Page 52 of Live To Tell

“Ten minutes ago.”

Then the marks aren’t from a human or witch. If Marci or another girl had scratched Grayson’s face, he’d begin to heal within minutes, and Marci’s false ones wouldn’t cut as deep as the scratches look.

“Marci’s drunk and I was helping the girl find her friends,” says Grayson. “Do you think I’m that stupid I’d publicly attack someone?”

“Marci.” The blonde girl crouches by the incoherent witch. “You need to wake up. Tell us what Grayson did to you.”

“For fuck’s sake!” he says and turns away.

Leif catches his arm. “Don’t leave, they’ll see that as guilt, mate.”

I’m distracted by Grayson’s blood. Not what’s smeared on his face, but awareness from his running through me. He’s defensive and unintentionally intimidating, but there’s something wrong. Something I can sense as easily as if Grayson was bonded to me like Rowan. Fear. Has the accusation frightened Grayson that much? There’re no injuries to Marci—absolutely no evidence of an attack apart from humans jumping to a prejudiced conclusion.

“If you believe Grayson committed a crime against Marci, then go and find someone to report this to,” I announce.

“Violet,” says Rowan in shock. “Dorian’s here.”

“My father won’t do anything to Grayson because he’ll know the truth.”

“Like he’d stop to consider the truth,” retorts Grayson.

The girls continue to fuss over Marci, whose face grows more pallid beneath the perspiration.

“And what is the truth, Grayson?” I ask. “Because I don’t believe you’d attack Marci.”

“What are you hanging around here for?” calls a voice, and hands clap behind us. “You’re supposed to be in the Stirling Room for Sawyer’s presentation to Kai.”

I turn to Mr. Tweed Suit, who’s continuing to gather strays. He’s filled with self-importance and know why. I’ve seen the gray-haired man in photographs while researching—another member of the town council.

Rowan and Leif immediately stand in front of the sofa to block Marci from view.

“Is Kai still here?” I ask.

“Don’t turn around,” Leif whispers to Grayson.

“Yes, and Sawyer doesn’t like delays. Chop chop.” The man claps his hands again and gestures at us.

“Are you a teacher?” I ask him.

“I was, but I’m retired now. Why do you ask?” he says.

“Because you’re treating us like kindergarteners.”

He looks down his nose at me. “As one of the guests of honor, I’d advise you to ensure you’re in the room before Mr. Sawyer begins his speech.”

Guest of honor. The idea anybody could attach such a phrase to me seems ludicrous and if Dorian hadn’t insisted, this honored guest would’ve kept away. Human gatherings and I do not mix well. Evidently, Grayson doesn’t mix well with them either.

“Excuse me,” says the blonde girl, looking up from where she crouches beside Marci. “We have a problem.”

I bare my teeth at her, and she shrinks back.

“Yes, and you’ll have a bigger one if you don’t gather with the others right now,” the man says.

“But—”

“Ah! Come back!” A couple of witches attempting to sneak past catch Mr. Tweed’s attention. “Nobody leaves yet.” The man continues his corralling, gathering up the stragglers, glancing back at us. “You lot. Move.”

“At least he didn’t hang around to see the state Marci is in,” I say as he hurries away. “I take it the girl is inebriated?”

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