CHAPTER 35
T hree days had passed since the night I’d met with Mel. Three days of obsessing over every smidge of information I could squeeze out of Google on my mother and grandparents. Three days of questioning every moment of life. Of trying to construct who Professor Bramwell’s father was in my head.
My whole world had turned upside down, thanks to that file. The mental snapshots of my life, up until that point, seemed like an alternate ending to a story that had already been written.
Who the hell was my mother, and why had she lied to me and Bee?
How had she ended up at Dracadia University and connected to Warren Bramwell?
Aside from the few articles covering the suicides, wherein the media was careful not to frame an accusation against Warren Bramwell—for legal reasons, I presumed—I’d found absolutely nothing useful on the man.
Some published journals, and his obituary, of course, but nothing significant.
Not even those creepy websites that claimed to have access to addresses and public records.
Not one photo on Google images, which was weird, given that he had been a professor a number of years. As if he’d been wiped out of existence.
Standing at the front of the class, Professor Bramwell delivered his lecture on Cordyceps–a parasitic fungus that infected ants.
It released a chemical that compelled the ant to climb a tree, where the fungus would emerge from its body to release spores that would fall to the ground and infect more ants.
I couldn’t help but stare at him, studying his body movements as he lectured. As riveting as the topic may have been, the only thought running through my head was: did the guy’s father kill my mother?
Of course, thoughts of Jenny Harrick then came to mind. Were both father and son killers?
The accusations I’d heard had seemed nothing but speculation and rumor, hardly enough to pin a murder on the man, unless evidence had been intentionally overlooked.
Even the Crixson Study and my mother’s involvement in that left little for me to connect Warren Bramwell to her death. It seemed my mother had gotten pregnant and left the study well before the other women had committed suicide.
What if Mel was right, though? What if there was more information that I hadn’t seen yet? What if they were powerful enough to get away with murder? To wipe all evidence clean? Was that what they’d done to my mother?
I’d Googled Bramwell Junior, as well, and the results were much the same. Published research journals galore, and some doctoral dissertation award he’d won a few years back, but nothing too in-depth, or personal.
I couldn’t leave it alone, though. Fate had brought me to Dracadia, placed me in the path of Professor Bramwell, for a reason. For my mother’s sake, I needed to move past the discomfort I felt around the man, or I’d never find out what had truly happened.
At one point during the lecture, his eyes caught mine, and something strange stirred in my stomach. His stare lingered with intensity, forcing me to look away, and when I did, I noticed Spencer’s glancing between Bramwell and me. As if he’d caught on, as well.
I wondered how many other students noticed, and the thought heated my cheeks and stomach.
“Miss Vespertine,” a deep voice called out, and I turned to see Professor Bramwell with his arms crossed at the front of the room, staring up at me. “What reason would the fungus have for urging the ant to climb the tree instead of remaining on the ground?”
A look around the room showed all eyes on me, and my heart pounded a chaotic beat inside my chest. I’d never been called on in a college class before.
Not unless I volunteered information on my own.
Most professors only knew me as a number, not a face, and certainly not by name, aside from Dr. Wilkins when I’d attended Covington.
He’d never called on me in class, though.
“To expand dispersal and the chance of infecting another ant.”
“Precisely. And why is that important, Mr. Lippincott?”
“Uhhhh. Because the ant population is too high?”
“Do you agree, Miss Vespertine?”
“While it may be true that parasites do help control insect populations, I think they tend to be far more selfish. What’s important to Cordyceps, in particular, is the need to fulfill its lifecycle.
And of course, as you said at the beginning of the class, the most important function of any parasite is to secure its transmission to the next host.”
His lips curved into the kind of smile that made my stomach flutter and stoked some deep-seated guilt lingering there. “Very good, Miss Vespertine.”
Assuming I did suspect that Crixson had had anything to do with my mother, and I wasn’t sure it had, given the facts that didn’t line up, it didn’t make sense that I would harbor any reservations around my professor, when the experiments took place twenty years ago.
He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, or fourteen, years old at the time.
As he kept on with his lecture, I caught another glance toward me, and the slightest curve of his lips that quickly faded when he turned his attention away.
Perhaps something simmered there. A small flicker of interest on his part, unless I was looking too deeply. Did I have it in me to flirt with my professor as a means to get closer to him?
To seduce him?
Absolutely not. The very thought had my guts in acrobatics.
But the man was a closed vault, sealed with hot molten steel that I’d never otherwise penetrate.
The few interactions I’d seen between him and Gilchrist told me that not even sex managed to crack him.
I’d have to appeal to that brain of his, somehow, and in a way that didn’t seem annoying.
Doing well in his class wasn’t enough. I needed him to see me as an exceptional student.
As passionate about the organism as he was.
Harmless flirting. Nothing that would’ve gotten either of us kicked out. I just needed to gain his trust.
At the end of class, I packed up my notebook and headed for the exit.
“Miss Vespertine, a word, if you will,” Professor Bramwell said, as I reached the door.
“Of course.”
The class cleared out, and once again, Spencer shot me a glance full of disapproval.
As Professor Bramwell gathered up his notes, I forced myself to ignore the way his muscles bulged at his biceps whenever he bent his arm, or the way he’d rolled up his sleeves to expose the map of veins in his forearms. And those hands.
Hands that looked both delicate and barbaric, like they could gently wring the very life out of you.
They were handsome hands, with trim nails and strong but slender fingers that I could imagine wielding a scalpel with utmost precision. An artist, no doubt.
To flirt with him, even intellectually, I’d have to allow myself to appreciate these things about him.
Allow myself to be attracted to a man who was otherwise off-limits.
A man that I imagined was powerful enough to have me kicked out of the school faster than I could say elitist privilege .
And what then? If that happened, I’d never discover the truth about my mother.
“I want to apologize for the other night in the library,” he said. “I didn’t mean to speak so crass.”
“It’s fine. Crass is polite where I’m from.”
“And where is that again?” The flexing of his left hand invited a momentary distraction.
“Covington.”
“Interesting.”
“How so?”
“You don’t strike me as particularly hostile.” His eyes reminded me of pennies in a flame, a searing metallic gaze that warmed my blood.
“I have a feisty side.”
“I don’t doubt that.” And just like that, an invitation to flirt. Whether intentional, or not, I couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. It was an opportunity to begin chipping at his armor.
Flirt, Lilia. Say something back. Something witty, not stupid, or awkward. “It’s rather presumptuous of you, though. Assuming that, because I’m from a bad area I should be automatically hostile.”
“The fight response is an ancient part of our defense mechanism that has allowed us to adapt, defend. Survive. I’m certain it’s served you well.”
“You’re speaking science again.”
His lip twitched as if he might smile, but didn’t.
“Always.” He leaned in, and I could smell the warm cinnamon on his breath over the delicious spice of his cologne.
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” His brow winged up as he straightened himself and shoved another notebook into his bag. “That will be all.”
I willed the calming of my heart as I gave a sharp nod.
Had he flirted back? I wasn’t the wittiest or most in tune when it came to men, but the man was close enough to my face to have breached the invisible barrier between professor and student.
“Wait … um. Can I ask you a question without you getting mad?”
“Probably not. But go on with your question.”
“A while back, when I told you that I believed my mother to be infected with Noctisoma, you asked if she was from here. Do you find it’s prevalent in the locals?”
“Prevalent? Not as a general rule, no. They have their own folklore surrounding the berries. They believe they’re the poison of bad spirits and tend to stay away from them. It’s only ignorant tourists who occasionally consume the berries.”
“I’m pretty sure Andrea Kepling wasn’t a tourist.” I’d have mentioned my mother wasn’t either, but no point wasting all of my new-found facts in the single encounter with him.
“And I’m pretty sure we’ve already had this discussion. You’re skirting the flame again, Miss Vespertine.”
“Behavioral fevering. I’m merely trying to rid myself of the endless questions plaguing my head.” It was almost criminal how at ease I felt flirting over science, and worse, I didn’t even feel like I was pretending.