Page 91 of Suspicions on the Stage
“No,” I say ruefully. “But I’ll pretend I do, for now, so the boys don’t get discouraged.”
Channing unfolds, rises, and starts shoving files into my bag, her movements sharp and efficient. “Okay. Then we’ll pretend together.”
I let her repack my laptop, my notes, and everything I need to head home for the evening. “You can come for dinner, you know,” I say as she hauls the bag up, holding it out to me as I slip on my killer heels.
She pivots, her cheeks darkening. “I, uh. I actually have plans.” It is adorable how hard she tries not to meet my eye. “Tonight.”
“Oh?” My voice goes sly, even though it costs me. “Anyone I know?”
She stutters a bit as she answers. “I have… things to do for Jackson. For these cases.”
I have to struggle to keep my grin to myself. Channing spends alotof time with Jax, Eli, and the rest of his rogue’s gallery now. It’s becoming obvious that it’s not about the work, but she must not be ready to share yet. Still, I can’t help teasing her just a wee bit.
I keep my tone even. “Be careful. He cheats at everything—especially when there’s a wager on the line.”
She laughs softly. “I can handle his more nefarious leanings; don’t worry.”
“Let me know if I need to kick his ass for being out of line,” I say, which is my way of saying I approve, and I hope she has the night she deserves. “I’ll totally do it.”
Her grin is appreciative, then Channing slips out of my office, closing the door softly behind her.
I’m left in the darkening hush, the monitors throwing pale blue light over the mess of the day. It’s only as I pass the glass wall of my outer office that I catch my reflection. My misbehaving snake is restless, dancing about with my anxiety.
“Tomorrow,” I tell my reflection. “You can fall apart tomorrow.”
I exit onto my terrace, the evening air ashy and electric, and grip the balcony rail with both hands. Below, the quad empties asstudents scuttle to wherever they go when the campus is tense and crawling with rumor. I give myself a moment to relish the cool on my palms, to let the last shreds of office staleness blow free from my lungs.
My hair uncurls in the breeze as I look out into the sky. The walk across campus isn’t far, and the flight home hardly merits a chaperone. There’s no need to call for a second person to join me as we’d all agreed this morning.
I step up onto the railing, perching with one heel balanced, and shrug out my wings. They emerge, unfurling with the practiced snap of someone who’s spent her adult life stifling her true silhouette. The first downbeat is always a little awkward in a suit, but I’m airborne before the next heartbeat.
For all my complaints, flight is still one of the great joys left to me. There’s freedom to it—weight sloughs away, and the roar of wind around you is better than any drug. On a clear evening, with the sun leaking orange over the Admin Row roofs, I remember what it felt like to be young and convinced of my immortality, like the students on the ground.
Tonight, the first two beats are perfect. The third is—off as the air buckles. Not in the ordinary way of turbulent thermals or city updrafts, but as if someone has drawn a razor across the sky itself. The force hits me broadside, flipping me sideways so fast I nearly drop my bag. I right myself with a snarl, fighting the wind for altitude. Dez hisses from my hair, and the wings on my back are pumping hard, but the wind is faster—stronger—driven.
A cyclone, I think first, but then I realize the core of it is directly above the quad, and it is growing, not climbing. The winds spiral down, not up, and they spiral around me.
“Shit,” I say, and then it’s too loud for words.
The hubris about the short flight is coming back to bite me sooner than I could have predicted.
My first instinct is to rise, to out-climb the phenomenon, but the moment I try, the wind grips me like a set of invisible hands and hurls me sideways. I tuck my wings, force a bank, and nearly collide with the admin tower.
The air is screaming now, a freight train’s bellow. I look down and see the tidy walkways of the quad striped with trash cans and benches, each one rattling and then vaulting in the storm's grip. Windows shiver, and I realize that this is not a freak of meteorology. It is focused, hostile, and very much after me.
I power downward, aiming for the one stretch of grass not yet uprooted by flying debris. The wind hammers at my back, pushing me faster than intended. I flare my wings to brake, but the wind has other ideas; it folds me into itself, flipping me end over end, and I tumble for a sickening second before my feet hit the ground—hard.
My heels dig ruts in the turf, skidding me backward, and I only keep upright by flapping both arms and wings, my snakes digging into my collar for purchase. I find myself halfway across the quad, breathless and bent double, my hair whipping like mad.
Holy fuck, this is getting bad fast enough that I might not be able to get anyone here to help in time.
The storm isn’t relenting; if anything, it’s coiling tighter. I catch the sharp crack of a branch splitting and the metallic squeal of a ripped sign. The winds gust, shifting from one direction to another, as if it’s thinking—testing. It’s like it wants to figureout what it can do to corner me? But that can’t be true; I’m just fucking tired and fighting magic I can’t counter on my own.
I sprint, head down, toward the nearest cover: a maintenance shed built out of stone, low-roofed and ugly, but at least not likely to implode if a paperweight hits it at sixty miles an hour. With every stride, the wind yanks at my clothes, threatens to rip the bag from my shoulder, pulls my jacket back so far the seams shriek.
Halfway there, I stop briefly, kicking off both shoes. Barefoot, I launch myself forward to close the last thirty yards in a flat-out sprint with my bag clutched to my chest and hair streaming wildly. The shed’s door is warped but gives with a shoulder-shove. I slam it behind me, press my back to the cool stone, and slide down into a heap.
It is dark inside, and the air smells of gasoline and stale grass, but it is quiet except for my own ragged breaths. Counting to ten, I allow myself to believe that I have not, in fact, been shredded into cloud meat. My left hand throbs—must have scraped it raw on the brick—and my calves ache, but I am otherwise unbroken.
