Chapter 40
Gwendolynne
Harrisford leads me to the Seamere car park. At one stage, Danny tries to corner him, pressing him to go to the party, but Harrisford just waves him off.
We arrive in front of a small black car. The lights flash and there are two little beeps before Harrisford swings the passenger door open.
“Get in,” he says. A command, not a request.
I fold my arms. “How do I know you’re not planning on murdering me and dumping my body so that you’ll come top of class?
” I’m trying to focus on Harrisford’s face, though it’s hard since today he’s wearing a white V-neck T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps as though he’s something carved from marble.
I didn’t even realize Harrisford owned any T-shirts, but I suppose even Greek gods like to be comfortable for exams.
“Well…” One corner of his lip twitches. “I do prefer my women more…alive.”
His response makes my skin tighten. His women? His women? I don’t know whether to be attracted or repulsed.
Propping my hands on my hips, I arch an eyebrow at him. “Alive? Is that all? You don’t have very high standards, Briggs.”
He leans closer, caging me against the car. Heat radiates from his skin. His scent shoots up my nostrils, something beneath his cologne that is one hundred percent pure him. I bite my lip involuntarily.
Harrisford’s gaze locks on my mouth. “My standards are higher than yours, it seems,” he breathes, his voice so menacing it almost undoes me on the spot.
He tilts his face closer to mine. “Since you’re the one about to go on a date with a potential murderer.
” Then he straightens and raps the top of the car door, his expression turning predatory. “Now get in the car, Chan.”
Is that what this is? A date? My limbs have lost all feeling as I surrender and fold myself into the seat. It’s clean, it’s comfortable, it’s got that new-car smell. Harrisford slams my door shut.
“I thought you didn’t own a car,” I murmur as he slides into the seat next to me. I run a finger along the pristine dashboard.
He starts the almost-silent magic-powered engine, flings his arm around the back of my seat, and begins reversing out. “I bought it last week.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “You…bought a car?” I’m stunned by the idea that anyone would just go out and…buy a brand-new car. With cash, presumably. Without having to save up for literal years.
His eyes flash to mine for a second, and then away. “With graduation so soon, it was about time I got one.”
I stare at him because his voice sounds strained—he’s gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles blanched, and his ears have gone the tiniest touch pink.
I turn to face forward again, shaking my head. Harrisford Briggs is seriously weird.
We spend most of the drive in silence, me chewing my lip and watching the scenery slide by the window. It’s summer proper now, and the air has grown even thicker and muggier than it’s ever been before.
All I can think about is how irresponsible this is; now that we’ve finished exams, I really should be trying to figure out, once and for all, how to access the Void.
Conall, Heloise, and I had spent every night during the exam period puzzling over blueprints and twisting the unmarked dials and knobs on the black box Percy stole.
But nothing seemed to work, and Percy—though he’d witnessed the procedure many a time—didn’t know anything beyond his vague, cat-biased recollections.
Nathaniel, it seems, had been careful to shield his thoughts whenever he’d deemed it necessary.
It’s only two days until the graduation ceremony. After that, we’ll all go our separate ways. I’ll lose access to Conall’s brilliant mind, and Heloise’s smarts and steadfast support.
The others are planning to go to the party anyway, I tell myself, trying to assuage my guilt. You can work on it again first thing tomorrow.
We drive past paddocks with grazing unicorns, their silver foals frolicking through the grass.
The meadows are bathed in sunshine, butterflies (or are they cabbage moths?) flitting around the wildflowers.
But I can barely appreciate it. First, because the surges—and the inaccessible Void—are still hanging over my head.
Second, I’m ruminating over all the things I might have messed up in my exams. And third…
I still don’t understand what Harrisford is doing.
The last time I saw him, he’d called me perfect, then made me come, spectacularly. The time before that, he’d been flirting with the nurse at the London General Magical Hospital—a woman whose name he’d forgotten mere days later.
And the time before that, he’d insulted me at the qílín paddocks and basically laughed in my face when I brought up the surges.
Which is the real Harrisford? And which version is the act?
Eventually, the countryside gives way to the city, and before long we’re pulling into the car park beneath a restaurant.
Inside, it’s dim. The place is decked out all in black, multitextured layers of velvet seats, black-stained hardwood, glossy lacquered feature walls.
The only sources of light are innumerable flickering candles, which are simply wicks inserted into little jars of liquid magic, and there are at least twenty pieces of cutlery laid out at every setting.
“We have a booking under Briggs,” Harrisford says at the front desk, and my stomach does a little somersault at the careless way he’d said we.
The ma?tre d’, also clad all in black, leads us to a table tucked way up in the back.
I’m feeling out of place because I’m not wearing black, and also because I’m tragically underdressed.
The only redeeming factor is that Harrisford is dressed casually, too.
Harrisford calls for the wine list as soon as we are seated, donning his reading glasses to peruse the menu.
I watch him, studying the little indentation that appears between his eyebrows when he concentrates; at the way he absent-mindedly runs a finger back and forth across his full lower lip while he’s reading.
When he looks up, he raises his eyebrows at me, having caught me gawking. I bite my lip and look away.
Stay on your guard, Gwen. I cannot let myself feel. I cannot let myself get caught up in Harrisford’s twisted games.
“Do you want white or red?” he says.
“Red, please.”
He orders, and when the bottle arrives, he pours me a glass. I frown. “Aren’t you having any?”
“No. I prefer white.” He nudges my glass toward me.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You should order some, then. It seems unfair to have me drinking, and you completely sober. I feel as if it’s putting me at a disadvantage.”
He rolls his eyes but gestures to the waiter, who at Harrisford’s request brings a second bottle.
We clink our glasses and drink, eyeing each other across the table. I still haven’t asked why Harrisford has brought me here. It might be petty, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’m curious. So instead, I just say to him, “We really can’t agree on anything, can we?”
He had seemed lost in thought, but my question jerks him out of his reverie. “Whatever do you mean, Chan?”
I take a sip of wine. “Red or white. Mag.fam, myth.creat. Curry or vinegar. BBC or the 2005 version—”
He scoffs, cutting me off. “I’m sure we can find something we agree on.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, challenging. “Let’s try, then. Dark chocolate.”
He shoots me a scandalized look. “White. It’s so much sweeter.”
“Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee,” he says, then flushes. “I know that you prefer tea.”
“Beach or snow?” I say, and at precisely the same time I say “beach,” he says “snow.” Of course he’d like snow, since he’s posh, snobby, and stupidly rich.
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “All right then, here’s the big one: Team Edward or Team Jacob?”
He takes a sip of his own wine, then purses his lips. “Neither,” he says, after a beat. “Team Jessica.”
My mouth drops open in an expression of mock outrage. “You animal! She’s meant to be the bitchy one!”
He shrugs. “The actress who played her was hot.”
I shake my head in dismay. “That’s it. I think we’ll have to stay enemies forever.”
His eyes gleam with something like amusement. “Right, enemies. Of course.”
Something has shifted in the atmosphere, as though a magical surge is happening here, right now, right at this very table, in the small expanse of space that separates us.
It’s like the delicate dance we’re doing is bringing us closer and closer, in increasingly tight circles, and I’m finally facing Harrisford as myself, completely vulnerable, laid bare.
I sigh, defeated. I have to know, once and for all, what game Harrisford is playing. “What are we doing here?”
“We’re drinking wine. And soon, we will be eating.”
“No, I mean, what are we doing here.” I gesture frantically to the space between us. “Why did you bring me here? What are you playing at, Briggs?”
He takes another sip of wine, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. Then he sets his wineglass down, very carefully, on the table. “Why, I’m wooing you, Chan.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “Wooing me?” Immediately, my heart starts to race, and my breath feels far too big for my chest.
“Yes, wooing you. Isn’t that how people do it? Take them to fancy restaurants and ply them with food and drink?”
I stare at him, open-mouthed, still hung up on his archaic speech patterns. “That sounds like something straight out of last century!”
He leans forward, smirking, until our faces are only inches from one another.
I realize, too late, that I’d been leaning forward too.
“Would you rather I put it differently?” he says, and his voice has dropped so low that it makes me shiver, melting a pool of desire in my lower belly.
“Would you rather I say that I’m courting you? ”
“That’s even worse. That’s like something…they’d say in a Jane Austen novel.” My words come out so breathless, it’s embarrassing.
He leans even closer, until his breath caresses my lips. “Who would I be, do you think? Darcy, or Mr. Bingley?”
I’m admittedly impressed by his knowledge of Regency-era literature, although he’s perhaps just familiar with the BBC TV miniseries. I give him a speculative look, then curve my lips into a wicked smile. “I think you’re most like…Mr. Collins.”
He gives a roar of outrage. “You evil witch! I don’t think that enemies is strong enough a word.” But he’s grinning.
The sliver of air between us shivers; there’s that electric charge again.
He’s talking as though he wants us to be an item, but everything I’ve heard about Harrisford is that he just sleeps around.
How many women has he brought here? How many have come before me and been lured by the magic that he weaves with his words?
My stomach has twisted around and around on itself; I take another gulp of wine just to calm my nerves.
The first dish arrives, startling us. We spring apart. Harrisford snatches up his glass and takes a hearty swig of wine.
As each course comes out—I learn somewhere during the third dish that it’s a degustation menu—we skirt around several topics, not quite knowing how to earnestly land on a conversation.
I try to discuss the examinations, but he shuts me down.
“Not everyone enjoys dissecting everything as much as you do,” he says.
I try to broach the topic of his mother, since the last time we’d spoken he’d revealed that, despite the rumors, she is still alive. But he shuts that down too, only confirming that his middle initial stands for Finlay because it was his mother’s maiden name.
“Shame,” I murmur. “I thought Harrisford-fucking-Briggs had a nice ring to it.”
When he dares to bring up the night we spent in Manchester, it’s me who vetoes the conversation, refusing to discuss it while blushing hot all over.
At one point, Percy cuts in, inside my head. Ask him to scratch you on the bum. I give an indignant shriek, which has Harrisford giving me a funny look.
“Shut up, Percy,” I hiss back at him. “This conversation is private!”
Harrisford shakes his head, half amused, half appalled. “You really ought to learn how to shield, Chan.”
It’s all very awkward, full of stilted conversation. But finally, after we’ve polished off course seven, and the wine has loosened me up enough that I’m no longer as tightly strung as a cello, Harrisford finds the topic that we can both freely indulge in: what I know about the Void.
He asks me what I was doing, that time we ran into each other at the hospital.
And, with my tongue freed by alcohol and an urgent need to fix things, I tell him.
I explain how Heli and I had snuck into the MLO meeting, and how we’d discovered that Professor Kaur was the acting leader.
I tell him about the conversation we’d overheard between Nathaniel, the doctor, and Jarvis.
I tell him about the horrifying surgery that Heli and I had witnessed: doctors under Magecorp’s thumb implanting bits of Source into the necks of humans so that they can be used as tethers.
And finally, I tell him about how Heloise, Percy, and I had broken into Nathaniel Price’s mansion and stolen a device to enter the Void. But that, despite our best efforts, we still hadn’t worked out how to use it.
Harrisford listens to all of this patiently, and by the time I’ve finished speaking, my words spilling over themselves in my hurry, I suddenly realize that he and I have reached across the table and are holding each other’s hands.
The tenth course has finished. Degustation is over. And my “date” with Harrisford (the potential murderer) has come crashing to an end.