“Sorry about last night,” Goodfellow says. “I thought it was a game. Didn’t know that thing was actually coming after you.”
“Most people don’t.”
He picks at a fraying lace on his boot, contemplative despite his refusal to look directly at me. I’m shifting, searching for a polite way to sneak around him, before he finally says, “I could’ve stayed to help you.”
I don’t like how he makes it sound like a question, a potential deal, instead of a simple observation or apology. I wave off his dubious concern. “You had no reason to stick around. Besides, it worked out.”
“I noticed.” He tilts his head and the streetlights glint off an unnerving smile. “Little human like you... I never guessed you’d survive that kind of attack. How’d you make it out?”
Instead of the normal urge to be friendly and chat, a voice in the back of my head whispers for caution. It sounds a hell of a lot like Roark, which makes sense. He was the person who warned me about Goodfellow’s penchant for dickish tricks and high-stakes wordplay.
I return Goodfellow’s smile with a polite one of my own. “The usual. You know...” I point toward the path. “It’s getting late. I should be going.”
“Sure. Sure. Have a good night.” Even after he fades away into the night, the sensation of being watched doesn’t leave until I’m almost halfway home. Only then can I relax and start to enjoy my surroundings.
Overhead, streetlights flicker in and out. The path I’m on is slow and easy, meandering its way past the public gardens of the campus. Agriculture majors like me are required to care for the gardens during our undergrad studies, so this is a familiar stomping ground.
To my left, the chaotic shadows of the English garden loom. It’s one of my favorite spaces, an explosion of growth carefully tamed to provide the illusion of wild beauty. During the day, numerous Seelie visit this garden. It makes sense, since their powers cater to growth and the proliferation of new life.
The wet clicking and popping from the darkness alerts me that something is off. For a second, I think one of my knees is out of joint or that Goodfellow’s returned to play a trick on me. By the time I realize neither of those is the case, it’s too late.
Roark
Dean Tanaka’s office is formal, but comfortable. Designed to assure anyone visiting that he’s “one of the people” while also upholding Mathers’s hallowed moral strictures. A power play done up in silk tapestries, tatami, and fine woods, capable of tricking lesser visitors into underestimating his abilities due to his absolute hospitality.
I sit at the shadowed right hand of my mother’s throne in the depths of our sídhe’s cavernous halls. Tanaka’s going to have to work harder to impress me.
He’s well aware of the fact. It’s the reason he’s sitting across from me at a low table like an equal, a cup of tea steaming gently beneath his steepled hands, instead of trying to win me over by showing me his exquisite art collections.
“I find it interesting that you’re speaking to me about this issue when the student in question hasn’t even filed an official report,” he says, returning to the point he’s been pressing for the last ten minutes. “Perhaps he doesn’t intend to file a complaint.”
“Perhaps,” I agree, keeping my hands resting on my knees. A hint of glamour hides the way I have to flex them from time to time in frustration.
“Until I have the report in my hand, I have no reason to believe our faerie students will act out again in such a way. Students from either Court,” he adds quickly.
“I see.”
“Until all the facts are gathered, this incident could be little more than an accident. A drunken act gone terribly wrong. Perhaps a prank taken too far in the heat of the moment, as in the past.”
I bite my tongue and resist the urge to shatter his delicate china cup by freezing his tea. Or his hand.
“Dean Tanaka,” I finally say when I can keep the trembling from my voice, “we both know I am attending Mathers as a gesture of Queen Mab’s goodwill. She has spent decades urging the youth of the Winter Court to pursue higher education and support the Pantheons’ push for economic diversity. We both know that it is my word alone which keeps my people—and their tuition money—from leaving this institution overnight.”
His eyes flash silver and the pads of his fingers press together tightly. I’ve spent centuries studying Mother’s diplomacy. One of her lessons has never failed to guarantee me what I want: In order to win someone to your side, you must know what they’re unwilling to lose and promise they can keep it.
I lean closer. “This was more than a simple prank. If I believe my subjects are in any danger, I will not hesitate to ensure their safety.”
It’s an unsubtle threat, but my tolerance has been pushed beyond its limit. Besides, he looks away first. I’ve won this round. Mother will be so pleased.
“I’ll need to consult the Board and the Pantheons first,” he says slowly, “after the student files a formal report. However, if the perpetrators are not students at this university, the situation will be out of my hands. All justice will be meted out by the Pantheons. In the meantime, you may assure Queen Mab that any retaliation committed by students on campus will receive immediate punishment.”
His stern expression emphasizes the casual threat he levels back at me. At least the battle lines are clear. “I would expect no less,” I say. “Our students will be reminded of the university’s expectations for their conduct.”
“Clearly reminded, I’m sure.” He rises, the first outright inhospitable gesture he’s made tonight, and gives me the barest tilt of a bow. “Good evening, Prince Lyne.”
I mirror his gesture, bowing a little deeper to give the illusion of respect. “Thank you for seeing me, Dean Tanaka. Good night.”
I send Mother another raven once I’m walking back toward the apartment. Campus has fallen silent over the course of our meeting, with most of the students gone to parties or on weekend trips. It’s my fav