In My Head

in my head

T he Dean’s house still reeks of Magnus, and I hate it.

My stuff is coming, but it won’t arrive for at least three more weeks. After the human virus bullshit for the past few years, shipping is a goddamned nightmare, even with supernatural moving companies. I’d planned to pare down my belongings before I moved to the US when my ex and I got married, but that was over a year away. When the Council handed down their edict, I was left scrambling to pack every damned thing I owned in short order and get my ass on a plane to start here.

I could have flown trans-Atlantic, but it would have taken longer, and they refused to set my stupid monitor to allow for it.

Growling in frustration, I look down at the amulet my mother gave me when I graduated from Swallowtail in my teens. It’s why I can shift without destroying my clothes, so I never take it off, but now that it’s part of my sentence, I resent its presence. The hex added to ensure I didn’t run out on my prison time keeps track of me and makes it impossible to remove the pendant until they deem my sentence served.

Here I am, stuck in a house filled with the ghost of my ex, imprisoned in a job I didn’t want, and locked down like a rabid werewolf. My life has become one huge cosmic joke, and it makes me want to go on a vengeful rampage through this idyllic countryside. I could entomb half the males in the dorm before anyone even realized I’d gone rogue, then break the chain around my neck and fly free. But that would mean living on the run for the rest of my lengthy lifespan and I’m not cut out for hiding in caves and abandoned churches.

Rubbing my hand over my face, I head to the kitchen in search of a nice bottle of Cabernet. If I’m going to live with the rustic, Ernest Hemingway-esque decor my dipshit ex picked, I’ll need to get very drunk. It’s Friday, anyway, so it’s not like I have anything else to do besides plow through books so complex I’m going to need a forensic accountant to make heads or tails of them.

“I wonder if Jackson Thorne has one of those on staff,” I murmur as I rummage for the corkscrew. He lives nearby and stood out as one of the rare agents at the trial who didn’t seem eager to condemn me.

That thought brings a wave of fury and shame. Memories of being shackled by magic and glared at by an enormous gathering of high-powered supes flood my mind, making my shoulders sag. I’ll never outlive the humiliation of that scene, and that is the ultimate indignity Magnus left me with. Without proof of the things he told me before I struck the final blow, no one would believe the evil that lurked under a skin that pretended to be merely shady. So I didn’t use any of his vile admissions as evidence in my trial; I merely had my lawyer use the laws of both my people to justify my actions based on publicly known crimes.

“They’d be shocked down to their expensive jockey shorts if they knew what kind of filth he’d been up to.” Muttering to myself has become a bit of a habit, but I don’t have any friends left to vent to about the unfairness of my life.

Fuck, I’m a sad sack of a supernatural.

I grab the glass and bottle, heading into the living room. I splayed all the folders and printouts I could gather out on the huge couch, so I can see the bigger picture. I probably need to buy some kind of big wheeled cork board so I can track this shit, but that’s a task for tomorrow. That and a hundred other things, including gutting this damn man cave to make it livable. I know that’s definitely not in the budget, but I can not spend the rest of my tenure here with this macho adventurer shit.

Propping myself up, I run through numbers line by line, marking lines in the P I have to get outside and take flight before some moron talks to the cops or worse, the press.

Shoving the French doors open, I step onto my small balcony. Magnus probably built this so he could do the same thing I’m doing now, and that’s one thing I’m grateful for. His dragon status is the sole valuable aspect of that worthless bag of bones. Touching my amulet, I let my wings stretch and bend, then push off the stone railing with my legs. I catch the night breeze easily and start scouting for the ice rink. I should have looked at the damn map before I left, but I was too angry and wine soaked to think straight.

If this isn’t a genuine emergency, whoever called me is definitely fired.

I land behind the arena, avoiding the cordoned off parking lot in the front. Luckily, the cloudy night made for suitable cover and I’m able to fold in my wings before I stride towards the back door. There’s a campus security officer at the door and he gives me a suspicious glare as I walk past him. He’s not wearing a name badge or number on his uniform, so I add that to my list of new regulations to add or enforce. Thinking about what armed, uniformed guards with no way to be identified could get away with at a university full of kids makes me shudder.

I refuse to allow this kind of dangerous nonsense to go on at State U during my tenure.

The back hallways are full of offices and equipment rooms, so I keep walking until I can feel the chill of the ice. Stepping into the arena, I immediately evaluate the scene. Spectators are still in their seats looking uncomfortable and irritated, cops and security are standing around jabbering, and at the front entrance, there’s a nervous-looking shifter with blond hair. She’s fiddling with the tight bun, shuffling her feet as she tries to peer out a crack to see outside, letting no one in. This must be who called me because she’s alternating between looking out that sliver and looking at her phone.

“Interesting. She looks worried, but not hostile. That works for me,” I murmur to myself as I slip through the crowd. Being dressed down keeps people from paying attention to me, and I tuck that information away for later. To avoid attention, I must blend in with the students on campus. It may also help me get information on bad actors without putting people in a hot seat, so that’s a plus, too.

When I get to the doorway, I’m ashamed to say the local cops and our security have paid no mind to me. I could be anyone and I could get to the exit easily—one that’s only being watched by a five foot two woman who looks like I could blow her over with a feather. Her scent says ice elemental, so perhaps she has some powers, but I doubt she has the gumption to use them. Since I have no idea what the emergency is, their lack of professionalism is shocking.

“Excuse me. I believe you’re waiting for me,” I say as I tap her on the shoulder. The sound she makes as she jumps is nothing short of adorable, and I wait for her to gather herself before I speak again. “I’m Dean LeCiel.”

“Oh, boogers!” The woman exclaims as she adjusts her thick black glasses. “I was sure you’d come through the front. I meant to greet you and fill in you before anyone else got to you and now I’ve made a mess of everything!”

Her flustered babble makes me smile a little, so I take it easy on her. “I didn’t want the press to see me. My… infamy… precedes me and it might distract from whatever situation we have here. I quietly slipped in unnoticed.”

“Well, of course not! You’re usually so well put together and snazzy; tonight, you look like one of us normal people.” Her eyes widen as she realizes what that sounds like and she rushes to add, “Not that you’re not normal. Or that not normal is bad. I mean, life is full of rainbows and everyone of us fits in somewhere and?—”

I hold my hand up to cut off the flow. “I get it. You weren’t being judgmental. Forgive me for asking, but who are you? I don’t believe we’ve met yet.”

“Dumb, dumb, dumb, Channing!” She smacks her head several times and I finally reach over to stop her. Once she feels my grip, she looks up with a bright red face. “I’m sorry to be so high-strung. Crisis management is usually my forte, but since you arrived, there’s been a lot of upheaval in the support staff. So I’m stretched a little thin and when I feel overwhelmed, my anxiety goes haywire.”

“I can tell,” I reply as I give her an amused look. “Let’s take this step-by-step, shall we? You’re Channing, and you work in what office? We can talk about that support staff comment once we have this situation under control.”

“Okay. Got it. Uh, I’m Channing Oswald and I work in the PR department.” She takes a deep breath and smooths her hand over her hair. “They promoted me to VP yesterday because most of the department quit when you arrived—which, forgive me for being blunt, is stupid as fuck.”

I like people who don’t mince words.

“Channing, I agree with you. Unless they’re all as crooked as my rotting ex, quitting was a major mistake on their part. But I’ll see to that later.” I look around, feeling the unrest mounting among the locked up people. “Now, tell me what’s happening here. We don’t need a riot because we held these folks too long.”

She nods, giving me a serious look. “It’s bad, Dean. Like, terrible. Follow me.”

I nod, waiting for her to lead the way. Eyes track me as the two of us walk back the way I came and I know that means they’ve figured out who I am. No one stops us or says anything, but I know the minute we’re out of sight, the tongues will start wagging. “Where are we going?”

“To the home team locker room,” Channing replies. She looks over her shoulder, her dainty features pinched with concern. “We’ve kept it contained, but we won’t be able to hold the police off much longer.”

“Why would we need to keep them held ba—” The words die in my throat when she pushes the door open and I see a blond hockey god sitting on a bench with his face in his hands—in front of a dead body with blood pooling around it. “Holy fuckwhistle.”

“You don’t say.” The guy lifts his face out of his hands to reveal Viking features and a sexy scruff that makes my stomach do backflips.

“Dean, this is Lucas Wolfberg. He’s a freshman recruited to be the new star goalie for the Bonecrushers .”

Squinting, I look over at Channing curiously. “Our hockey team… is called… the Bonecrushers ?”

“Rumor has it,” Lucas drawls as he looks me over, head to toe. “Though rumors can be quite unreliable. They said you’d come here dressed like a mafia don, but you look like you watched Reality Bites too many times in the 90s.”

My gaze meets his and icy blues clash with my dark gray orbs. “You’re awfully snarky for someone who’s about to be arrested for murder, Lucas.”

His lips curve, and he smirks. “I’m no science geek, but I watch enough TV to know they won’t have enough evidence to hold me. I’m here because I got sin binned too many times, so Coach sent me to cool off, so to speak. Dude was here when I arrived, and I called for help without touching him. No CSI bullshit for me.”

Touching two fingers to my temple, I rub it lightly. The prevalence of crime drama in the media leads people to believe they know what they’re talking about and though I’m not sure Lucas killed whoever this is, I believe he could be in big trouble. Losing an important sports star, finding a dead body, and not protecting a student won’t be a good start to my inauspicious career here.

“Channing. I need you to call Lucas’s parents and have them send their lawyer immediately.” She salutes me and scurries off quickly, yet again earning my internal praise. “Lucas, I can see this will be difficult for you. I need you to shut the fuck up until your mouthpiece gets here.”

His grin is sinful, and I have to fight off a shiver. “A lady who enjoys giving orders—nice.”

“I’m not joking, you idiot. You’re in a closed room with a dead body that appears to have its throat slit. You’re wearing knives on your feet . It doesn’t take Poirot to figure out who the police are going to focus on. Do you know the identity of this corpse?” I frown, realizing I hadn’t even considered asking that until now.

My people’s longevity dampens death or murder’s horror—you lose perspective.

“Pierre LaMount.” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. “He’s the goalie for Mapleleaf University. I took the spot on this team he wanted.”

Fuck me right in the ass. That’s means, motive, and opportunity in one fell swoop.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter. “You definitely need to keep your big yap shut until a suit gets here. For your sake, the university’s sake, and for my sake, do not say a word . If those yokels get any of this out of you, you’re headed for the state pen before you can whistle ‘Dixie,’ buddy.”

“I figured that. You’re the only person I’ve spoken to since I got the coaches in here. Probably not the best plan since you have to throw me to the wolves if it benefits the university, but…”

I arch a brow. “But what?”

“Killing old Magnus for his sins took guts and character. You’re not the kind of woman who sells her soul to others, even when it would have benefitted you to do so. I’m gambling on you extending that courtesy to me.”

“You act awfully mature for a freshman, Lucas.” I give him an assessing look, trying to figure out if he’s one of the species that has long life spans and stunted life phases.

“Polar bear shifter. But my parents held me back from school for three years as a kid to make me bigger for sports. They do that here,” he says with a shrug. “So I am an older freshman, but you should see some of the football dicks. Some of them look like they’re in mid-life crisis range.”

They hold kids back from school to make them bigger for… sports? What backwards shit…

Lucas snorts. “Don’t think about it too hard. That’s the shit that goes on in the South.”

“Seems like I’ve got a lot to learn about living here,” I murmur.

He stands, moving around the blood and towards me. “That you do, ma’am.”