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“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I murmur, turning on the little glamours I have. They flare across my skin, a barely perceptible green glow sparking to life. “I feel horribly that we spatted at the Div School cafeteria.”

Evan gives me a long look as he pushes his dark hair from his forehead. “Do you?”

“I do, and I regret not staying last night. I feel we haven’t gotten to know each other very well, and I pride myself on being personable. I hope we can try again?”

He pulls his hand from my arm. “Weren’t you with Arjun?”

“‘With’?” I laugh a little. “Evan, you must be joking. Arjun drove me to the dean’s house once.”

“If you heard him tell, it was more—”

“No. Arjun is—was—many things, but he and I were not involved.”

“He said—”

“What does it matter? He’s gone.”

“That’s … calculating of you.”

Poor soft boy, he acts so tough, but he really is quite sentimental, isn’t he? I would feel bad for him if he wasn’t cozied up to a group of entitled leches. “Is it? I’m just trying to be friendly. If you don’t feel drawn to me at all…” I run fingertips over his forehead, brushing his cowlick into docility. “That’s alright, too. But then I do want to know: why are you so hostile to me?”

Evan’s cheeks color. “I was angry,” he says, the words wrenching deep from him. “You and Lacie. I thought…”

“Don’t think about that,” I say, practically putting a glamour on him. It twists inside of me. “Don’t think about me and Lacie, please. It’s none of your concern.”

My phone chooses this moment to buzz.

Lyle: no luck. Will reach out later.

Dr. Whittaker suddenly looms, and I stick my phone back into my purse. “Well, what’s this cozy conversation about?”

I turn a glittering smile on him. “Oh, just a little reconnaissance about next semester’s course load. Nothing too interesting. I look forward to working with you. You’re teaching a class on the Nibelungenlied?”

“The very same.” Whittaker draws up, fairly towering over me. Strange, I thought he was shorter.

“Well, it’ll be a pleasure to share students, then.”

Evan puts on his coat and shoulders his bag. “Weather’s getting bad out there, Marcie.”

“Indeed. I’d better go.” I tip my head to the side as I wave.

Released from scrutiny, the unpleasant tightness in my chest releases. Evan and I clop down the stairs together. It’s truly snowing in earnest now, and I regret my shoe choice.

Quiggley races down behind me. “Marcella,” he calls. “Wait a moment.”

Evan stops at the door. “Go on,” I say. “I’ll follow.

“Dr. Quiggley, to what do I owe the honor?”

“Will, remember?” He places an overfriendly hand on my arm, showing me all his teeth as he steers me toward the Classics department’s back entrance. “I was hoping you might want to grab a drink with me? It’s nearly cocktail hours, after all.”

I draw my eyes over the man’s shape: the strangely long limbs, the rotting yellow teeth, the way his jaw unhinges at slightly off timing while he speaks. The man is a vættr without a doubt. And unless I’m mistaken, he’s too besotted by his own successes luring others to the grave to recognize a threat when it’s standing right in front of him.

His fingers lock down on my arm, painfully so. Too tight to snatch away, I can feel my skin bruising beneath the lace. But I merely smile, and the monster inside me growls and whines.

Oh, it’s time to let it out. Ever since Sims it has been so insistent, so hungry, so angry. Fine, then. This will actually suit our purposes perfectly.

“Of course, Dr. Quiggley. I’d love to. Your place or mine?”