled.
"It’s a start," I insisted. "She looked different. She didn't look like a Vance. She looked like a girl who just realized her parents are monsters."
"Join the club," Kai muttered.
"If Arthur can turn her," I said, pacing the room, "if he can get her on our side... she knows things. She knows where the bodies are buried. Literally. Her father funded half the dark magic research on the West Coast."
"She's a liability," Rhett said flatly.
"She's an asset," Lucien corrected, his eyes narrowing. "If she’s truly broken with her family. A Vance on the inside? That’s valuable."
"We watch her," I decided. "We let Arthur work his magic—his human magic—and we wait. If she turns, we bring her in."
"And if she doesn't?" Rhett asked.
"Then Kai gets his ficus," I said.
A heavy silence settled over the room. The playful energy of the morning was gone, replaced by the weight of the coming storm.
"Uh, guys?" Kai stood up, moving to the window beside Lucien. "Is it supposed to snow today?"
"It's September," Rhett said.
"Tell that to the sky."
I walked over to join them. Outside, the first flakes of snow began to fall. But they weren't white. They were gray, heavy, and they didn't melt when they hit the glass. They hissed.
"Marrow," I whispered, pressing my hand to the cold pane.
The cozy war was heating up. Or rather... freezing over.