Page 11 of Wildfire

Allocation of Problems

It wasn’t becoming a habit, going to Ward’s office to grade papers. He’d only done it... three times. In a week.

Still, when he got to campus on Wednesday morning, he hadn’t been able to face Helen. Not after his night.

He’d spent the evening answering all the questions the police had already asked him yet again. He didn’t know why they’d called him in, or why they thought the answers to the same questions were going to have changed over the week, but the result had been both boring and frustrating.

How well had he known the dead students? When had he last spoken to them? Had there been any bad blood between them?

They’d been less than impressed when he’d answered, perhaps too honestly, that neither student had been of any relevance to him. They were both mediocre mages whose family’s fortunes had outstripped their talents by a wide margin.

And why shouldn’t Wilder be honest about that? He was intimately familiar with the concept of having a family with more money than they knew what to do with, and not much else.

Yes, Wilder was one of the most adept fire elementalists in the world. He could create and throw a fireball with an ease that was almost unheard of.

And what the hell good was it?

It was impressive, and he had always been proud of it. He’d worked his whole fucking life to get as good as he was. It hadn’t come easy, oh no. He’d never forget the disappointment on his father’s face when he’d failed to get into Banneker’s head start program, to begin college classes a year early.

It had been the only time he’d seen his father have an emotion in relation to himself. Usually Mother and Father were too busy jetting off to Jamaica or the Bahamas or some other paradise island to pay him much mind. As yet, he’d avoided telling them he hadn’t gotten the job.

They would be relieved about David leaving; they’d never much liked him. Wilder’s parents were some of the only people in the world who still unironically called people “nouveau riche,” and they had applied the term to David’s family, who were big in some technical industry Wilder had never paid much attention to. Micro-whatevers that made computers go.

Failing to get the job, they would be less impressed with.

They had been dissatisfied enough with him wanting to teach. He expected that his failure would bring them back around to pressing him to go into the military, which they had discussed at length when he’d finished school.

It was the obvious result of his degree, his father maintained. If he wanted to learn how to kill people, he ought to do it.

He paused in the hallway outside Ward’s office when he heard voices inside.

Damn.

Bad enough to go to Ward, hat in hand, asking for asylum from Helen’s mockery. He didn’t want to deal with other people.

Nothing for it but to power through, though. He lifted a hand to knock on the doorframe when a word caught his attention.

Hermes.

“—Hermes said souls are going missing here in Washington, so we are involved.” It was Ward’s boyfriend; the lanky, eternally depressed one who was related to the dean. “Maybe it would be for the best if you found someone to cover your summer classes.”

Wilder had to hold back a snort at that. Good luck to Ward if he was going to try to get the summer off. Even Wilder, working part time, didn’t get to do that.

He wasn’t an eavesdropper, though, so he rapped on the door.

Ward glanced up at him, and the strangest thing happened. He... smiled. “Hey, Wilder. Grading papers?”

“Unless you’re busy,” he hedged. He didn’t want to interject himself in a conversation; he just wanted a little peace. Although... “But did you say Hermes?”

The boyfriend—Lysander? Lysandros, maybe—was sitting on the corner of Ward’s desk, and he looked good. Less pale and tragic than he had in the fall when they’d started dating. Hell, he was even wearing a blue shirt with his usual black ensemble. That had to be Ward’s influence.

He didn’t like Wilder, which was pretty standard.

He raised an eyebrow. “My cousin, yes. Why?”

“The police probably want to talk to him,” Wilder said, matter-of-factly. “I told them his brother owns Hysteria, but they keep asking me about him.”

They hadn’t said as much, but he suspected the police thought he’d made Hermes up. And he couldn’t blame them. Even if he didn’t have a ridiculous name, it seemed all too convenient that Wilder had seen the same man at the scene of both deaths.

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