Page 42 of Let Us Prey
The girl my brother’s dating.
A girl who’sprey.
Fuck.
With a growl that’s part irritated and part some other shit I’m in no mood to address, I turn and lope back to my townhouse for fresh clothes. Delores Drew was already getting under my skin, but witnessing her brutally take down one of her enemies—asprey,no less—made one thing abundantly clear.
I never stood a chance.
TWENTY-FIVE
Poison
Aubrey
The Tower is empty when I step into the outer sanctum.
It’s unusual, to be sure, but the others have later classes or duties to attend to today that leave me with a rare opportunity to escape to the relative quiet of our meeting place. This is preferable to remaining in my library, where students and staff alike could bother me while I’m reviewing the information I received today.
I’ve begged Henny to close the library earlier, and more often—given that students rarely stay in my lair long—but she refuses. ‘The library is a place for all to find knowledge and comfort’ is her favorite way of saying she would rather they are undermysurveillance than hanging out where the likelihood of shenanigans is higher.
Plus, I’m the least likely person to tell her to fuck off when she insists I man the building like a sentry. My sense of honor and duty prevent me from calling her on her bullshit—dragons are bound to their calling, and the books are mine.
Taking advantage of that species-specific trait is not ethical, but nothing at Apex is ever ethical, so why should this be any different?
I drop into my handcrafted ‘throne’ in the sitting room, sinking into the comfort of one of the few things I’ve spent a great deal of money on. Yes, yes, dragons hoard, and I’m old enough to be so wealthy that such frugality is completely unnecessary, but old habits die hard, as they say. I dislike spending recklessly by nature—unlike the Romulus—so when I do, it’s for things I cannot live without. Comfortable furniture, stress relievers, quality clothes, and books are the extent of my vices. I had all three of my thrones for the library and Tower built to my specifications, to ensure I can rest and relax in luxury. Non-corporate craftsmen struggle in the technology age, and it bothers me to think skilled trade will go the way of the dodo shifters if the Council assholes get their way.
With a sigh of discontent, I open the app on my DiePhone, accessing the Bluetooth surround sound system Renard finally consented to having installed. He resisted at first, preferring the gramophone in the bedroom, but since introducing the Slaystation and the voice-activated Clawlexa, he’s been a bit more flexible about the ‘infernal spread of technology.’ I think he’s secretly enjoying being able to access information when he wants, rather than moving from his brooding perch to look it up in the library, but that’s more fodder for me to poke him with, so I let it go.
Which is more than I can say for him—he’s eternally riling me up on purpose.
The soothing sounds of my music fill the air, and I pull my Smackbook out of my briefcase. The folders of organized research and first-hand reports get placed on the side table, and my notebook is the last thing I balance on the arm of the chair. I want to go over my own conclusions and evidence about what happened on prom night, while I wait on the Council’s results from testing the blood samples. I don’t trust them to provide us with the full picture—it would be entirely uncharacteristic for them to give us unredacted, undoctored reports—but I plan to fill in the blanks when I combine their shit with the files Renard’s friends in the nurse's office have shared.
I click on the email icon, growling under my breath as I sort through the various missives I’ve received throughout the day. Many of them are from students and staff regarding passwords, which I forward to Betsy. She can resolve those issues without me, and I’m never in the mood to deal with idiots who can’t memorize their shit and constantly lock themselves out of the Apex app or the Crackboard system for their classes.
The email from the Council lab finally appears at the top of my unread messages, and I open it, waiting for the extensive file to extract itself. Interestingly enough, the results seem to be straightforward. The toxin did not match any natural or synthetic poison in their database, nor does it match that of any venomous shifter species—including rare species and those thought to be extinct or so endangered that we rarely see them outside of their own communities. Nothing on file, even at the Clawbrary of Congress, matches the chemical composition of the substance found in the punch.
That still doesn’t explain why the dimwits attending Vom Prom were unfazed. Henny and the nursing staff got some of them to admit to the consumption of pred-stasy and various kinds of alcohol, but nothing in their samples are consistent enough to create a controlled group. It’s a puzzle, and I can’t help wondering if that ridiculous Puppermint Schnapps is the key, but without a toxin identified, it will be near impossible to confirm.
The results of Delores’ blood test, sent to an independent lab by the nurses, haven’t come back yet. I expect little to come from that, as the nurses told Rennie Delores didn’t drink the punch or imbibe anything on the foolish party bus.
That means she’s not an anomaly; she just avoided the contaminant.
I have to admit; the girl is still fascinating. Her work in my archives is articulate and impeccable, despite her clear lack of true self-confidence. She doesn’t fawn or simper like most of the idiotic women here—students and staff alike—because while I believe she craves positive reinforcement, she actually wants toearnthe praise. Her upbringing must have been rough; she doesn’t talk about home or friends before Apex at all. In fact, she seems content to work alongside me, asking questions and occasionally poking atmeuntil I divulge crumbs of information about myself.
Her affect on me is truly baffling. I've never met anyone quite like Delores Drew, especially given her young age. The librarian in me finds her wit, organization, and professionalism extremely appealing.
My dragon… has his own ideas.
I finally understand why she’s wormed her way under the skin of my friends, and it’s a bit unsettling.
Sebastian is damned near obsessed with her. He’s been blind to Nicodemus’ love for him for years, yet he notices if she changes her fucking nail polish. Nico was out of sorts for the better part of a week, but now he seems far more settled than I’ve seen him since their pack arrived. Cash is still a grumpy bastard, but there’s a bit of lift to his shoulders that wasn’t there before.
There may be hope for him yet.
Rennie and I have avoided addressing his struggle, because his self pity was simply exacerbating the toxic masculinity that indicates a Romulus alphas. The gargoyle and I both came of age with powerful royals and clan leaders—which we would have been ourselves if not for our own debacles—and these leaders did not always rule with an iron fist. The way Cassius stepped up to address what was going on with Nico was the first time we saw him act likewe’dexpect an alpha to behave.
An angry teenager is affecting men several times her age simply by existing in our stratosphere.
