Page 134 of Cathmoir's Sons

Watching her teach her class of eager Plane-Walkers fills in another tile in the ever-shifting mosaic of my mate’s persona. She may never set foot in a classroom again, but she will always be a teacher at heart. Joy is writ large in every glance, every line of her face, as she imparts the knowledge she’s gathered. Like my twin, the engine that drives my mate is intellectual curiosity. The chance to share that curiosity, to feed it, is a pleasure for her surpassing a dozen orgasms.

I commit myself to giving her two dozen orgasms to compensate for the loss of her teaching position.

Per day.

She’s bubbling with residual enthusiasm after the last student leaves. I lean against the first row of desks and pull her between my legs while she expounds on an alternative Plane-Walking theory suggested by one of her students. Her ice-blue eyes dance. Her hands fly between us as she gesticulates. As she pauses for a breath, I lean in and rub noses with her.

“Good class?”

She laughs softly. “Yeah, good class.”

“I’ll make sure you always have the opportunity to share your knowledge, even if I have to build you a new school in Scilla.”

Her smile curves wide. “I got an email from Sapienza. They’re offering me an adjunct teaching position on Professor Dybo’s recommendation. One class per semester. No strings.”

“I doubt it will be the last offer you get. The whole magickal academic world will be after you if you make it known you’re leaving Bevington.”

She worries her lower lip between her front teeth. “This storm will pass, won’t it?”

I’m not sure whether she’s referring to the storm currently raging in the Straits or the shitstorm at Bevvy, but I nod. “It will.”

“In a few years, no one will care that I dated a group of students.”

“No one will care. Although Dean Quinn may still demand a favor or two.”

Caileán laughs. “I don’t mind doing Emilia the occasional favor. We just have to get through this. I felt guilty, looking at my class today and knowing I won’t teach next semester because of my choices.”

“Do you regret choosing us?”

The softest, sweetest smile curves her lips before she presses them to mine. Her busy hands come to rest on my cheeks. “No, I will never regret choosing you.”

I holdthose words tightly in my heart a few hours later when we sit in a cold conference room in Bodeman Main, facing down The Mr. Black.

I still don’t quite understand how this rolling boulder started its way downhill. Rhodes said something to Lords who said something to Carver. I didn’t catch the nuances of why Carver stormed into Jane Serpa’s office while Jane was recounting her visit to a Chinese ice festival. I got the gist of his hysteria, though. He wants to close Caileán’s exhibit because he thinks she’s brought a dream demon to Bevington.

I sit next to my queen on one of the school’s truth-bespelled chairs and listen to Carver rant.

“. . . wholly irresponsible, bringing a bunch of cursed relics to a school. Our students aren’t fully-fledged magi yet. They’re still learning to defend themselves from magickal influences, and you bring a demon among them!”

If it’s a demon he wants, I can arrange a personal visit. I cross my arms over my chest.

“That’s exactly why we warded the museum so heavily,” Caileán responds when a very red-faced Carver pauses in his diatribe. “You took part in that warding. I thought you understood that the Chalice of Sulis Minerva, as well as some of the objects in the exhibit, can exert a very dark influence.”

Carver’s ruddy cheeks darken further. “Yes, but not ademonicinfluence! You never said anything about demons, Professor Wyndham.”

“I understand why you’re upset, but I don’t see a difference between the Cup’s influence and a demonic influence. They can both kill,” Caileán says.

“We could have warned our students!” Carver fulminates. “We could have told them to be on guard. To report anything like the nightmares Yan Wozniak evidently suffered from which drove him to suicide.”

I lick my fangs before interjecting, “I’d think you’d encourage them to report any sort of suicidal thoughts, Carver, whatever the cause. Stop trying to pin this on Caileán.”

Carver snarls back at me. “You are here on sufferance, Prince Lawson. Because you’re Professor Wyndham’s personal security. You don’t have any place in this discussion.”

“As a concerned alumni as well as Professor Wyndham’s consort, I have every place in this discussion.”

Carver leans back in his chair with a grimace. “Yes, let’s discuss that. When, exactly, did your relationship with Professor Wyndham start?”

I don’t even bother trying to lie, given where I’m sitting. But he doesn’t deserve the whole truth from me, either. “From Professor Wyndham’s perspective, after the battle of Jedburgh Abbey. She immediately cut off contact when she discovered I was still a student. Our relationship didn’t recommence until after I submitted my application for early graduation.”

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