Page 48 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
“Yes, they sure as hell are,” Wyatt murmurs from behind me. One hand curls around my waist, and he speaks the words from the back of his throat in a way that makes my breath catch.
A golden silence descends on us as Fallon pulls the chicken from the stove. It smells wonderful, and the skin looks perfectly crispy, coated in all kinds of spices that make my stomach rumble.
“Oh,” Caden says, perking up on the other side of the counter. “By the way. I’ve got it all arranged.”
I look at him quizzically and can feel Wyatt doing the same. Caden waves a hand. “Sorry, sorry. I mean with learning more about the Hunt. Got you lined up with a professor over at the college.”
“Good,” Fallon says with a nod, pulling out a long carving knife from the block. “Wyatt and Alice, you two should go. Better cover that damn corkboard if it’s gonna take up so much room in my kitchen.”
I glance over at the empty board, just waiting to receive all my theories, no matter how insane or far-fetched.
And for the first time in my life, I won’t be following this thread alone.
Chapter 22
Wyatt
Three days after Mr. Rabbit’s surgery, and one short drive to Three Ravens College later, Alice and I are sitting in Professor Adelaide Waterhouse’s office, waiting while she brews a pot of tea. Alice is reading the professor’s notes, which are upside down to her view from across the desk.
Dr. Waterhouse is related to our Widow Harkness in some distant way—one of her ex-husbands’ nieces, I believe—and was thus approved by the coven as a resource for our investigation. She’d only meet with us in person, so we made the drive. I was surprised to find that she wasn’t a middle-aged scholar, but rather some sort of genuine academic prodigy. From the dates on the multiple degrees that have been shoved into a box on the small couch by the deep casement window, it looks like she’s been out of school for at least three years.
By my reckoning, that makes the redhead witch who enters the office carrying a tray of tea supplies just about Caden’s age. Her thick, round glasses are perched atop her head, her wavy copper hair sticking out every which way. She’s got the shine that all witches have, that inexplicable sparkle of magic sticking to her like a burr on wool.
Much to Alice’s obvious chagrin, she sets the tray down on the notes my girl was trying to read on the sly. “Fix your own tea,” she mutters absently. “I don’t know what you want in it.”
Alice cocks her head to the side a little, arching an eyebrow, but she does as the professor asks. I don’t actually want tea, so I stay put. The woman in question doesn’t sit, instead pulling a wooden step stool from nowhere discernible, only to climb atop it and drag a series of black notebooks down from one of the top shelves of her built-in bookcases.
The shelves in question are stuffed full, and it takes me a moment to see the traces of magic on them. Nobody’s getting anything out of there that she doesn’t approve of. Adelaide Waterhouse is a tiny thing, height-wise, but voluptuous and fierce, with a sharp seriousness to her that feels familiar and alien at the same time. I wonder if I’ve run into her before somewhere.
Doesn’t seem like she’d take teasing particularly well, but she’s got that certain something that makes me think she’ll help us if we approach this right. We won’t be able to joke with her the way we do with Alice, but that’s alright. It’s good to know how to handle valuable contacts like her. I wonder why Caden didn’t brief me better.
“Your brother says you’re looking for information about the Hunt,” the professor says, matter-of-factly. The way she says “your brother” makes me think he’s been exasperating her. That’s not much of a surprise. “And from what I can parse out, the lot of you are woefully misinformed.”
She stares straight at me when she says this. Alice gives me a pointed look, a mean little smile on her face, like she’s getting off a little on me being the one in the dark for once.
Dr. Waterhouse points a delicate—and slightly accusatory—finger at Alice. “Andyou. You punched a Wallingford at OrthCon. Got yourself kicked out over it.”
Alice startles at the professor’s tone, and it takes all the willpower I’ve got in me not to snicker. The professor is quite severe, and I hope to all the gods in heaven and below that Caden never meets her in person, because she’s whatever the wolf equivalent of catnip might be for him.
“Yes,” Alice admits with one of her wicked smiles. “I did punch that fuckface Aston Wallingford, and I’d do it again.”
The professor sits primly in her seat. “Good. Glad you got out of that ridiculous program. You should’ve come to our folklore program in the first place. I’ve spoken to the Chair about you; she’s also my coven leader, and if you so desire, your application will be fast-tracked for spring.”
Surprise lights Alice’s face. “What?”
“LuvCroissants1212 and I are old friends,” Dr. Waterhouse says, conspiratorially. Alice pales a little at the name but doesn’t comment. One of her friends from the cooking blog, I surmise. “So, I’ve vetted you a bit. Also, I summoned your transcripts. You have potential. Let me know if you’re interested.”
Alice takes a deep, shuddering breath, all the sass gone out of her countenance, and I wonder what she’s thinking.
But the good professor has already moved on. She taps her teacup lightly with a long, unpolished nail, pursing her lips slightly. “Now, you’ve been operating under the notion that the Hunt is some infernal device of the Courts to steal souls to amuse Them, yes? Running around willy-nilly kidnapping people.”
Willy-nilly. I’m tucking that away for game night. I shrug. “Sure, along with all the maiming and killing and eating folk whole—that’s about the size of it.”
The professor shakes her head, pulling a notebook from her little stack. She pulls her glasses down onto her nose and flips the pages until she murmurs, “Here it is,” and flips the open notebook around. There’s a hand-drawn sketch of the region,vertical lines passing through various towns. One goes straight through Blackbird Hollow.
“These are ley lines. Once the Hunt roamed freely—Their purpose with the Courts was vague to us. There are stories, of course, that paint Them in a variety of lights. But there’s really only one observable fact to pay attention to, in my opinion.”
Alice leans forward, rapt in her attention. “Which is?”
