Corrupt (Kings of St. Augustine’s #1)

Chapter 1

Dervla

Eyes closed.

That’s the way to absorb the energy of this place.

Breathing quietly, slowly, catching the scent of Spring in the air.

The world moves around me in slow motion. The sounds of the birds, the chatter of students as they move between classes. The shout of the guys on the rugby pitch.

My lips curve up as a wicked sense of belonging seeps into my blood, and my eyes snap open as the world speeds up.

I stare into the blue eyes of a man so viciously good-looking, I go damp.

He is bent down to meet my eyes, and when he straightens up, he looms. His short, dark hair is artfully styled, and his muscular chest is wrapped in a short-sleeved, black shirt that shows the ink on his forearms.

“Lost, little pixie?” he murmurs.

Pixie? “Fuck you,” I snap and brush past him, my auburn hair swinging around my shoulders and catching him on the arm.

He chuckles. “Ouch. Look out, guys. She’s got bite.”

I stick my middle finger up at him behind my back as I walk across the quad, embarrassed to be caught drinking in my surroundings like a fresher.

The tiny silver bells on the back of my Doc Martens tinkle as I make my way into the Admin building, forgetting about the arsehole outside.

The place is cool, sleek, modern, unlike the rest of the gothic buildings of St. Augustine’s University, where legacies are built.

And smashed.

“Ms Callaghan, I presume,” a weaselly-looking middle-aged man says from behind the front desk. He doesn’t belong there. He is waiting.

The red-haired receptionist is nervous around him. I give her a look of solidarity before I turn my withering gaze to the arsehole, I’m guessing is the Vice-Chancellor.

“That’s right. But I prefer to go by Dervla.”

His gaze sweeps over me, starting at my Docs and working its way up my body in a way that gives me the serious creeps.

No wonder the receptionist is skittish around him.

He is a full-on pig. His eyes meet my stormy grey ones, and I narrow them to show him he won’t intimidate me.

“Your father was an exemplary student here,” he says, like I don’t already know.

Like I haven’t lived with that particular ghost my entire life. “Quite the legacy.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” I keep my voice flat, bored, even though the grief of his death—his murder—is still raw and painful. “You were a student here with him?”

His smile falters for a microsecond—just enough for me to catch it. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he straightens his already-straight tie, his university pin gleaming on his lapel, like he wanks over it every night before bed.

When he smiles again, it doesn’t reach his eyes. Nothing about this man reaches anywhere warm. “I’m Professor Whitmore. Vice-Chancellor of St Augustine’s. I oversee all new admissions personally.”

“Lucky me.”

The receptionist—her name badge reads Siobhán—slides a folder across the desk. I catch the slight tremble in her fingers. Whitmore doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. Probably the latter.

“Your class schedule and campus map are all in there,” Siobhán says quickly, like she wants me gone before Whitmore can dig his claws in any deeper. I appreciate that.

I take the folder. “Thanks.”

“You’ll find,” Whitmore continues, stepping around the desk to close the distance between us, “that St. Augustine’s has certain expectations of its students. Particularly those who arrive in their last year.”

“You’ll find that I’m up for the challenge.

” I lift my chin higher, not bothering to tell him my reasons for being here.

He probably already knows. He probably has his eyes on that Board seat that my dad vacated when he was killed.

But there isn’t a chance in hell anyone is getting that seat except me.

I will fight anyone who tries to take it from me, and if that means to the death… then so be it.

Whitmore holds my gaze for a beat too long, then steps back with a thin smile that says we’ll see. “Welcome to St. Augustine’s, Ms Callaghan.”

I don’t correct him this time. I just take my folder and walk out, letting the glass door swing shut behind me.

The quad is busier now. Students drift between the old stone buildings in clusters, their voices bouncing off walls that have stood for three hundred years.

I flip open the folder as I walk, scanning the schedule.

It’s normal university stuff, hiding the more nefarious lessons built in.

Psychology, Criminal Law, Economics, the usual stuff that I aced at my old university in Dublin.

Whitmore seems to forget that I was turned away from this institution once after my A-Levels. My dad was furious. He threatened to burn the place to the ground. I told him not to bother. If they didn’t want me, I didn’t want them.

All of that changed two months ago.

Eight weeks to the day.

I walked into the dining room and saw my father… dead. Shot through the skull. Executed. It was time to up my game and bust open the gates to this place once and for all.

I stop halfway across the cobblestones, fighting the urge to scream, to hit the nearest wall. But instead, I breathe. In and out and then again.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

“Pixie!”

The booming voice that travels across the quad makes me grimace.

The guy from before is sitting on a picnic table, his feet on the bench, his hands cupped around his mouth as he shouts that ridiculous nickname at me.

He lowers his hands when he sees he has my attention, and that smile, that wicked curve of his lips, is tempting.

But I’m not here for that.

I turn my back on him and stalk off, needing to get back to my house to pick up the books I’ll need for this afternoon’s timetable.

The house is a ten-minute walk across campus.

The red-bricked road where it sits runs along the north side of St. Augustine’s.

It’s Dad’s. Was Dad’s. It was occupied until recently, when I forcibly removed the students who were living in it by declaring I was coming to St. Aug’s and that the house was mine by right.

They didn’t argue. They simply found somewhere else to live.

Although I was expecting to find the place trashed earlier, I was pleasantly surprised that it was left in a decent state.

The power of the Callaghan name, even when the chief is dead.

It’s a gorgeous Georgian terrace, three storeys of red brick with a glossy black door.

The key slides in smoothly, and I shut the door behind me, closing out the world so I can breathe for just a second without having to be someone who doesn’t give a shit.

I take the stairs two at a time to the second floor, where my room sits at the end of the corridor.

The boxes I shipped ahead are stacked neatly against the far wall—clothes, books, the few personal things I couldn’t leave behind in the old manse on the West Coast, where Dad “retired”.

The room itself is enormous. High ceilings, original cornicing, a bay window that overlooks the front garden and, beyond the wall, the university grounds.

Someone left a desk under the window, solid oak and sturdy.

I run my fingers across it and then turn from the window.

I unpack the first box—textbooks, notebooks, pens.

The second box has my laptop, book bag and a journal.

Beneath the journal is the file. The one I compiled myself, nights spent cross-legged on the kitchen floor of the manse with a bottle of Jameson and a head full of murder.

Names, dates, connections. Everything I could piece together about who wanted Cillian Callaghan dead and why.

The trail leads here. To St. Augustine’s.

To the Board. That seat that my dad vacated the day he died is up for grabs.

Someone wanted it, or wanted someone specific in it.

Either way, I’m going to find out who and exact some vengeance the old school way.

Preferably with my bare hands around someone’s neck.

I slide the file under the mattress for now.

It’s not exactly Fort Knox, but it’ll do until I get a proper lockbox sorted.

I press my palms flat against the duvet and stare at the wall, letting the silence settle around me.

Then I grab my book bag, stuff in what I need for the afternoon, and head back downstairs.

The walk back to campus is quieter this time.

Most students are already in lectures, and the cobblestone paths are nearly empty.

I like it better this way. Fewer eyes, fewer questions.

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and for a moment, St. Augustine’s looks exactly like the postcards.

Ancient and untouchable, with honey-coloured stone and ivy crawling up the bell tower like it’s trying to pull the whole thing back into the earth.

But I know better.

My first class is Criminal Law in the Hennessy Building, a hulking gothic structure with gargoyles perched above the entrance that look like they’ve been judging students since the 1700s.

I push through the heavy oak doors and follow the corridor to Lecture Theatre 3.

It’s already half full. I pick a seat three rows from the back, next to the aisle, because I always want an exit, and drop my bag on the desk.

The theatre is tiered, old-fashioned, with dark wood panelling and brass light fixtures that have been retrofitted with LEDs.

It smells like furniture polish and ambition.

I pull out my notebook and pen, ignoring the curious glances from a few students who are trying to work out who the new girl is. News travels fast. I’m sure the entire campus will know by the close of business.

A girl two seats over catches my eye. She’s striking with close-cropped hair, cheekbones that could cut you. She’s wearing a cashmere jumper the colour of wine and has three rings on each hand. She gives me a once-over that’s more assessment than judgement, then nods.