“It looks… old,” I said, because saying anything more would have required the vocabulary of a scholar rather than the mumbling of a distracted undergraduate.
“Well, I am a history professor.” He leaned back, steepling his long fingers. “Occult texts, especially folklore studies, have their uses. Historians often consult whatever helps us understand the past, even if it’s marginal.” He shrugged like it was a simple fact.
“All legends have a kernel of truth,” I said.
A genuine spark flashed in his eyes. He seemed amused.
“Precisely, Miss Ashcroft.” It wasn’t quite praise.
My toes curled in my boots, regardless.
The morning slipped by as I learned his expectations. He settled the final details, and the reality of time sharpened like a blade. It cut me out of the wonderful haze I’d plunged into within his office and flung me back into reality’s orbit. Gravity pulled me down as it neared time to leave.
There was a pause long enough for a held breath to suffocate me.
I stood, gathering my satchel as if moving through molasses.
“Miss Ashcroft,” he said softly, and the sound of his voice lowered the room’s temperature by several degrees. “Be careful with whom you spend time with around here. These are dangerous times.”
Fear climbed up my spine and buried logistics in a shallow grave. On edge and riddled with needle-sharp nerves, I took his advice as an unwanted demand.
“You’re entitled to my grades and my work during your office hours. Not who I see or what I do off campus.” My tone came out sharper than intended.
His mouth twitched with something between amusement and admonition. For a moment he said nothing, watching me as if impressed anyone could meet his stare. He stood, moving around the desk in a way that erased the distance between us without obvious intention, like the tide reclaiming sand inch by inch. He came close enough that the space between us thinned. The smell of him—earthy, spiced, something tobacco-sweet—filled the sliver of air where his body heat merged with mine.
The atmosphere between us drew taut, like a wire wound tight.
“I don’t intend to overstep, but you don’t understand—”
“Maybe I don’t.” Heat flushed my cheeks and neck. “Either way, my personal life is none of your business,Professor.”
His eyes dropped to my lips as I enunciated his title.
There was a suspended moment of danger and want. We were breathing the same air, a shared ship rocking in the same small harbor. An involuntary shiver threaded its way down my spine. Not entirely from pleasure and not entirely from fear.
“Ophelia,” he whispered with his face inches from mine. The heat of his breath ghosted my mouth. Then he stepped back. There was a small catch in his breath that might have been regret, though I couldn’t tell. He shook his head once, slowly and almost privately.
My mouth opened in protest then closed.
Professor Quinn swiped a hand over his face. Without preamble, he turned back to his desk. As if thinking better of it, halfway there he paused and looked over his shoulder. I was still standing in place with my knees pressed together and my insides quivering.
“Be careful,” he repeated, softer that time.
Stubborn defiance reared through the wanton fog in my head to sharpen my tongue. “I can handle myself.”
The library-scent of his office followed me into the corridor.
Outside, the campus existed in a gray, indifferent murmur of life. Students moved in clusters to their first lessons of the day. As I walked, I told myself that I would not be rattled. I told myself that Professor Quinn was overly cautious because he had some old-school notions about the sanctity of his classroom. I told myself many things to keep the ghost of a monster from pecking at the soft tissue of my mind.
13
The cadence of her steps echoed down the corridor. “I can handle myself.” I slammed a fist on the edge of my desk, seething at her cavalier attitude.
The little brat.
Such fire. Such spirit. Perhaps I could forgive her for her ignorance. Obviously, she didn’t know the extent of her family history. Hunter had split himself away from the other apostles with great sacrifice to himself. She wouldn’t be traipsing around the campus with suspected stolas if she knew otherwise.
Which was one reason she had me. Ophelia deserved someone who would fight for her—kill for her. Even if she didn’t know it.
