With enough time, anyone could have broken in. Snatch a key from a distracted librarian, jab a pocketknife in a latch, know which switch turned on the lights and not off the power, and creep down creaking stairs. Child's play. Though she might have found it too grimy, Shane Valentine couldn't understand why students refrained from doing this frequently to have a secluded place to canoodle when the mood struck them or roommates lingered.
"Why was some idiot who skimmed the Necronomicon wasting her time?" was the more pressing question. She checked her happy face watch, sighing at being held to a countdown. She flicked the switch and scanned to see if the thoughts of those in the library grew spiky with irritation. Instead, the fluorescent lights above buzzed to life.
From years of evading them, Shane knew that Annandale College employed around twenty-five security guards. It was hard to keep a count. The guards were fired when they didn't see something they should have or quit because they had seen something they should not have. Shane's duty, which she could not leave or be fired from short of her murder, was keeping Annandale and the surrounding community from seeing more of the real world than it could handle while avoiding starring in as many prophecies as possible.
Shane shot to her feet, any pretense of recuperation from the psychic tide abandoned. She tottered to one side, Roselyn buttressing her before she could topple and further stain her clothing, already a mess from abandoning her body on the saturating earth.
Shane righted herself in stern silence, appraising each of them in turn.
Roselyn and Arden shot looks between them that looked like they had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar, which contained their murder victims' hard drugs. Steven shrugged at a question no one had asked, gripping his sword in his hand. Jian Yue shifted his weight from foot to foot, reading the vibes, but not the words. Kit, for his part, fought every urge to express anything like guilt or fear, which made him shiver.
"Everyone intact?" Shane asked, no playfulness in her tone.
"Yes," said Roselyn.
"Circle broken, fire out?"
"Yes and yes."
Shane narrowed her eyes at the extinguished fire. "Any other magic in need of banishing?"
"No."
Shane's posture eased, though barely. "Any enemies, ill-wishers, sudden allies, or strangers of whom I have not been apprised?"
"Not to our knowledge," hedged Roselyn.
Shane clenched and actively relaxed her jaw. "It will have to suffice," she said.
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.
Keep reading...
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.
