Page 6 of Come Out & Prey

Grumbling under my breath as I use my badge to lock the elevator Felix exited in, I walk back to my desk. There’s a million requests for archiving from the prominent families that I plan to ignore until summer break. There are a few carts of books that need to be re-shelved in the staff-only section, but that canwait. The email icon on my Smackbook is blinking, and if the number on it is accurate, I probably have a hundred password-reset requests from students and staff alike.

Whoever decided that hot-blooded predators with zero patience should use passwords with eight characters, a symbol, and a number didn’t think very far ahead. Of course, given that the total of our current IT department is an over two thousand year old dragon and a fucking baby-faced ostrich shifter from Victim U, it’s not surprising our system isn’t predator friendly.

I shake my head. I’ve been at this place too damned long. I shouldn’t use the student slang for Vassal University. Of all the staff here, Renard and I can remember when the delineation between pred and prey shifters wasn’t as pronounced as it is now. Hell, we can remember when the two groups actually worked together to help our populations flourish together rather than relegating the prey shifters to the lower and working classes.

Betsy isn’t a bad sort; she’s just terrified of almost everyone here. The poor girl jumps at shadows all day long, and damn near has a panic attack if she has to leave her office to interact with anyone in person. As if being a prey animal assigned to work atthepremier predator college in the nation isn’t bad enough, she’s a stick thin, frail nerd in horn-rimmed glasses with a high-pitched voice that commands zero authority.

I’m afraid for her safety—and rightfully so. A pack of coyote shifters tore apart the last IT guy last year, and the administration made sure Betsy knew about it when they brought her in. She’s carried a whistle, a stun gun, and an emergency alarm pendant ever since she walked in the double doors of my domain.

Not that any of that would save her.

A loud buzzing emits from under a stack of admissions paperwork on my desk, and I growl this time. I despise my DiePhone with a fierce passion because it’s constantly reminding me that no matter where I go, someone can bother me, even when I’m trying to focus. Plopping down in the throne specially crafted for when I want to let my wings out, I pick the cursed thing up and roll my eyes at the screen.

It’s Fitz, askingyet againif I have an update on the same topic he prodded me about earlier in the day. He emailed me two hours ago, but my fellow outcast has the worst case of ADHD I’ve ever seen. That tiger can barely focus on more than screwing around and Chess for long enough to teach his classes, much less sit still for any lengthy explanation about historical tiger throne challenges.

That’s why I sent him packing—I don’t have a lot to divulge because the Bloodstone ambush is one of the more secretive shifter sects and what I have is a lot of tiny leads that will probably result in more questions.

Fitz doesn’t have the patience to hear all of that, and I don’t have the time to hold his hand. The mountain of work on my desk isn’t getting smaller with the end of the semester drawing near, and they didn’t assign me an aide to share the burden. My hyperactive friend doesn’t understand that the staff members who don’t spend their time teaching computer crime have actual work to do even when they don’t have students in front of them.

Closing my eyes, I reach out with my senses, checking to make certain that the upstairs portion of the library is empty. Most shifters have one highly developed sense that aids in their pursuit of prey and defense against larger predators, butdragons are a rare breed, much like my gargoyle friend, Renard. Our species have existed long enough that our traditions predate modern shifter practices. We do not breed with other predator species, and typically keep to our clans, hidden by old magick from a time when shifters were not so wary of the existence of other supernatural beings. Gargoyles and dragons have much in common, and that we are both exiled from our clans is both unusual and unfortunate.

That’s another reason I dislike Fitz and Chess turning my hideaway into a sausage salon—it reinforces the fact that I have no options for the pups a king should produce in this place. No dragons—unless they get exiled—will ever come to Apex Academy, and even if I was inclined to thumb my snout at the rules of my people, I have issues keeping books safe from my fire. I can’t risk getting intimate with a female pred because I can’t accidentally fry someone and get sacked by the Headmistress or, worse, sent to Bloodstone Isle for killing one of the Council’s darling heirs.

The fire in my belly sparks in frustration at my situation, and I snort, blowing a few smoke rings as I try to calm my dragon. He doesn’t like that I don’t let him be free very often. I need to prevent a repeat of the ‘incident’ that caused my isolation, and I spend an inordinate amount of time soothing him, particularly when I get upset.

I’ve read every book ever written about controlling your beasts, taken advanced shifting classes from Felix, and lately, I even moved to reading anger management books written byprey, of all things.

Almost nothing calms the grumpy asshole inside of me, and his irritation always makes mine worse.

Once I’ve verified that the area is deserted, I use my stupid phone for one of the few functions that I appreciate it for: music. The sounds of EDM fill the space around me and I close my eyes. I’ve never been able to figure out why this electronic shit soothes my inner beast, but it does. I discovered the surprising effect in the nineties, and once I did, I learned everything I could about the culture.

Sue me, I’m a goddamned librarian, and I can’t help myself.

A hint of a smile graces my lips for the first time today, and I lean into my desk. Taking out a selection of the calming trinkets I keep there, I place them around my workspace. The fuzzy pens, small stuffed unicorn, and springy bobble heads help me keep the lizard zen so I can actually work on the summary I need to send Fitz before he pings my phone every five minutes until I answer. I know from experience that I have little time to compose it before that happens, so getting my horns in the game is essential.

I yank my desk closer, opening my P-Mail and ignoring all the messages to start a new one to the tiger, using lingo that will make sense to him to help get his attention.

Calm the fuck down, bro.

I haven’t found new texts to examine this week. I know you’re anxious to find a loophole to allow Felix to take his rightful place as Raj. I would have been the Dragon King centuries ago if not for my fuckup, so I get why you’re so hyped up.

However, your family is almost as bad as R’s or mine with keeping mum about laws and rituals outside of the family. It might be worse because running Bloodstone means they’re feared by predators who are afraid to speculate publicly.

I found a few anonymous sources on the prey-net by creating new credentials to impersonate one of them. I’m slowly working my way into their groups and servers. It is much more likely that the lower animals will gossip about ‘horror’ stories of our kind than preds will risk getting caught talking about the founding families.

If I have to go much deeper into their system, though, I will require your help. My skills do not extend to the hacker level, and if I must use tech to locate information, it may require those gifts. I believe the weasel families are all involved in the development of the Smackbook empire—there has to be a black sheep in the family who refused to be enslaved by the Ericksons’ company who will be useful in obtaining bits of their coding.

I will help you, but you must learn to be patient.

DO NOT FOLLOW UP WITH FIFTY TEXTS, FITZ, I HAVE WORK TO DO.

Of course,I know that’s a futile request when I hit ‘send’, but it never hurts to try. Sliding my phone into the pocket of my blazer, I look at the piles of work, pondering which inane task to do first.

The immediate ding of my D-phone makes my dragon snarl again, and I snatch the bunny rabbit stress ball. Squeezing it as I gnash my teeth, I ignore the next few dings while I count my breaths in Greek. As they escalate, I switch to Persian, and still they persist. When the rapid fire texting stops for a moment, I sigh in relief, picking up my coffee mug from the warmer at the front of my desk. I’m about to sip when the ringer goes off, the ‘Pretty Fly for a Cat Guy’ tone making me hurl the mug across the room. With a roar of irritation, I stand, looking down at the completely ruined bunny ball in my other hand.

Damnit, Fitz, that was my favorite!

I abandon the mess, stalking out of my office mid-shift. My wings get stuck in the frame even though it’s been widened for me, and another roar escapes, rattling the window panes in the library. I can’t lose control here—not in this place, not again. Forcing the wings to flatten to my back, I slam the door behind me, listening for the lock to click into place. When it does, I jump over the edge of the balcony, landing in the middle of a table with a crack.

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