Page 94 of Gemini Wicked

Far from it.

I clear my throat and light my desk lamp to banish the unholy ambience. The shadows creep back to the corner behind the sarcophagus. Nicolai Romanov emerges fully from the gloom.

He towers over my desk, tall and slim as the White Witch of Narnia in a conservative Brooks Brothers suit, features coldly composed above his crisp collar and perfectly knotted silk tie. The gleaming links of an old-fashioned pocket watch—a magical artifact that hums with enchantment—loop neatly from his breast pocket.

All perfectly civilized.

After all, this man is known for that.

Under his directorship, the vast and faceless bureaucracy of the witching world’s notorious spy agency has become a reign of terror.

But he rarely bloodies his own hands.

“There’s no need to lurk in my crypt like a vampire.” I swallow down my misgivings and give this unwelcome arrival a wry look. “There’s a perfectly habitable guest suite for visiting trustees in the Dean’s Tower.”

“Yes, I’m already occupying it,” the man says briskly. His Russian accent is sharper than Vasili’s, who’s been immersed in my English-speaking domus for years. “The Dean and I have been in conference all morning.”

This news is concerning, but I manage to conceal my unease. All too clearly, this visit is no casual drive-by. We’ve barely spoken, yet the master spy has already threatened me twice.

Now it appears the infernal fellow plans to stay on.

Probably, if I had to guess, we’ll be stuck with him until Zara and Cleo compete in the Dean’s Challenge. Until the royal succession is settled. Until the flame of rebellion sparking from Zara’s incendiary defiance is quenched.

Dear God. How I dread his effect on Vasili.

My student-slash-colleague-slash-alpha is already dangerously disturbed over the unsettling arrival of the Dark Fae King. For Vasili, his estranged father’s prolonged presence is enough to render him actively homicidal.

“I see.” Swallowing a grimace, I gesture my unwelcome guest toward the sofa with a reluctant hand and settle warily back to my chair. “You should be aware these are my office hours, so various students are likely to turn up with tardy assignments and examination jitters at any time.”

Ideally, they won’t find me lying dead down here in a pool of my own blood. Murdered by the vengeful parent of the student I’ve ruined.

Even if my downfall would be considered a just fate.

The director of the AIB merely lifts a cold brow that disdains my concern.

My migraine pings in my temples. Deliberately, I unclench my jaw and summon a stiff smile that bares my still-extended canines.

“That said,” I growl, guttural with warning, “how can I assist the mighty Arcane Investigative Bureau?”

“I’m not here on the AIB’s behalf. Nor even as a trustee of the school.” Nikolai Romanov folds his elegant frame onto my couch (thankfully, he seems to have no idea what level of depravity routinely occurs there) and steeples his fingers before his thoughtful face. “I’m here as a concerned parent.”

I eye him with a skepticism I scarcely manage to conceal.

Indeed, it’s all I can manage not to utter a rude snort.

You’d never know it to look at him, but this affluent spymaster began life as a penniless aristocrat. (When it comes to old blood, it takes one to know one). Nikolai made his millions, like other Russian oligarchs, in the rubble of the old Soviet empire. Everything he owns—his hotel in Monte Carlo, his dacha in the Crimea, his megayacht in the Seychelles, all his ill-gotten gains—this man has earned through the toil of his clever brain, the application of his ruthless instincts, and an utter lack of scruples.

“You’re here about Vasili?” I wait for his nod, although I’m perfectly aware he has no other offspring.

“With all due respect, Mr. Romanov.” My voice hardens. “If you ever intended to express concern for your son’s welfare—or, God forbid, his happiness—that ship sailed into the sunset years ago. Since the day you booted him off your yacht and abandoned him on our doorstep for the so-called sin of being gay, Vasili has more than survived. He’s thrived. That traumatized child you abandoned has matured into a formidable warlock with a blistering intellect and staggering powers.”

Barely perceptible, those clever eyes narrow. “I’m very well aware of his strengths, Professor Aries—”

“I highly doubt that.” In fact, I’d bet my grandsire’s castle this man has no clue who his son is or what he’s become.

But the man is a trustee. I’m merely the faculty, and mine is a position I cherish.

With considerable difficulty, I bite my tongue, order my wolf to subside, and will my wicked canines to retract.

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