Chapter 19
Grayson
The Guild’s administrative building sits behind the school proper.
Square, squat, and dismal, uninspired grey, it’s the exact opposite of the kind of space Grayson would have designed to inspire educators.
There’s no personality beyond the carefully trimmed shrubbery and topiaries outside, a sign that someone with a love of landscape design has tried to lift this place out of the doldrums.
Jay pulls open the innocuous glass doors to usher them through one-by-one.
Grayson doesn’t have to turn around to watch as the Pack Alpha does a quick headcount as they pass, as if he’s a kindergarten teacher and they’re on a field trip.
Grayson does catch a self-satisfied half-smirk as he finds his place at Grayson’s side, Nimue in tow.
“Luminary?” Grayson offers her his arm. The gesture is not only a show of respect, but it’s also strategic—a suggestion courtesy of Blair Shepard, their magical counsel.
By allying with such a well-respected Luminary, they are announcing to anyone who cares to look that Grayson is admired, valued, and trusted. It is a subtle power play for sure, but one Blair Shepard had counseled would not go unnoticed even in these proceedings.
“Thank you.” She takes his arm and pats the hand he folds over it. “I admit that I am somewhat nervous.”
He agrees with the sentiment wholeheartedly, and he squeezes his friend’s hand in solidarity.
He’d have preferred a moment to settle in the foyer before he had to face Headmaster Percival or Kirwan, but they’re already exiting an elevator at the far end of the room in ceremonial robes.
Percival moves like he owns the building, broad-shouldered and heavy in voluminous fabric, and the man tucked close behind him almost disappears in his wake, tablet held to his chest like a shield.
Professor Kirwan’s robes are the deepest black and swallow the light, and her eyes are bright and watchful as they move from Grayson to Jay and then to Nimue. She arranges her mouth into a smug smirk as if this is something she has remembered, relished, and never quite outgrown.
“Nimue Wyrd,” Kirwan says, and the name lands with a sting. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Nimue stiffens so slightly that it would pass for nothing if Grayson weren’t holding her arm.
He feels the quick betrayal of nerves, and then he feels her steady herself and stand taller.
Now, he sees the woman who faced an unknown, powerful magic user bent on destroying the university archive when they first met, confident in the strength she’d earned through time and practice of her craft.
Pride in his friend lifts him with her, and he sets his shoulders back.
“I’m sorry,” Nimue says, voice smooth, “have we met?”
Kirwan blinks, jaw dropping slightly as if she could hardly imagine not being memorable to someone she’d tried to affect so thoroughly during their formative years.
“I usually have a good memory for faces,” Nimue continues, the faintest shrug accompanying it, “but…”
Luca snorts behind them, and Kirwan’s smugness slips, replaced by anger that looks like an old, familiar friend. “Why you—”
Headmaster Percival steps forward, annoyance written plain on his face for the briefest moment before it smooths into something polished. “I am Headmaster Percival, Luminary Wyrd.” His smile turns smarmy as he offers Nimue his hand. “Thank you for attending today. You honor us with your—”
“Of course we would attend,” Nimue interrupts, avoiding his hand.
“Grayson is a trusted friend and a valued member of our pack. When you call into question his integrity, you question us all.” She lets that sink in, and Grayson enjoys the nervous swallow it forces from the headmaster.
“You have, of course, met our Alpha, James Rhodes?”
Jay places a claiming hand on Grayson’s shoulder, and Percival and Kirwan flinch anyway, the instinctive reaction of people used to being the biggest presence in the room who have just realized they are not.
“Rhodes,” Percival says, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robe. His attention snaps back to Nimue, looking for anything that puts him back in his role as ruler of his domain.
“Where are we doing this?” Jay demands, annoyance evident in his tone. “You’ve wasted enough of my pack’s time with this farce already.”
“Now listen here, you…you…Rhodes,” Percival sputters, standing to his full height. “Farce? We are here because your…your ma—” He stutters over the word mate like it’s distasteful. “You should show me respect.”
There’s a scuffle at the back of their group, and Grayson can only imagine Rowan taking umbrage with Percival’s tone and his refusal to use even the most basic of courtesies with someone like Jay.
Luca scoffs, managing to escape Finn’s restraining hand and pushing his way to the front of their group. “If you want respect, you should earn it, you overblown, pompous blowhard.”
“Well, I never—”
“I doubt that,” Luca says. “Someone like you probably hears that a lot.”
“Sir? They’re ready for you in the hall.”
The blond assistant steps out from Percival’s side like he’s been unfolded from the headmaster’s shadow.
Cheerful blue eyes, pleasant expression, with a tablet angled up and ready to intervene on his employer’s behalf.
He gives Grayson a quick wink, and it’s gone before Grayson can think too long about it.
Percival seizes on the interruption, his spine going rigid with authority again, and his voice drops into that polished, public tone that is meant to make everyone forget he was a sputtering buffoon a second ago.
“Good,” he says, sharp. “Then we will proceed.”
He turns without waiting for agreement. Kirwan falls into step beside him, too eager for Grayson’s peace of mind, her gaze darting back once toward Nimue with a small, satisfied curl at the corner of her mouth.
There’s a gentle hand at the back of Grayson’s blazer, followed by another on his spine, and another on his arm, then the back of his neck, and fingers sliding into his hair, until he can feel the touch of his entire pack.
Nix leans in, voice low and bright. “Let’s go ruin their day.”
The man with the tablet holds back a chuckle and gestures them forward. “Shall we?”
They follow Percival and Kirwan down a corridor that smells faintly of old wood, patchouli, and, beneath it all, the unmistakable tinge of decay.
The tribunal hall is…beige. It’s unwelcoming and designed like a room meant for quarterly budgets and awkward applause, with a podium and a whiteboard pushed off to the side.
It’s full of people, the low din of voices setting Grayson’s wolf on edge.
Grayson’s eyes snag on faces he knows. Knox Mehta sits with his white hair catching the fluorescent glare, not in his usual robes, but in a black suit and shirt that makes his almost-white eyes look brighter, sharper, like the light is coming from inside.
He lifts a hand in a casual wave, no sign of concern on his handsome face.
Augusta Shaw sits next to him, dressed in an earthy brown, serene as ever, offering Grayson a calm smile that feels like solid ground under his feet.
Even Professor Bixby is here. He offers a quick smile and a thumbs-up, but it isn’t aimed at Grayson.
It’s aimed at Nix, who chuckles under his breath, pleased as if he’s surprised, he’d made such a good impression yesterday.
These are his teachers—allies, if not friends.
And having them here hits Grayson so hard his eyes burn with it, gratitude and relief tangled together until he has to swallow down the sharpness in his throat and focus on not looking like he’s about to crack in front of people he respects and admires.
There are others from the staff, too. Some look uneasy, like they’re here because they were told to be. Others have the faint, avid stillness of spectators who came for the spectacle, or because Headmaster Percival likes an audience when he’s performing and calling it procedure.
And at the front, waiting where no one can miss it, is a single hardback wooden chair, isolated and alone.
Where everyone will watch Grayson’s integrity on trial.
His stomach turns hard and he wants to puke.
At the back of the room, though, there’s one face Grayson doesn’t recognize.
A man pale as death, hawk-nosed, long spindly fingers folded as if he had all the time in the world.
The smile he gives Grayson is slow and knowing, with the aura of a vulture waiting for its chance to pick some unfortunate creature’s bones clean.
Kirwan startles when she sees him.
She’s halfway to her chosen chair in the second row, aisle seat, like she’s as close as she could get with Grayson’s pack filling both front rows. Her eyes flick away from the man in the back, and she goes still, prey caught under the attention of a raptor.
“Alpha Rhodes, if you and your pack would sit here?” the assistant says, and the words cut clean through Grayson’s spiral.
“Thank you. What was your name?” Jay turns on the charm like a switch, dimples out, oozing the genuine charm that draws people to him everywhere he goes.
The assistant flushes bright pink but keeps his shoulders squared. “Oh. I’m Dermott. Dermott Flanders.”
“We appreciate the welcome, Dermott,” Jay says.
“Of course. Mr. Pearce, you should sit with your family, too,” Dermott suggests, completely ignoring the headmaster as he unnecessarily adjusts the lone chair. “The Truthseeker will be here soon. They’ll let you know what you need to do then, alright?”
Grayson feels Nix’s warm hand in his, pulling him down.
The headmaster turns to face the room, arms open in a strange welcome that Grayson feels is more excited than the occasion merits.
“Thank you all for coming. For decades, this institution has built itself on a foundation of honor and integrity. Every leader, educator, and student is bound by a shared desire for the very best standards of learning…”