Page 50 of Switching Graves

“I know we’re all caught up in the news of a certain event that is coming up,” my Essentials of Empathic Communication professor says at the end of a very chaotic class session that Thursday afternoon. “But please don’t allow the mysticism and excitement to distract you from your midterms, which will be here in just two weeks.”

Midterms.

Despite my lack of empathic skills, I’ve managed to ace every exam and paper I’ve handed in for all my classes, aside from Clinical Psychology with Dr. Whitlock.

His coursework isn’t even that difficult. I had already taken a similar class back home, so I’ve managed to get a grasp on the subject matter quicker than usual. It’s his impossible essay expectations and intentionally tricky exam questions that are tripping everyone up. Even Hayes, who grades the exams and sees the answer keys, agrees that this year, he’s been particularly harsh with us.

He’s warned on several occasions that the midterm exam will account for a quarter of our grade, and he won’t be making it easy to pass. I’ve spent every free moment I have trying to cram as much information from the textbook and his lectures, and I still feel underprepared.

Ava and her friend, Leni, meet me in the library after my class under the guise of studying. They spend the entire time scheming over how to figure out who invited me to the Falconry and how they can sneak in themselves. Apparently, someone always tries and fails miserably.

Of course,theywouldn’t fail.

I’ve been intentionally silent through it, keeping my nose tucked into my psych book so they don’t try to pull me into their plans. The last thing I need is extra attention from the dean, who is obviously close with Aunt Divina, if all the strings she had pulled for Poppy are any indication.

“You should be more excited,” Leni squawks, slapping my shoulder with the back of her hand. Light, corn silk hair falls over her shoulder when her arm drops back down and brushes against the chair. Ava told me she’s a Luminara descendant who can control light. She looks like sheislight.

Wrapping my palm around the tender spot, I wrinkle my nose at her. “I’m trying to actuallystudy.”

“You know that’s not what we came here for,” Ava laughs, gesturing toward her untouched stack of books to prove her point.

“Idid. I have to cram for this exam, or I’m going to end up failing my class.”

“She’s in Whitlock’s psych class,” Ava explains to Leni, tilting her head as if that should say everything.

“Ah, the psycho teaching psych,” Leni mutters, repeating the same line I’ve heard a few others whisper before.

Dr. Whitlock has the most contradictory reputation I’ve ever seen. Some students are pathetically in love with him, idolizing his every move, while others think he would fit in better in an insane asylum. He doesn’t seem to allow either side to influence how hard he makes us work.

“He’s something, that’s for sure,” I agree, turning my attention back to my book. But another wave of irritation crashes through me, and my mouth is moving in a rant before I realize I should stop it.

“I’ve never met a professor so hellbent on making his student’s fail. It’s like he gets off on watching us suffer. I bet he killed all the neighborhood cats for fun when he was younger.You know, they say that’s one of the first signs of a serial killer in the making.”

The tangent flows so easily, I don’t notice Ava’s eyes widen, or Leni’s pursed lips, or the way they each flip open their books to random pages and pretend to be ignoring me. In fact, the only indication I pick up on is when Ava slams her shoe into my shin beneath the table.

“You, as a failed sociology minor, should know that torturing animals without remorse is a strong sign that a child will be a sociopath—not necessarily a serial killer,” a deep voice rumbles directly next to my ear.

My head flings up, eyes finding Ava’s horrified expression before spinning to see Dr. Whitlock straightening back up with a grim face, his brows practically hitting his hairline as he waits for my retort. Any signs of his annoying, taunting smirk are completely gone.

I amnota failed sociology minor, and the fact that he knows anything about my interest in the subject tells me that I’ve been the subject of his and Miss Mercer’s pillow talk.

“I didn’t mean?—”

“A word, Miss Ellery?” he interrupts, his eyes never straying from mine. Even when Ava makes a tortured grunt, his stare remains steady.

“Sure,” I mumble into the table, sliding my chair out to stand. Just before I turn away from her, I meet Ava’s cringe with a terrified scowl.

She offers a subtle salute, as if she’s sending me off to battle, then straightens her spine when she glances at the man waiting behind me.

Dr. Whitlock leads me down a few rows, far enough away so no one can hear us, then takes a sharp turn down a random aisle. I dutifully follow, stopping a few feet away when he halts just beside the window overlooking the courtyard at the end.

Twisting back to face me, he holds up a manila folder between us that I somehow missed before. “I was glad to have found you here. I finished grading your revised paper on Narcissistic personality disorder and I thought, ‘how great that I can tell you in person that you’ve received the highest grade in the glass on your essay.’ Imagine my surprise to overhear how much you hate my teaching style.”

“I don’t hate it,” I rush to defend, but clamp my mouth shut when he holds a finger up between us—silencing me.

“As I said before, if you spent your time studying instead of gossiping over a school dance or insulting your professors, you’d have a much easier time earning a higher grade in my class.”

The excuses sit in my throat, begging to be released.

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