Chapter Eighteen Lucius

I unlock the door with a whispered word and slip into my office in the crypt with an audible sigh of relief.

Between the looming threat of this Academy's frequently lethal examinations and the ongoing angst of the succession struggle, there's so much tension and youthful drama ricocheting through these halls that I'm experiencing a migraine.

With the aid of my wolfish senses, I pad through the darkness, moving gently to avoid jostling my aching skull. From memory, I skirt the ancient sarcophagus that holds the moldering bones of the headmaster who preceded me (mine being a post that comes with internment privileges as a job benefit). While my wolf whines in sympathy, I lower my briefcase to my desk and ease my rump into the creaking chair.

Hunching my shoulders protectively around my tender cranium, I clutch my temples with a heartfelt groan.

From the shadowy depths of the sofa directly before me, the sudden scrape and flare of a match nearly makes me leap from my skin.

I shoot to my feet with a snarl of alarm. My fangs punch down to fill my mouth.

Regrettably, my violent recoil creates a gust of air that blows out the fragile flame.

"There's no cause for alarm, Professor Aries." The voice that ripples through the darkness is very nearly Vasili's. A tenor like butterscotch silk strokes my senses, edged with the rolling R's and sibilant S's of the Russian tongue.

But Vasili, to my sustained annoyance, never addresses me as Professor .

"The devil there isn't," I growl through my fangs.

I'm crouching on my desk, palms lowered to grip the ancient wood, claws sprouting from my fingers. In short, I'm a breath away from leaping for the stranger's throat.

My office is protected with powerful wards this intruder has apparently disarmed with ease, so I already know he's a powerful warlock.

My nostrils flare to sniff the air.

His scent too is Vasili's, the dark spice of vetiver with an underlying note of birchwood. Clearly, this is why it failed to rouse my wolf.

As it happens, Vasili bent me over that same sofa yesterday and pounded into me so hard we overturned the lamp. Consequently, that sofa reeks of my alpha's essence (as well as mine).

With a soft sigh, the trespasser strikes another match.

He may smell like my alpha and sound like my alpha, but the ruthless face that appears above the dancing flame, as my tall intruder bends to light a candle, is older and harder. A smooth wing of mahogany hair, streaked with silver at the temples, falls over a craggy brow to frame eyes dark and potent as espresso, flecked with shimmering gold.

In the flickering candlelight, those eyes glimmer with secrets.

This man is easy on the eyes, if you like them older, and if you like the Mads Mikkelsen type. Still, he has none of his son's lethal prettiness and none of his flirtatious charm. Vasili must have inherited those traits from his mother.

We've never met, but the sudden swell of certainty about who this creature must be nearly shatters my skull.

Truly, this damnable complication is the very last thing we need.

"Nikolai Romanov," I say warily.

"In the flesh," he murmurs. "Rather unfortunately for you, Lucius Aries."

Down the back of my neck, my hackles ripple and rise with danger.

Inside my skin, my wolf mutters and paces.

Moving with care to avoid inflaming my migraine, I climb down from my desk (keeping its protective expanse between us, because I'd still like to lunge for his throat). I dip my tortured head with a courtesy I'm far from feeling.

Nikolai Romanov is the mighty prince of the Scorpio clan, one of the great witching families. Not to mention the fellow is also a trustee and patron of this Academy—all honors that demand my respect.

Then there's his day job.

As much as I'd like to, I can't simply eject this menacing newcomer from my office by the scruff of his neck like an erring student.

Far from it.

I clear my throat and light my desk lamp to banish the unholy ambience. The shadows creep back to the corner behind the sarcophagus. Nicolai Romanov emerges fully from the gloom.

He towers over my desk, tall and slim as the White Witch of Narnia in a conservative Brooks Brothers suit, features coldly composed above his crisp collar and perfectly knotted silk tie. The gleaming links of an old-fashioned pocket watch—a magical artifact that hums with enchantment—loop neatly from his breast pocket.

All perfectly civilized.

After all, this man is known for that.

Under his directorship, the vast and faceless bureaucracy of the witching world's notorious spy agency has become a reign of terror.

But he rarely bloodies his own hands.

"There's no need to lurk in my crypt like a vampire." I swallow down my misgivings and give this unwelcome arrival a wry look. "There's a perfectly habitable guest suite for visiting trustees in the Dean's Tower."

"Yes, I'm already occupying it," the man says briskly. His Russian accent is sharper than Vasili's, who's been immersed in my English-speaking domus for years. "The Dean and I have been in conference all morning."

This news is concerning, but I manage to conceal my unease. All too clearly, this visit is no casual drive-by. We've barely spoken, yet the master spy has already threatened me twice.

Now it appears the infernal fellow plans to stay on.

Probably, if I had to guess, we'll be stuck with him until Zara and Cleo compete in the Dean's Challenge. Until the royal succession is settled. Until the flame of rebellion sparking from Zara's incendiary defiance is quenched.

Dear God. How I dread his effect on Vasili.

My student-slash-colleague-slash-alpha is already dangerously disturbed over the unsettling arrival of the Dark Fae King. For Vasili, his estranged father's prolonged presence is enough to render him actively homicidal.

"I see." Swallowing a grimace, I gesture my unwelcome guest toward the sofa with a reluctant hand and settle warily back to my chair. "You should be aware these are my office hours, so various students are likely to turn up with tardy assignments and examination jitters at any time."

Ideally, they won't find me lying dead down here in a pool of my own blood. Murdered by the vengeful parent of the student I've ruined.

Even if my downfall would be considered a just fate.

The director of the AIB merely lifts a cold brow that disdains my concern.

My migraine pings in my temples. Deliberately, I unclench my jaw and summon a stiff smile that bares my still-extended canines.

"That said," I growl, guttural with warning, "how can I assist the mighty Arcane Investigative Bureau?"

"I'm not here on the AIB's behalf. Nor even as a trustee of the school." Nikolai Romanov folds his elegant frame onto my couch (thankfully, he seems to have no idea what level of depravity routinely occurs there) and steeples his fingers before his thoughtful face. "I'm here as a concerned parent."

I eye him with a skepticism I scarcely manage to conceal.

Indeed, it's all I can manage not to utter a rude snort.

You'd never know it to look at him, but this affluent spymaster began life as a penniless aristocrat. (When it comes to old blood, it takes one to know one). Nikolai made his millions, like other Russian oligarchs, in the rubble of the old Soviet empire. Everything he owns—his hotel in Monte Carlo, his dacha in the Crimea, his megayacht in the Seychelles, all his ill-gotten gains—this man has earned through the toil of his clever brain, the application of his ruthless instincts, and an utter lack of scruples.

"You're here about Vasili?" I wait for his nod, although I'm perfectly aware he has no other offspring.

"With all due respect, Mr. Romanov." My voice hardens. "If you ever intended to express concern for your son's welfare—or, God forbid, his happiness—that ship sailed into the sunset years ago. Since the day you booted him off your yacht and abandoned him on our doorstep for the so-called sin of being gay, Vasili has more than survived. He's thrived. That traumatized child you abandoned has matured into a formidable warlock with a blistering intellect and staggering powers."

Barely perceptible, those clever eyes narrow. "I'm very well aware of his strengths, Professor Aries—"

"I highly doubt that." In fact, I'd bet my grandsire's castle this man has no clue who his son is or what he's become.

But the man is a trustee. I'm merely the faculty, and mine is a position I cherish.

With considerable difficulty, I bite my tongue, order my wolf to subside, and will my wicked canines to retract.

Clearly discerning my silent war with my beast, Nikolai Romanov tilts his head. "At the least, Professor Aries, I'm reliably informed my son is the holy terror of this institution."

"You raised him to be a bully and so he is one," I say with deliberate lightness. In truth, his father raised him to be practically psychotic. "However, he's also a graduating senior and our adjunct professor of Mogadon Magics. Assuming he survives his qualifying exams this summer, Vasili will begin fall term as the youngest tenured professor in this Academy's storied history. So, as you see, there's no need to worry."

One corner of that ruthless mouth lifts in a chilly smile. "You're protective of him. Of course, I've been fully aware of the unusual nature of your… relations… with my son, even before The Witching Inquisitor published its distasteful exposé."

An uncomfortable heat climbs in my face.

Saints above, am I blushing?

Aware of the spymaster's keen gaze on my ruddy face, I busy myself unlocking my briefcase and extracting a sheaf of freshly penned essays on the Fae Sundering that are in urgent need of grading.

"Our relationship may be unconventional," I concede, addressing the essays, as my blush subsides, "but I'm still Vasili's headmaster, an arrangement fully sanctioned by the Dean. Academically speaking, I've no cause for complaint. He scarcely bothers to complete his homework, of course, but that's mainly because it bores him. I fully expect Vasili to excel at his quals."

"Ah, but my concerns are not academic in nature." Romanov dispenses another small cold smile. The man may be posing as a concerned parent, but he's a cold fish—and a cunning spider.

Whatever he might claim, I seriously doubt Nikolai Romanov harbors a particle of genuine concern for his son's academic success or his moral welfare.

This man is spinning a web of lies.

Lies he intends to trap me.

Try though he might, I have no intention of being ensnared.

Clearly sensing my suspicion, the spymaster leans back on the couch in a posture of casual ease. (Merciful Christ, he's sitting precisely where his son first rimmed me and then railed me until my wolf nearly shredded the leather.) Nikolai crosses one deliberate ankle over his knee, flashing an inch of charcoal silk sock. His thoughtful fingers remain tented before his lips.

"I seem to have made a series of… errors in judgment… regarding my son," he says quietly. "Errors in judgment which are, for me, far from typical. In my own defense, the discovery of Vasili's homosexuality—and the manner of its discovery— came as a considerable shock and a public embarrassment. Rather than showing a flicker of sympathy for the appalling political dilemma he'd dumped in my lap, he rubbed my face in it with obnoxious glee."

"Well, that certainly sounds like Vasili," I murmur, hunting through my desk for a red pen.

Like father, like son. He learned his utter lack of compassion from you.

Romanov taps a pensive finger against his lips. "If I'd known then that he is capable of tolerating a woman in his bed—even experiencing passion for one, as he clearly does for the Gemini claimant—I would never have sent him away. You see, I harbored… certain plans… for his future."

I bristle at his turn of phrase.

Zara is no mere claimant .

The Senate voted her in, damn it, to succeed our childless current queen. A vote which has yet to be overturned. For that to occur, that timid constellation of nervous politicians—masterfully managed by Theo Mercury—will await the outcome of the Dean's Challenge.

To see if she survives .

If Zara wins, I'm certain, they won't budge. Neo's father will tell Cleopatra Aquarius to pound sand.

Only then will Zara's crown be safe.

But my feelings for Zara are an exposed flank I dare not reveal to the perceptive villain currently lurking in my crypt.

Besides, we're speaking of Vasili.

"I understand you planned to marry your son to Maxim Rasputin's rather odious sister. That would have been a disaster." I draw the stack of essays toward me in pointed hint. I'm in desperate need of a numbing potion for my migraine, but I don't dare reveal weakness before this spider with his envenomed bite—

Without any warning, my office door bursts violently open and slams into the stone wall, as though it's been smashed with a telekinetic hammer.

I startle and my talons shoot out. Nikolai Romanov twitches.

Abruptly Vasili's tall frame commands the doorway. "Lucius, I—"

His gaze lands on his father, who rises sharply to his feet.

Under the protective patina of his skillfully applied foundation, my most troublesome student goes white.

In an arrested silence that hums with tension, the two Romanovs eye each other across the width of my office. The distance between them yawns wider than the Great Rift Valley.

"Oh, dear fuck. It's you ." Recovering swiftly, Vasili speaks first, with a brittle contempt that shreds any scrap of sentiment.

" Privyet, Vasya ," his father says quietly. "You're looking well."

"Don't you mean I'm looking gay ?" My alpha gestures in an exaggerated way that encompasses his black-painted fingernails, his gilded shag of punk-rock hair, his trendy Duran Duran spin on the Academy uniform, and his tastefully applied cosmetics.

A muscle flexes in Nikolai Romanov's jaw. "Apparently not. Judging by the photographic evidence of you and that Gemini girl displayed on every newsstand in the witching world — "

"Well, darling, don't get your hopes up." Rudely Vasili cuts him off. "I assure you, I didn't suddenly wake up straight. I still adore a thick dick and a tight hole."

Now it's Nikolai's turn to whiten. (I sympathize.)

My breath hitches and my own hole clenches. My alpha shoots me a mischievous look .

"Vasili, er, Mr. Romanov," I say in a strangled voice. They both look alertly at me. "A bit more respect, if you please."

After all, it's my hole he's talking about. In front of his own father!

The spymaster rebounds swiftly. "I'm well aware of your eccentricities, Vasya…"

"Oh, never mind all that." Vasili strikes a pose in the doorway like a runway model and pouts. "Finding you lurking here in the crypt, papachka , is like living in a Shakespeare play. Only I can't quite decide whether you're trying to reprise the role of Macbeth's bloodthirsty wife or the ghost of Hamlet's father." Vasili smirks at me, but his smile is strained. "How tedious."

"Why are you here?" I ask Vasili pointedly. "You're supposed to be teaching Mogadon Magics this period. Is something the matter?" My gaze flickers toward Nikolai. "Ah, aside from the obvious?"

"Well, pet, since you ask." Every trace of my student's petty spite vanishes in a blink. Vasili's pretty face hardens to a mask of menace. "I tried reaching you telepathically, Lucius, but I couldn't—not through these horrid wards you insist upon in here." He pauses. "Take a numbing potion for that head first, do . You'll need it."

Of course he's familiar with my migraines, and he's sensing my pain through our mating bond.

In his own fierce way, he's protective of me.

Conceding to my alpha, I dip a hand under my desktop for the potion. But my beast is already crouching and baring his teeth in alarm. My palate tingles under the press of my fangs.

"After the potion, what then?" I growl, gruff with wolf.

Nikolai listens closely to our exchange, no doubt cataloging every nuance of our complex dynamic in his coldly analytical brain. But he too is poised on the razor's edge of violence.

" Then they need you—and your wolf—in the commons, darling," Vasili says briefly. "Zara and Cleo are fighting."