Page 43 of Let Us Prey

Yes, yes, dragons hoard, and I’m old enough to be so wealthy that such frugality is completely unnecessary, but old habits die hard, as they say.

I dislike spending recklessly by nature—unlike the Khans—so when I do, it’s for things I cannot live without. Comfortable furniture, stress relievers, quality clothes, and books are the extent of my vices. I had all three of my thrones for the library and the Tower built to my specifications to ensure I can relax in luxury. Non-corporate craftsmen struggle in the technology age, and it bothers me to think skilled trade will go the way of the dodo shifters if the Council assholes get their way.

With a sigh of discontent, I open the app on my DiePhone, accessing the Bluetooth surround sound system Renard finally consented to having installed. He resisted at first, preferring the gramophone in the bedroom, but since introducing the game system and virtual assistant, he’s been a bit more flexible about the ‘infernal spread of technology’. I think he’s secretly enjoying being able to access information when he wants, rather than moving from his brooding perch to look it up in the library, but that’s more fodder for me to poke him with, so I let it go.

Which is more than I can say for him—he’s eternally riling me up on purpose, like inviting the snacklet to our nest the other night. I don’t care if he swears I told her she could. I know he was involved somehow because he’s a meddler like Fitz.

The soothing sounds of my music fill the air, and I pull my Smackbook out of my briefcase. The folders of organized research and first-hand reports get placed on the side table, and my notebook is the last thing I balance on the arm of the chair. I want to go over my own conclusions and evidence about what happened on prom night, while I wait on the Council’s results from testing the blood samples. Idon’t trust them to provide us with the full picture—it would be entirely uncharacteristic for them to give us unredacted, undoctored reports—but I plan to fill in the blanks when I combine their shit with the files Renard’s friends in the nurse's office have shared.

I click on the email icon, growling under my breath as I sort through the various missives I’ve received throughout the day. Many of them are from students and staff regarding passwords, which I forward to Betsy. She can resolve those issues without me, and I’m never in the mood to deal with idiots who can’t memorize their shit and constantly lock themselves out of the Apex app or the Blackboard system for their classes.

The email from the Council lab finally appears at the top of my unread messages, and I open it, waiting for the extensive file to extract itself. Interestingly enough, the results seem to be straightforward. The toxin did not match any natural or synthetic poison in their database, nor does it match that of any venomous shifter species—including rare species and those thought to be extinct or so endangered that we rarely see them outside of their own communities. Nothing on file, even at the Library of Congress, matches the chemical composition of the substance found in the punch.

That still doesn’t explain why the dimwits attending Vom Prom were unfazed. Henny and the nursing staff got some of them to admit to the consumption of pred-stasy and various kinds of alcohol, but nothing in their samples is consistent enough to create a controlled group. It’s a puzzle, and I can’t help wondering if that ridiculous alcohol is the key, but without a toxin identified, it will be near impossible to confirm.

The results of Delores’ blood test, sent to an independent lab by the nurses, haven’t come back yet. I expect little to come from that, as the nurses told Rennie she didn’t drink the punch or imbibe anything on the foolish party bus.

That means she’s not an anomaly; she just avoided the contaminant.

I have to admit; the girl is still fascinating and having her between us wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. That surprised me.

Her work in my archives is articulate and impeccable, despite her clear lack of true self-confidence. She doesn’t fawn or simper like most of the idiotic women here—students and staff alike—because while I believe she craves positive reinforcement, she actually wants toearnthe praise. Her upbringing must have been rough; she doesn’t talk about home or friends before Apex at all. In fact, she seems content to work alongside me, asking questions and occasionally poking atmeuntil I divulge crumbs of information about myself.

Her effect on me is truly baffling. I've never met anyone quite like Delores Drew, especially given her background. The librarian in me finds her wit, organization, and professionalism extremely appealing.

My dragon… has his own ideas.

I understand why she’s wormed her way under the skin of my friends, and it’s a bit unsettling to find she’s crawling under my scales as well.

Fitz is damned near obsessed with her. He’s been blind to Rennie and me for a decade, yet he notices if this girl changes her fucking nail polish. Chess is a little out of sorts as he figures out how to handle his attraction to her, but he’s coming around. Hell, even Felix had a bounce in his step yesterday when he stomped in, smelling of bourbon and regaling us with the tale of the killer rabbit.

There may be hope for him yet.

Rennie and I have avoided addressing his struggle with being exiled, because his self pity was simply exacerbating the toxic masculinity programmed into alphas of many species. The gargoyle and I both came of age with powerful royals and clan leaders—which we would have been ourselves, if not forour own debacles—and these leaders did not always rule with an iron fist. His behavior since Delores arrived has been more befitting a king than anythinghe’sdone in the past.

An angry teenager is affecting men several times her age simply by existing in our stratosphere.

I can’t decide if that’s a good thing.

“A-dog! Fuck am I glad you’re here! My baby girl is studying and Chess is working on knitting, so I’m bored. I bet I can whoop your scaly ass in Smash Bros.”

As usual, Fitz’s entrance is a cacophony of disturbance in my precious thinking time. I glare at him over my glasses, hoping to convey my wish to focus on the task at hand without words. When he doesn’t take the hint, I snap the Smackbook closed, watching him fire up the video game in annoyance. If he’d amuse himself, I wouldn’t mind his presence, but Fitz is like a hopped up rave kid 24/7 because of his ADHD. His inability to focus becomes everyone’s problem when he’s like this, and it makes my head hurt.

“I’m reviewing the files and results from the prom disaster. I fear it’s nowhere near being resolved and we all agreed this was bigger than an attempt on Council heirs.”

The tiger tilts his head to the side, tapping his fingers on his legs as if he’s itching to wrap his hands around either a controller or someone’s neck. “Is my baby girl in danger? Who do I need to kill? I dealt with that little shit who broke her heart already, and I have ideas for when I find out who trashed her room. Hint: it involves hooks.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose to push away thoughts of roasted preds, I breathe deeply. Of course, his concern is limited to the immediate people he gives a shit about. He’s not one for looking at the big picture and he revels in punishing the people who violate his rather interesting moral code. “I don’t know yet. The Council labs couldn’t ID the toxin in any of their vast databases,and that points to a more skilled opponent than a lackey or an idiotic teenager.”

“Ok, so what the fuck are we all gonna do about that?” he asks, fiddling with his controller in agitation, surprising me with his ability to hold the thread of our conversation.

“Again, the course of action is still unclear. At the moment, it’s a single incident with too many variables and not enough hard evidence to point in a specific direction.” I arch a brow, watching him fidget. “You seem more concerned with this than you normally would be.”

“Hell yes, I am! And the same goes for you too, you spicy lizard. The rest of you assholes might think you’re immune, but I see more than you know, dude.” He drops the controller, leaning back against the couch and clasping his hands behind his head with a smirk.

I fucking highly doubt that.

Snorting smoke, I shift in my throne, putting my work aside as I huff. “What are you hinting at, Fitz?”

---