Page 119 of Tempest

I want to scoff. Act outraged. Convince her I’m innocent.

I can’t.

“Let’s go, Clover.” I turn the knob.

She says to my back, “I suppose I should be happy you’re giving me enough respect not to keep lying to my face.”

I don’t respond as I head out into the hallway, and our walk to class is tense and silent for the first time since I came back to her.

* * *

Everything I’ve learned over the past few weeks has me on edge.

The Anderton witch hunt, Tempest’s macabre basement, and my own recollections, gnarled and unsure.

When Professor Morgan begins the class, my teeth clank together. Clover resumes her heart-eyed stare as he reclines in his seat and listens to each pair of students discuss their thesis. When he gets to us, my jitters are more difficult to control.

I watch him for the same tells, like the tic of an eye or a lowered brow of suspicion as I get up from my seat along with Clover. Throughout our speech, Morgan doesn’t bat an eye, his expression as interested as it ever was when it comes to occult history.

… after he unveiled certain fetishes for the dark arts …

Tempest’s revelation swirls in my head, a laughing, screaming banshee as I outwardly pretend to be like every other student here. Ignorant of what’s hidden at this university.

I should be elated over Morgan’s dismissal. He doesn’t regard me unusually or do anything to indicate I’m on his watchlist. I’m not.

Because he only has eyes for one female in the room, and it isn’t me.

It’s Clover.

She finishes our update, and Morgan makes a humming sound of approval.

“Good work, girls,” he says before moving on to the next pair.

Clover’s harsh whisper tickles my ear. “That’s it? Good work, girls?”

I try for an understanding shrug, whispering back, “We haven’t handed in the full paper yet. Maybe he’s keeping his grading close to his chest until he reads our conclusion.”

Clover grumbles but doesn’t force the issue, slumping in her seat for the remainder of the class.

“Excellent work to all of you, I must say.” Morgan pushes up from his seat. I watch how his tattooed fingers splay across the table, picturing them dipped in blood and drawing runes around dead bodies.

A white flash bursts into my eyesight, then a falling sensation, like I’ve lost the back of my chair. I land in a windowless hallway, nothing but a cracked-open door ahead.

In it, I hear a male, baritone voice order, “Turn around.”

Terror surges from my belly to the tips of my fingers and toes, freezing me in place.

Then Tempest steps into my view. “What are you doing here, princess?”

What?

I scream, slamming my hands against the wood.

“Ardyn. Ardyn!”

A hand shakes my shoulder.

Blubbering, I scrunch my eyes shut, then open them again to a classroom of wary, suspicious gazes.

---