Page 30 of Shadowed Whispers

“Right,” she drawls, clearly unconvinced.

“This is my teaching assistant, Dorian.” He looks over at me with that counterfeit smile, one he plasters on for everyone. It’s a mask, of course. Our little unsuspecting vixen doesn’t have a clue who surrounds her.

Yet.

Her large doe eyes look at me, and her lip curls in a sneer. Excellent. She remembers me. That will be to her disadvantage. “We’ve met,” she states blandly. It’s almost as though she’s mocking the tone I bestowed upon her at our initial meeting.

I suppress a smirk.

“Wonderful.” Professor Blackwood claps, emitting that artificial cheer that makes me cringe. “So no introductions needed.”

She conceals her hands behind her back, clearly averse to physical contact. Fascinating. The subtle coolness of the room seems to magnify her discomfort, the low hum of the fluorescent lights above casting a pale, flickering glow that plays tricks on the eyes.

“Right. Am I free to leave?” Her voice, a delicate mixture of weariness and impatience, echoes in the now nearly empty classroom.

“In just a moment.” He reaches down into his desk, extracting a business card that he hands over. “My personal cell phone number is on there. Call me anytime you need me.” The card is pristine, its edges sharp enough to seem threatening in its formality.

She snorts, stuffing the card into her backpack, muttering, “Unlikely,” under her breath. For a brief moment, Professor Blackwood’s facade falters, and his face tightens. The slight twitch of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes betray a flash of genuine emotion quickly masked.

“I believe,” I interject, “that Ms. Vale doesn’t own a cell phone.” My voice cuts through the awkward silence that has begun to settle over the room.

“Aren’t you a cybersecurity major?” He recoils in surprise, his eyebrows arching in an expression of both curiosity and challenge.

Frankie merely sighs. “Exactly.” She tightens her grip on her threadbare backpack, her large eyes looking between me and Professor Blackwood. “It’s hackable.” Her statement hangs in the air, a stark reminder of her prowess and the irony of her choice.

“Prove it.” He throws the gauntlet, an academic confrontation in the making.

“Excuse me?” She blinks at him in astonishment, her expression a canvas of disbelief and intrigue.

“Here.” He offers her his phone. “Prove it.” His tone is casual, but there’s an underlying sharpness, a test in the form of technology handed over as if it were a weapon.

“Is that necessary?” She tilts her head to the side, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders to tickle her waist. The movement is fluid, almost ethereal, contrasting her youthful grace with her sharp intellect.

“Not at all, but I am curious. If you are to be one of my students, I’d like to know where your strengths and weaknesses lie.” He gives her a smile that she falls for. Everyone does. He’s unassuming, warm, affectionate, and utters all the expected niceties.

Surprising both him and me, she snatches the phone from him while simultaneously dropping her bag at her feet. She focuses on his phone, her lips curling into a crooked smile. Behind her, I see the boy lean forward in his seat, intently observing the interaction. Her fingers dance over the phone, but it’s what normal people—or rather, normal humans—would miss. None of us here at Shadow Locke are normal. Everyone has potential. If they unleash it, then doors will open. If they don’t, they will remain forever closed. Under her fingers, where she taps on the screen, almost imperceptible to the human eye, darkness shoots into the phone and then back to her like tiny zaps of electricity.

Whether she is aware of it or not is the real question—one I shouldn’t find as captivating as I do.

“How far do you want me to go?” she inquires nonchalantly, her eyes never leaving the phone.

“How far did you get?” he asks, bemused. He doesn’t believe her, but I know better. It is always those who appear innocuous who harbor the greatest potential.

Snorting, she relocks the phone and hands it back to him. “Thanks for lunch,” she mutters. “Can I go now?” Her tone is a blend of sarcasm and fatigue, edged with a defiance that’s becoming her hallmark.

Professor Blackwood looks up at her, retrieving his phone and pocketing it. It’s an oversight, and I recognize it, but he dismisses it as a trivial mistake.

“Of course, Ms. Vale. I’d like to see you on a biweekly basis just to ensure you are on the right track.” He crosses his arms, his expression exuding a pretentiousness that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which remain sharp and analytical.

She barely restrains from rolling her eyes at him. “I only ever had to meet with my academic advisor twice a year. Why do I have to see you every other week?” Her voice is steady, yet the slightest quiver reveals her irritation.

I nearly choke at her audacity.

Professor Blackwood, however, releases a strained chuckle. “It’s mandatory for your junior year.” His response is smooth, practiced, but there’s a glimmer of something else—curiosity perhaps, or challenge.

She clearly doubts this. I can see it in her gaze. Her lips purse tightly, and she clenches her teeth to prevent herself from uttering anything regrettable. Clever girl.

“How about Tuesday afternoons? I believe you only have one class on Tuesdays,” he proposes, trying to inject a note of casual authority.

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