Chapter 19 #2
We search beneath couch cushions, flip back all the rugs, run our hands along the filigree-patterned wallpaper.
I rummage through the games cupboard, and Conall searches all the bookshelves, but none of us finds anything remotely useful.
While all the objects are completely coated with magical traces—residual life force from the other students’ use of them, none of them have any echoes of being magical itself.
The only actual sources of magic here are two Magecorp-branded MagePoints—which, unlike typical electrical power points, you need to pay to plug into—that are set into the far back wall.
At one o’clock in the morning, after hours of searching, we’re finally forced to acknowledge defeat and retire to our rooms. I’m exhausted; I’ve worked a full day and conducted an investigation at night, and I’m not even yet fully healed.
As I struggle into my Twilight T-shirt, I wince a little—some of the bruises are a little tender—and briefly regret not letting Harrisford treat the rest of my injuries.
No, I scold myself. Don’t even think that. I don’t want Harrisford-fucking-Briggs to touch me ever again. He might be attractive—as much as I hate to admit it—but he’s a slimy, conniving git with all the personality of a broken pencil.
Why are you so late? Percy asks me from where he’s sleeping on my bed. His ears twitch as I pull out my toothbrush and begin to brush my teeth.
“I was searching for a source of the magic surges in the common room,” I say, scrubbing at my teeth unnecessarily hard. I pause—suddenly picturing my dentist’s spiel about enamel wear—then start brushing again, softer this time. “We think that maybe someone is trying to sabotage Magecorp.”
Someone’s sabotaging Magecorp? There’s undisguised glee in Percy’s mind-voice. My megalomaniac ex-owner’s company?
I rinse and spit. “That’s the one.” Leaning over the sink, I splash water onto my face, then towel-dry it off.
Percy sits up and fixes his bright yellow eye on me. Wasn’t it you? Weren’t you there over the weekend, breaking in?
I sigh. “No, it wasn’t me. I have no idea who it could be.”
Percy gives a disappointed sigh, then lies back down, his head positioned very precisely at the center of my pillow.
I frown. Was that the only reason Percy helped me? So he could get back at Nathaniel Price?
Waving away that unpleasant thought, I slide my feet out of my slippers. I stand there, my feet sinking into the wiry carpet, twisting the towel with both hands.
It has suddenly occurred to me that, once upon a time, Percy had a front-row seat to all of Nathaniel’s thoughts and actions.
“Actually…” I stuff the towel back on its railing and pad over to the bed. When I perch on the edge, dipping it, Percy grudgingly raises his head. “Did you notice anything unusual? Back when you lived with Nathaniel Price? Thoughts he had, or things he did, or…well, anything, really.”
Rolling to an upright position and folding both of his front feet beneath him, Percy is silent for a long moment. Finally, he swivels his head to look at me. As a matter of fact, something did happen.
I sit forward, my heart pounding. “What?”
It was a few months ago. Someone broke into the Price family mansion.
My breath tears, harsh, through my throat as I gawp at him. Someone broke into Nathaniel Price’s house? Is that when they stole the tether?
“A few months ago?” I say. “Can you…be a bit more specific?”
He narrows his eye at me. Does it look like I carry a pocket watch around, Hairless One?
I press my lips into a line; there’s only one person I know who owns a pocket watch, and I absolutely do not want his help. “What did they steal?”
I cannot be certain, Percy says, his tail flicking. All I know is that Nathaniel was tremendously angry. He spent copious amounts of time imagining the perpetrator being subjected to an array of increasingly creative torture methods.
Shuddering, I turn out the light and climb beneath the bedcovers. Percy growls as though it’s actually his bed and not mine. “There’s room enough for us both,” I gripe at him, but he pointedly leaps off the bed.
Perhaps there is, he says, stretching his back legs behind him, one at a time. But you thrash around in your sleep too much. Also, you snore.
“I do not snore!” But already he’s coiled up tight on my desk chair. Seeing him there brings back memories of Harrisford: Harrisford reclining in it, Percy on his lap, his feet propped up on my bed, reading.
He’d at least had the decency to take his shoes off at the door, a detail that only occurred to me later.
It’s taboo in Asian culture to wear shoes inside, so I always slip mine off before I enter my room.
Harrisford had done so too—his stupidly expensive loafers had been placed neatly next to my scuffed-up trainers on the doormat.
I scowl at my ceiling. Expensive shoes, expensive shirts, expensive trousers that are tight enough to hug his perfect…
Stop it, Gwen. My face is burning. Stop thinking about his fucking trousers.
I sigh. It’s sickening and irrational, but it would be a lie to deny that I find Harrisford Briggs good-looking—even if he is a total wanker.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? He already won the looks, wealth, and ketones-smelling lotteries; it would be too much for him to also have a half-decent personality.
Oh well. It doesn’t matter. I am a full-grown, mature adult, and I can definitely appreciate a man’s beauty while staunchly hating everything else about him.
I lie awake for almost an hour, stewing over my memories of Harrisford.
Eventually, the last of my resolve crumbles, and I allow my fingers to sneak beneath my waistband.
And soon enough I fall asleep, the liquid warmth of pleasure settled deep within my belly, the echo of Harrisford’s name still lingering on my lips.