I told her to relay that he was being ridiculous, and she floated away without confirming or denying that she would.
So. Three alphas acting like they’ve collectively lost the plot, two who swear they don’t know why, and one otherworldly maid who may or may not be passing notes.
This is my life now.
When I come back to the mansion after class on Friday, Sean is waiting for me in the bedroom and holding a whiteboard.
A full-size whiteboard. It’s the kind you mount on a wall, and I’m almost certain he stole it from a classroom because it has a university logo sticker on the bottom left corner. He’s got it positioned in front of the bed and he’s clutching a set of dry-erase markers between his fingers like Wolverine’s claws.
“Did you steal that?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He grabs my arm with his free hand and pulls me into the bedroom. “Come on, I need you.”
Under literally any other circumstances, that sentence would have a very different implication. Sean has a bit of a one-track mind. Right now, he looks like a man on a mission, and the mission appears to involve office supplies.
He kicks the bedroom door shut behind us and uncaps the blue marker with his teeth.
“We’re playing charades,” he announces.
I stare at him. “Charades.”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a game beloved by millions.”
It’s the least convincing lie he’s ever told, and this is a man who recently told a professor the flames on his eyepatch were medically necessary.
But the look on his face is desperate enough that it makes me pause, like he’s searching for something he can’t articulate. I know that look. I’ve been seeing it all week.
“Okay,” I say with a shrug. “Let’s play charades.”
He starts furiously drawing on the whiteboard, brow furrowed, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. After about thirty seconds of vigorous scribbling, he turns the board around.
It’s... a circle.
With lines coming off it.
And what might be a squiggle next to what might be a lightning bolt, unless it’s a snake. Or a river. There’s a stick figure underneath doing something that could be waving, drowning, or performing jazz hands.
“Is that a sun?” I guess.
He shakes his head violently.
“A... spider?”
More head-shaking. He points at the squiggle, then at himself, then at me, then back at the squiggle with increasing urgency.
“Sean, I genuinely have no idea what I’m looking at.”
He wipes the board, tries again. This time the drawing involves what appears to be two figures, a building with a triangular roof, and a series of wavy lines connecting everything. He’s also drawn what looks like a padlock, or maybe a purse.
“A house with a fence?”
