Shane had already sent her witch friends cell phone pictures of twenty pages from her book. Yet, when they arrived at the riverfront, the three of them pored over the froofy-looking diary anyway, bickering with each other as much as the book. Kit didn't know what they could see there that wasn't in the pictures, but quibbled over the specifics of who would do what when and why. They were not unclear on the how: fucking weird witchcraft, which must be their default. Kit was surprised that any of them could tie their shoes without consulting a crystal ball.
He stood far enough away from their tet-a-tet—Shane was losing ground in the argument—that he could pretend plausible deniability if anyone should walk by. They had left the campus behind two hundred feet above, and the nearest path was at least fifty feet away. The trees were on the edge of green leaves bursting forth, further banishing the remaining clumps of snow whose melting made their walk squishy.
Kit returned to Shane's office with the resolute, queasy expression of a boy who had stuffed too many calories in his face too quickly, something to which the smudge of chocolate frosting in the crease of his lips testified. As though he could feel her gaze falling there, the pink tip of his tongue darted out to retrieve it.
She cut the workday short. She had only really cared about the girl, who had the sense not to enroll in Annandale. The associated paperwork could wait, and Shane trusted Evan would have it in color-coded folders tomorrow, no matter how little that helped anything beyond his need to feel busy.
It was not only this. Martin's removal from her office felt like a tooth yanked free, something yet another bloodstain in need of eradication made explicit.
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Shane followed Kit into the bathroom. Most on-campus were unisex, which spared her the initial awkwardness.
"Do you need to watch me pissing to make sure I'm doing it right?" the boy spat with venom she was not owed, but she was not its real target.
"You must keep me safe," Shane said evenly. "You can't do that from the bathroom."
"Do you need to pee?" he asked more softly.
"Not terribly," Shane said. "You?"
He sniffed, swallowing his bitter fear. Was it the violence itself, or the reminder of his own bloodshed? Or that his rescuer had so recently been his persecutor?
"I want to wash my hands," he admitted.
"So wash them," Shane said. "Don't leave me alone."
He searched her face again, and she kept neutral. She was not mocking him. Letting Kit project his fear on her was the most efficient way.
Shane listened to the rattle of the key in the front lock. She knew better than most what it sounded like when one was picking a lock, having done it more than she cared to count. Roselyn knew where all pertinent keys were hidden--more by cunning than magic.
Shane had not so much as dozed, though Huginn kept watch on her through the night, ensuring her consciousness did not slip.
Clive followed Roselyn into the safehouse. Before she could stop herself, she gave them a once-over. Their clothes were fresh, but they had the looser posture that comes with being slightly toasted or freshly laid. At this hour, and having come here together, Shane's every penny was on the latter.
Shane spared Roselyn the apologetic assurance that she didn't have to be here so early or at all. Roselyn did as she wished and as she felt was necessary, and Shane could only respect it.
"We all seem to be in one piece this morning," Clive said, "though that only counts for so much."
"No further bloodshed," Shane said. Kit had woken twenty minutes before, peed, saw Shane in the living room, and shut his door a decibel more loudly than necessary. Shane was not versed in teenage mores and had not been when she was so hormonally blighted. She suspected he wanted her to intrude so he could pretend annoyance that she had. She heard a muffled keening there, maybe from him crying into a pillow. Or maybe not.
She had given Clive what she could. He would dig. But that work would take time, and time was something Steven and his curse did not respect.
When Shane opened the door, Kit stood too close to Steven, who had put himself between the boy and the only exit. Roselyn watched Shane enter with clinical patience.
She had barely set foot back in before Arden said, "Just in time," and nodded for her to sit. Absent an immediate plan of her own, she was content to substitute being fed.
Arden slid bowls around the table, leaving a few on the kitchen island, since more people needed the food than could sit. Arden kept a dish for herself. It was a poor cook who didn't want a little of her meal--and a poor witch who didn't want any of her blessings.
The apartment warmed as if the thermostat had been adjusted from "Anxiety" to "Comfort."
"Everyone," Arden declared.
Steven, already stepping closer to the door, bristled. "I don't--"
Arden snapped her fingers.
"What the fucking fuck?" Kit's voice cracked upward, hitting a register Shane was sure violated zoning ordinances at this hour. His whole body followed the trajectory of the words--backpedaling, retreating, then fleeing into one of the bedrooms.
He slammed the door so hard the apartment shuddered. A small puff of plaster dust drifted from the ceiling. Teenagers, Shane thought. If they weren't such drama queens, we would exorcise fewer poltergeists.
There were days when the supernatural world was dignified, mythic, and awe-inspiring. Shane had never personally been blessed with one, but she had it on good authority that these did exist.
Shane looked to the others for commiseration. Steven feigned concentration in a bolt in the rig. Jian Yue looked at Shane with an attentive contentment, awaiting her next order, unbothered that the teenager he assumed to be a K-pop star was throwing a justified fit.
Shane hoped Clive had escaped into the other bedroom before the storm of the tantrum could crash into him.
Roselyn, leaning against the counter, arms folded, stared at Shane.
"You had me drive a werewolf here?" A raised eyebrow. A slow inhale. A posture that said: Go after him, dope.
