Page 5 of Blood on the Ice

I grab the glass and bottle, heading into the living room. I splayed all the folders and printouts I could gather out on the huge couch, so I can see the bigger picture. I probably need to buy some kind of big wheeled cork board so I can track this shit, but that’s a task for tomorrow. That and a hundred other things, including gutting this damn man cave to make it livable. I know that’sdefinitelynot in the budget, but I can not spend the rest of my tenure here with this macho adventurer shit.

Propping myself up, I run through numbers line by line, marking lines in the P&L I have issues with as I go. I finish the first glass of my well-aged Cab and pour another, wishingI’d paid more attention to sports when I was younger. Some of this shit sounds made up, but how the fuck would I know if the hockey team really needs forty new graphite sticks? They could purposely bloat these purchase orders for many reasons and none of them legitimate. And this is a less daunting task than tackling the football team’s folders—I could bludgeon someone with their goddamned budget, but the art department is begging for enough supplies to get through the semester.

I amsothe wrong person for this job.

Again, the unfairness of my pseudo-punishment hits me. My job at Swallowtail didn’t involve accounting, nor did it have deadlines as serious as the ones I face here. I’m certainly smart enough to figure this out, but given that Magnus and his cronies hadyearsto warp things here, I’m behind the eight ball with the cue at my back. People expect me to fail—truthfully, they probably want me to—and I can’t allow my reputation to take another body shot because my two-faced dickwad ex was a goddamned criminal.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling overwhelmed and ready to cry, when a shrill tone from my phone makes me jump. As a general rule, I don’t keep ringers on and haven’t for over a decade, but this is the sound I programmed for the ‘hell has broken loose’ Dean calls. I set the office phone to forward to my cell and made certain a call to this ‘Batphone’ would always wake me. That’s a choice I’m regretting as I look at the red wine that sloshed on my pajamas, but that’s a complaint for another day.

Grabbing the phone, I click the screen open with an irritated, “What?!”

The babbling admin on the other end isn’t really making sense, but I caught ‘accident’, ‘hockey rink’, and ‘police.’ I’m prettysure that means I’m needed immediately. Closing my eyes to collect myself, I bark into the speaker. “Stop. I’m on my way. No one speaks to law enforcement until I arrive.No one. Do you understand?”

That said, I strip the stained shirt off and stomp upstairs to find another. I don’t have time to get appropriately dressed, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to show up soaked in wine like a fucking hobo. Pulling an old Grateful Dead tee out of the overflowing trunk on my bedroom floor, I vow to prepare an emergency clothes pile for shit like this in the future. I shed my soft yoga pants and wiggle into a pair of holey jeans, then shove my feet into combat boots. I don’t even bother lacing them; I have to get outside and take flight before some moron talks to the cops or worse, the press.

Shoving the French doors open, I step onto my small balcony. Magnus probably built this so he could do the same thing I’m doing now, and that’s one thing I’m grateful for. His dragon status is the sole valuable aspect of that worthless bag of bones. Touching my amulet, I let my wings stretch and bend, then push off the stone railing with my legs. I catch the night breeze easily and start scouting for the ice rink. I should have looked at the damn map before I left, but I was too angry and wine soaked to think straight.

If this isn’t a genuine emergency, whoever called me is definitely fired.

I land behind the arena,avoiding the cordoned off parking lot in the front. Luckily, the cloudy night made for suitable cover and I’m able to fold in my wings before I stride towards the back door. There’s a campus security officer at the door and he gives me a suspicious glare as I walk past him. He’s not wearing a name badge or number on his uniform, so I add that to my list of new regulations to add or enforce. Thinking about what armed, uniformed guards with no way to be identified could get away with at a university full of kids makes me shudder.

I refuse to allow this kind of dangerous nonsense to go on at State U during my tenure.

The back hallways are full of offices and equipment rooms, so I keep walking until I can feel the chill of the ice. Stepping into the arena, I immediately evaluate the scene. Spectators are still in their seats looking uncomfortable and irritated, cops and security are standing around jabbering, and at the front entrance, there’s a nervous-looking shifter with blond hair. She’s fiddling with the tight bun, shuffling her feet as she tries to peer out a crack to see outside, letting no one in. This must be who called me because she’s alternating between looking out that sliver and looking at her phone.

“Interesting. She looks worried, but not hostile. That works for me,” I murmur to myself as I slip through the crowd. Being dressed down keeps people from paying attention to me, and I tuck that information away for later. To avoid attention, I mustblend in with the students on campus. It may also help me get information on bad actors without putting people in a hot seat, so that’s a plus, too.

When I get to the doorway, I’m ashamed to say the local cops and our security have paid no mind to me. I could be anyone and I could get to the exit easily—one that’s only being watched by a five foot two woman who looks like I could blow her over with a feather. Her scent says ice elemental, so perhaps she has some powers, but I doubt she has the gumption to use them. Since I have no idea what the emergency is, their lack of professionalism is shocking.

“Excuse me. I believe you’re waiting for me,” I say as I tap her on the shoulder. The sound she makes as she jumps is nothing short of adorable, and I wait for her to gather herself before I speak again. “I’m Dean LeCiel.”

“Oh, boogers!” The woman exclaims as she adjusts her thick black glasses. “I was sure you’d come through the front. I meant to greet you and fill in you before anyone else got to you and now I’ve made a mess of everything!”

Her flustered babble makes me smile a little, so I take it easy on her. “I didn’t want the press to see me. My… infamy… precedes me and it might distract from whatever situation we have here. I quietly slipped in unnoticed.”

“Well, of course not! You’re usually so well put together and snazzy; tonight, you look like one of us normal people.” Her eyes widen as she realizes what that sounds like and she rushes to add, “Not that you’re not normal. Or that not normal is bad. I mean, life is full of rainbows and everyone of us fits in somewhere and?—”

I hold my hand up to cut off the flow. “I get it. You weren’t being judgmental. Forgive me for asking, but who are you? I don’t believe we’ve met yet.”

“Dumb, dumb, dumb, Channing!” She smacks her head several times and I finally reach over to stop her. Once she feels my grip, she looks up with a bright red face. “I’m sorry to be so high-strung. Crisis management is usually my forte, but since you arrived, there’s been a lot of upheaval in the support staff. So I’m stretched a little thin and when I feel overwhelmed, my anxiety goes haywire.”

“I can tell,” I reply as I give her an amused look. “Let’s take this step-by-step, shall we? You’re Channing, and you work in what office? We can talk about that support staff comment once we have this situation under control.”

“Okay. Got it. Uh, I’m Channing Oswald and I work in the PR department.” She takes a deep breath and smooths her hand over her hair. “They promoted me to VP yesterday because most of the department quit when you arrived—which, forgive me for being blunt, is stupid as fuck.”

I like people who don’t mince words.

“Channing, I agree with you. Unless they’re all as crooked as my rotting ex, quitting was a major mistake on their part. But I’ll see to that later.” I look around, feeling the unrest mounting among the locked up people. “Now, tell me what’s happening here. We don’t need a riot because we held these folks too long.”

She nods, giving me a serious look. “It’s bad, Dean. Like, terrible. Follow me.”

I nod, waiting for her to lead the way. Eyes track me as the two of us walk back the way I came and I know that meansthey’ve figured out who I am. No one stops us or says anything, but I know the minute we’re out of sight, the tongues will start wagging. “Where are we going?”

“To the home team locker room,” Channing replies. She looks over her shoulder, her dainty features pinched with concern. “We’ve kept it contained, but we won’t be able to hold the police off much longer.”

“Why would we need to keep them held ba—” The words die in my throat when she pushes the door open and I see a blond hockey god sitting on a bench with his face in his hands—in front of a dead body with blood pooling around it. “Holy fuckwhistle.”

“You don’t say.” The guy lifts his face out of his hands to reveal Viking features and a sexy scruff that makes my stomach do backflips.

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