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Dean Shea is something else. Talk about a lecherous old man. And I thought Alex was bad. I roll my eyes as I hold up two outfits in the full-length mirror in the puny bathroom. On-campus housing is not my speed, but I haven’t had time to look for something like I had in Seattle. It’ll have to do for now.

Now, which clothing to choose? “What do you think, Bellatrix? Khaki? Black?” The little imp doesn’t even open her eyes. “You’re no help.”

In the end, I pull on the khaki page-boy pants, a white shirt rolled to the elbows, a tweed blazer thrown over my shoulders. I only wear heels, but the Bostonian feel of this place makes me think I should run to Harvard Square later and grab a pair of oxfords, spending my hoarded money just to feel something. Valentino half boots will do.

I gather my sheaf of papers and my key. “Be good.” I point at Bellatrix. “Do not eat the mice. You’ll get a disease, goddess knows.”

As I lock the door behind me, Lacie’s coming out of her own room. She hasn’t noticed me yet: I move with a liquid ease humans often fail to track, silent as a housecat.

Her long, blonde hair is caught up in an intricate half-up pinned with a black velvet bow. Beneath, though, that’s what’s really delicious: a knee-length black pleated skirt and a cashmere sweater in ruby, black oxfords with brass bridle bits. She locks her door, riffles through her bag, and then looks up.

Her breath catches. “Oh! H-hi!”

My lips tick into a smile. “Early riser?”

She nods. “Too much work to not be. Do you have class today?”

I shrug a shoulder and walk over to her. I can smell the sweat beading between her breasts. Pretty thing. She would make a nice snack sometime.

“Not that I know of,” I croon. I’m off to design an undergrad syllabus to submit to Dean Shea for the next semester. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a coffee around here, hm?” My Nespresso’s on the counter, and while I derive no actual benefit from caffeine, it tastes nice. Too bad I can’t find the pods.

“Oh, um. I’ll show you. If you want?”

I brush a hand toward the stairwell, and she blushes. “Lead the way.”

To be totally honest, I’m deeply disappointed with the one other tenure track I’ve met here so far. She seems like the prototypical dumb blonde, and that’s … well, a shame. I’ve heard of Preston’s academic ranking and prowess, how it’s clawing its way up and up, passing Duke and Georgetown to become a fearsome earthshaker in Classics and Languages. Perhaps Lacie is book smart, for she certainly isn’t people smart.

She’s not even a challenge to read, and where’s the fun in that?

We’re out on the quad now, the sun beaming down through gnarled old oaks lining the pathways. Some students toss Frisbees on the crispy, dying grass. Some chat while holding cups of takeaway coffee. I take a lungful of air.

Alright, this could be fine. At least it’s not raining.

I turn my high-beam attention on Lacie. “So. Volsungasaga, huh?”

She startles a little, as though surprised I’m talking to her. “Yeah. Uh, yes. I mean, I study how Nordic folklore is woven into sagas. I’m partial to monsters: draugur, wights, and the like.”

I give her a toothsome smile. “Really? Me, too. I suppose we’ll have to compete for some journal space.”

Lacie wrinkles her nose. Ah, there. Just enough of a challenge. But she’s like a gnat: I could flick her away with two fingers if I felt so inclined.

She leads me down a path to a stately brick and granite building. “This is the central hall of Preston,” she says. I’ve seen the map, I want to say, but let her continue stammering. “There’s a nice café inside. On the second floor, they have a fellows restaurant. It’s invite-only, but one day I’d love to go. I hear they serve Gordon Ramsay’s own beef Wellington. He even visited once.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” I quip. “But sounds nice.” I do however tuck that piece of information away. Invite-only is my kind of place. Shadowed corners, red wine, leather. The hiss of a tearing pant seam and the halting final breaths of a dying man. I run my tongue over my teeth.

Lacie looks at me out of the corner of her eye like she might have something to say but decides against it. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Hey! Lacie!”

A man, his chestnut curls flopping across his forehead, a tie too loose around his neck, runs up. I tilt my chin up and he stops short. “Whoa— Hi.”

“Marcella,” I say. “I’m new.”

“You sure are. I’m Evan,” he says, breathless from his run across the lawn. He clears his throat. “Lacie, have you seen Laurel?”

Lacie’s brow knits. “I was going to ask you the same thing. No, I haven’t heard from her since last week. Arjun said she missed class yesterday?”

“Weird. Didn’t take her for one of those, you know? She was always pretty good. I know she found it hard to keep up but, well, don’t we all?” Evan sips from a to-go cup. His voice carries a hint of an Australian accent. Fascinating. University of Seattle was almost all American.