Supermassive Black Hole
MORGANA
A s the day wanes, I drift off more often—never a good sign.
When my mind returns to the present, I have two tabs open on my screen.
One is a statement of condolence from the ‘Office of the Dean’ drafted in the stilted cadences favored by upper crust mother-monsters and the other is a grainy screenshot of the campus message board where there are threads with titles like ‘Heir to the Boards—DEAD?!’ and ‘Cover-Up at the University: Silence from Leadership on Second Murder’.
Our journalism department is stronger than I realized—but that’s for another day.
I toggle between the two, reading and re-reading as I consider which one is most important.
There is nothing I can say to discourage the latter that isn’t an outright lie, but the Board has issued strict guidance to use the phrase ‘tragic accident’ rather than homicide.
If I look at the word ‘accident’ for one second longer, I’ll laugh, and the sound will unspool something in me that probably shouldn’t be in a professional setting, even this late in the afternoon.
There’s a knock—not the staccato tap-tap of underlings terrified I’ll sack them but the single, considerate thump of someone who’s used to opening my door for necessary purposes.
I don’t glance up from the screen, just call, “You don’t have to knock—that is, unless you’re not Channing and you’re here to kill me. In which case, please try to make it quick.”
My assistant enters like a hummingbird buzzing around a feeder, not a five-foot-five blonde in a University-issue cardigan.
She slides a stack of manila folders onto the guest chair without sitting and then glares, regarding the state of my office.
Her gaze flicks to the crumpled, barely eaten sandwich wrapper in the trash, the half-empty bourbon bottle, and finally, to my hair, which I have let completely off the leash.
Dez is agitated, poking out occasionally as I deal with the stress of today, and Channing blinks hard before addressing me.
“I’m calling it, Morgana. You need to eat, rest, and shed this nonsense. But mostly, decompress so you don’t look like you’re going to fall over on the desk.”
My voice is rougher than intended. “I’ve got two more condolence letters to punch up, and the Board just emailed a list of ‘acceptable campus death terminology’ to be used in the future. Want to hear the top three?”
“I want you to go home.” She does not raise her voice, but something in her tone brooks no argument.
“Even the trustees don’t want a pissy gorgon running their school—not this week.
Take care of yourself so you’re able to handle this mess; if not for you or the damn school, but for your mates.
They need you functioning at full capacity to work with Jax on the cops. ”
I look at her, lips quirking up a bit. Channing has grown so much more confident in the past few months since I plucked her from obscurity in the PR department.
I’m proud, though I don’t want to embarrass her by saying it out loud.
She’s become my friend, and the only woman at State U who can tell me to my face that I am failing at self-care and not get turned to gravel for her trouble.
“I’ll go if you let me finish one email,” I bargain.
Channing hesitates, then shrugs and perches on the edge of the guest chair, folding herself into a knot that makes her look even smaller. “Fine, but you’re finishing that email, and then I’m walking you out.”
With a hiss—more from the knots in my spine than my snake—I lean back and stretch until vertebrae crackle. “Give me the board’s list.” I tap the desk, and Channing slides a printout across the wood grain. I read it upside-down.
“Ridiculous euphemisms for murder. We have to get this under control, before I have to actually use any of this tripe,” I say.
“Maybe that’s the point of sending the list to you,” Channing suggests. “They know you won’t want to keep lying and then having to apologize when the truth is revealed. It’s motivating you to stop the bloodshed.”
As if students being killed isn’t enough, right?
“I’m not doing this again if another body appears.
I’m done with the bullshit.” I return to my computer and rattle off the rest of the email.
I try to conjure the right level of gravitas, but the tragedy already feels like it belongs to someone else, like a story I’m editing for a former professor.
I should feel something more than this; however, after today, the only thing I feel is tired.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Channing asks so quietly I almost miss it.
She means the worry about Lucas and Slade; I know.
“No.”
“What about your call with the supposed dragon-lady?”
“Regina didn’t even pause.” I rub my temples as I sigh. “Said she would expect a full accounting by the morning, then hung up. I bet she’s already arranged the press release.”
“Are you scared of her?”
I consider this, then shake my head. “She’s powerful, but I think we have plenty of people in our corner at or above her level of influence. It might not be pretty, but she’s going to be more of an annoyance than something to fear.”
Channing leans forward, elbows to knees, and something about the earnestness of the gesture almost cracks the shell around my heart. “Do you think this will happen again before we can find the person responsible?”
“No,” I say ruefully. “But I’ll pretend I do, for now, so the boys don’t get discouraged.”
Channing unfolds, rises, and starts shoving files into my bag, her movements sharp and efficient. “Okay. Then we’ll pretend together.”
I let her repack my laptop, my notes, and everything I need to head home for the evening. “You can come for dinner, you know,” I say as she hauls the bag up, holding it out to me as I slip on my killer heels.
She pivots, her cheeks darkening. “I, uh. I actually have plans.” It is adorable how hard she tries not to meet my eye. “Tonight.”
“Oh?” My voice goes sly, even though it costs me. “Anyone I know?”
She stutters a bit as she answers. “I have… things to do for Jackson. For these cases.”
I have to struggle to keep my grin to myself. Channing spends a lot of time with Jax, Eli, and the rest of his rogue’s gallery now. It’s becoming obvious that it’s not about the work, but she must not be ready to share yet. Still, I can’t help teasing her just a wee bit.
I keep my tone even. “Be careful. He cheats at everything—especially when there’s a wager on the line.”
She laughs softly. “I can handle his more nefarious leanings; don’t worry.”
“Let me know if I need to kick his ass for being out of line,” I say, which is my way of saying I approve, and I hope she has the night she deserves. “I’ll totally do it.”
Her grin is appreciative, then Channing slips out of my office, closing the door softly behind her.
I’m left in the darkening hush, the monitors throwing pale blue light over the mess of the day. It’s only as I pass the glass wall of my outer office that I catch my reflection. My misbehaving snake is restless, dancing about with my anxiety.
“Tomorrow,” I tell my reflection. “You can fall apart tomorrow.”
I exit onto my terrace, the evening air ashy and electric, and grip the balcony rail with both hands.
Below, the quad empties as students scuttle to wherever they go when the campus is tense and crawling with rumor.
I give myself a moment to relish the cool on my palms, to let the last shreds of office staleness blow free from my lungs.
My hair uncurls in the breeze as I look out into the sky. The walk across campus isn’t far, and the flight home hardly merits a chaperone. There’s no need to call for a second person to join me as we’d all agreed this morning.
I step up onto the railing, perching with one heel balanced, and shrug out my wings.
They emerge, unfurling with the practiced snap of someone who’s spent her adult life stifling her true silhouette.
The first downbeat is always a little awkward in a suit, but I’m airborne before the next heartbeat.
For all my complaints, flight is still one of the great joys left to me.
There’s freedom to it—weight sloughs away, and the roar of wind around you is better than any drug.
On a clear evening, with the sun leaking orange over the Admin Row roofs, I remember what it felt like to be young and convinced of my immortality, like the students on the ground.
Tonight, the first two beats are perfect.
The third is—off as the air buckles. Not in the ordinary way of turbulent thermals or city updrafts, but as if someone has drawn a razor across the sky itself.
The force hits me broadside, flipping me sideways so fast I nearly drop my bag.
I right myself with a snarl, fighting the wind for altitude.
Dez hisses from my hair, and the wings on my back are pumping hard, but the wind is faster—stronger—driven.
A cyclone, I think first, but then I realize the core of it is directly above the quad, and it is growing, not climbing. The winds spiral down, not up, and they spiral around me.
“Shit,” I say, and then it’s too loud for words.
The hubris about the short flight is coming back to bite me sooner than I could have predicted.
My first instinct is to rise, to out-climb the phenomenon, but the moment I try, the wind grips me like a set of invisible hands and hurls me sideways. I tuck my wings, force a bank, and nearly collide with the admin tower.
The air is screaming now, a freight train’s bellow.
I look down and see the tidy walkways of the quad striped with trash cans and benches, each one rattling and then vaulting in the storm's grip.
Windows shiver, and I realize that this is not a freak of meteorology.
It is focused, hostile, and very much after me.