Page 51 of Tempest

“How so? We beat and torture assholes on campus with no problem. Why can’t we get rid of a girl?” I ask.

Miguel cocks a dark brow. “Ardyn Kaine has an impeccable academic record. She comes from a family of great wealth and influence.” After what must be a surprised look on my face, he adds, “Yes, I’ve looked into her, considering both our reactions when we learned she was here. Unless you can get her to quit, she’s staying, and I am none too happy about it.”

I roll my eyes. He plays the role of an obnoxious professor sometimes too well. Hunter rocks back on his heels, but whether it’s gleeful or frustrated, I’ll never know. I try not to read too much into the body language of ritualistic psychopaths.

“Her gap year hasn’t prevented her from keeping up with her studies,” Miguel continues. “It seems the part of her brain housing cognitive skills wasn’t too affected by your implosion of her reality. I can’t very well ask the chancellor to remove Miss Kaine with all this”—he taps a thick folder at his righthand side—“in her favor. You’ll have to get creative, Tempest.”

“I’ll force her out.”

Miguel chuckles. “Do what you will. Just don’t involve the Outfit. Am I making myself clear?”

I grunt an affirmative.

It’s not enough for Miguel. His eyes narrow. “Do not, under any circumstances, put into question what happened that night. I’ve granted you enough leeway by condoning the continued protection of your sister. A year is a long time to have passed, but it’s not enough. It never is. If by some measure, more information was passed between the dead girl and the two remaining girls, then I can’t promise their lives won’t be snuffed out, too. Your priority should be protecting the Outfit, Tempest. Hunter is not wrong. Your sister has too much of your heart as it is. Don’t lose the rest to a mistake.”

My hands curl on the armrests, my right one dry and sticky from my saliva and her. “I never said anything about developing feelings.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I snarl at Hunter. He grins in response. “Listen, I’m the first to approve of dirtying up a cute girl. But I saw how you looked at her last night. You’d best leave it at that.”

“Just what I need. Advice from a warlock.” I push to my feet, visibly thrumming with the urge to unleash my frustration.

“We’re watching you, Storm Cloud.”

“Correction, I’m watching you,” Miguel says while leveling a silencing glare at Hunter. He crosses his arms and, while standing, creates an imposing figure. One that’s supposed to remind me who’s in charge.

When in life will I ever make independent decisions? I wonder idly as I head to the door. When one boss is destroyed, another takes their place. Fucking cockroaches, all of them. Ones I’m sadly forced to work under.

“Aw, is our meeting over?” Hunter asks. Whether he realizes it or not, he’s mimicked Miguel’s posture of crossed arms and a stiff back. Yet his lean, tattooed form will never measure up to Miguel’s muscle and my scars.

“For now,” I say. “Sadly, you’ve given me an idea.”

“I have?” Hunter’s eyes light up. “Yippee. Do I get to participate?”

I palm his chest and shove him out of the way. “No.”

“Be discreet, son,” Miguel says.

I make no promises and slam the door behind me.

* * *

I think of Anderton Cottage as a deliberate outcast. It doesn’t sit with the rest of the buildings at TFU, instead nestled in the forest fringes at the base of a mountain. Getting to it isn’t as easy as most students’ jaunts from their dorms to their classes. The pathway to it is curved, wild, and always dark from the copse of trees, refusing to let enough sunlight in for flowers to grow.

Some say the permanent decay of the forest floor is because of the Anderton witches’ constant spells to keep trespassers out of their business. Others argue the rotting trees and blackened, slime-coated leaves already existed, and the Anderton women knew a proper home base when they saw one.

When the two witches were killed, a nobleman bought up the land and gifted it to his wife to do as she pleased. She chose to create a college-aged school for all the Colonial men drifting onto American shores. One would think, with a bountiful amount of men to conquer, the witches would be forgotten, but of course they weren’t. Rumors of hauntings, discoveries of old bones, animal and human, and the constant smell of strange herbs mixing with death pervaded campus, alluring the curious and frightening the aristocrats. When women were permitted an education, those stories only grew. Women have always been the most curious and entirely cunning when figuring out men’s secretive shit. The first class of women at TFU found the Anderton cottage, tucked away and overgrown like it was desperate to be forgotten. The next wave of women were the unfortunate ones who discovered the hidden rooms.

Nowadays, Anderton House is a dorm of sorts for people like me. Post-grads, TAs, visiting professors. Anyone lucky enough to be clueless about its history or purposely present to devour its violence can stay within its walls. There are five bedrooms, one of which is mine, and that’s what I’m aiming for when I step through the stone cottage to find it blissfully empty.

“Hey.”

Fuck. Almost empty.

“What’s up.” I lift my chin in greeting while dumping my bag on the ground by the front door.

Rio snuffs out his cigarette, flicking out the open window before leaving his perch and coming over. “Why do you look like someone stole all your weed?”

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