Hell, I even missed the departmental back-biting.
“Professor Croft?” someone called from behind me.
But if there was one thing I would never, ever miss, it was hearing that voice. For as long as I lived.
I turned to find Professor Snodgrass struggling against the current of student traffic. The diminutive head of my department was wearing a tweed suit, complete with one of his signature bow ties. Beneath his strenuously parted hair, his face was pink and exasperated. He arrived in front of me, out of breath.
“Might want to pace yourself there,” I said. “It’s only the first day.”
“Yes, very amusing,” he panted, “but you never submitted your lesson plans. They were due two weeks ago. They need to be approved.”
“The course syllabus? I submitted it last month.”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, no, the lesson plans.”
“All right, calm down. Since when do we submit those?”
“Since I instituted the requirement. I have standards to uphold in our department and will be signing off on all plans henceforth. And they’re to be structured plans. No more extemporaneous story-telling.” His eyes narrowed up at me.
Great, we were back to this.
“So you want me to submit a plan for every class I’ll be teaching for the next six weeks?” I asked, incredulous.
“That’s the new requirement, yes.”
“Well, I never got the memo.” I resumed my stroll, refusing to let Snodgrass dampen my mood.
He adjusted his oval glasses as he struggled to keep up. “I posted it to our online forum as a priority announcement.”
“Ah, there you go. I don’t use computers, remember? My magic doesn’t play well with anything more complex than a flip phone. Next time print it off and stick it in my mail slot. Problem solved.”
“I can’t make exceptions for you,” he hissed. “Magic or not, you’re no different than the other members of our faculty.”
“Not even when your cable’s out?” I asked innocently.
I was referring to the time he’d hired me to reroute a ley line from his cable box so he and his wife could watch their regency romance serial.
“Well, yes, but that was an isolated—”
“How is Miriam, by the way?” I asked, while he was still on his back heel.
His wife was a wealthy socialite who also happened to be a big fan of mine, even more so after I’d solved their cable issue. To say she wore the pants in the household was putting it mildly. On multiple occasions, I’d observed her using said pants to flog her husband’s self-esteem into the turf. I felt a little guilty playing that card now, but if Snodgrass was going to go full dick on day one…
“She’s fine,” he replied thinly.
“Come to think of it, she mentioned getting together for dinner again. Should we schedule that now, or…?” I let the question linger.
“Have your lesson plans to me by the end of the week,” Snodgrass said. “And I stand by what I said. I am not going to make exceptions for you. If you can’t use a computer, hire a graduate assistant who can.”
At the door to my classroom, I turned suddenly. “Graduate assistant?”
He must have caught something in my reaction because his lips pinched into a grin.
“That’s not a suggestion,” he decided. “It’s a requirement.”
Wonderful.
“Good morning,” I said to my class of fifteen. “I’m Professor Croft, and this is Intro to Ancient Mythology and Lore. I can’t fathom what you’re doing here, but welcome anyway.”
That always earned a nice ice-breaking chuckle.
“Over the course of this class, we’re going to explore the roots of mythology. We’re going to talk creation and destruction—fun stuff. We’re going to do a comparative analysis of the gods, heroes, and monsters across cultures. We’re going to grapple with fundamental questions of good and evil. And we’re going to discuss how all of this is relevant today. Indeed, commit yourself to this class, and it will change the way you see the world.” I paused the appropriate beat. “It could even save your life.”
Though that aroused more laughter, I was being much more serious than they knew.
I clapped my hands. “Okay, let’s begin with an overview of the next six weeks…”
I had taught the course so many times I could recite the first day material in my sleep. A good thing, because for the next two hours that was pretty much what I did. Sure, I paced and gestured and underscored, my wizard’s voice holding the students rapt, but my mind was on Snodgrass’s directives.
One of the perks of my position here had been the flexibility. When things got heavy in the wizarding dimensions of my life, I could schedule reading in lieu of a class or do my research at odd hours. As long as the student assessments remained glowing and the grants rolled in, the college board couldn’t care less.
But Snodgrass’s lesson-plan requirement coupled with having to take on a graduate assistant was going to put a serious crimp in my style. And right when I needed to be allotting more of myself to my home life.
Fortunately, the senior members of the Order were more available for supernatural issues, such as the box I’d recovered. Repairing tears around our world remained their priority, but Arianna could spare personnel now. I was really itching to learn what was inside the box. On the way to class, I’d called Claudius again, and he assured me that he himself would retrieve it later that morning.
“Professor Croft?”
I snapped to and focused on the raised hand. It belonged to a male student who looked way too young to be in college.
“Yes?” I said, afraid I’d spaced out.
“Question. You just mentioned Prometheus as an example of the archetypal trickster, but wouldn’t a figure like Loki be more appropriate?”
So I hadn’t spaced, but I found something about the young man jarring. And it wasn’t just the smoothness of his dusky face or the directness of his question. While the others were still emerging from their mild trances, his eyes were alert, mouth set in a way that could best be described as defiant.
“Your name?” I asked.
“Sven Roe,” he replied. “R-O-E.”
My mind, which unconsciously went to origins, noted the interesting combo. Sven was Nordic for “young man,” and the surname Roe was Celtic, signifying red hair. My student looked neither Nordic nor like a fiery Celt. His intense eyes were as dark as his hair—and they appeared ready for a brain brawl.
This should be interesting.
“All right, Young Man Roe,” I said. “Let’s hear your argument.”
“Prometheus wasn’t a pure trickster,” he said. “Sure, he deceived Zeus into accepting the bones of sacrificial animals instead of the meat, and he stole fire, but he did both to benefit humans. He loved them more than he did the gods. That makes him a cultural hero. Tricksters are pranksters and rule-breakers, indifferent to humans. They have no concept of right or wrong. They’re jerks, basically.”
I nodded, duly impressed. “Solid point, but keep in mind that tricksters such as Loki did benefit humankind, even though they may not have intend—”
“And because they have no concept of right or wrong,” Sven interrupted, “they can’t be considered good or evil, much less heroes. They’re amoral. That’s their defining quality, on par with the pranking, I’d argue.”
“Are you sure you should be in intro?” I asked.
The other students laughed, but my adversary wasn’t ready to back down.
“It’s just that if we’re going to throw around terms like ‘archetypal trickster,’ we need to be clear on what they mean. Prometheus is an alloy at best. He has way too much hero in him to be archetypal anything, least of all a trickster.”
The students looked between us nervously, but Sven’s forwardness didn’t bother me. I was thinking of something else.
“Do you happen to be doing work-study this term?” I asked.
Sven
’s brow furrowed at the sudden change in direction. “Yeah?”
“Have a professor yet?”
“No.”
I grinned. “You do now.”
5
I held Sven after class to discuss the position, and he remained sitting while the students filed out. I closed the door and took a seat on the corner of my desk, wanting to make this seem casual. I may have singled him out for his boldness, but I saw in him an opportunity to turn my problem into a solution.
“So, what’s this going to involve?” he asked.
“First, how old are you?”
He rolled his eyes as if he got that question a lot. “I know, I know, I look fifteen, but I’m actually nineteen. Started college while I was still in high school and finished my major studies early. I can show you my ID if you want.”
“No, that’s fine.” I smiled. “What did you study?”
“Dualed in psychology and philosophy.”
I let out a low mental whistle. That explained his smarts and debating chops.
“Mythology is more of a hobby,” he said. “My mom got me a kid’s book of the Greek myths when I was six, and it took off from there. I wasn’t trying to be rude earlier. I just think about this stuff a lot.”
“No, no, I get it.”
I looked him over just long enough for it not to be weird, but there was something about him I couldn’t quite put a finger on. Something almost otherworldly, though nothing showed in his aura. I decided it was his youth and intensity and the way his dusky features seemed to blend with his gray hoodie and jeans.
“How are you with computers?” I asked.
He shrugged. “As competent as anyone, I guess.”
“Good, I’m going to give you access to our departmental forum. I need you to scan it daily and print off anything that seems relevant.”
“Shouldn’t be hard.”
“I also want you to go through the syllabus and come up with a lesson plan for each class. How you’d instruct it, in other words.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“I’m assuming you’d like to teach at some point? This is one way to get experience, not to mention good references.” I probably should have felt guiltier than I did about sloughing off my responsibilities to a student, not to mention throwing in a bribe, but the lesson plan requirement was horseshit. I would teach how I always taught. Short of Snodgrass auditing my course, he’d never know.
“Okay,” Sven said. “What else?”
“That’s it. Have the lesson plans to me by Friday, keep an eye on the forum, and I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign for the rest of the term.”
I waited for Sven to go on his stoked way—I was basically giving him free tuition money—but he remained seated, eyes narrowing as though weighing the proposal. “What about research assistance?”
I hadn’t even considered that, but if he was willing, I could find some things for him to do. “All right, there are a couple papers I’m about to tackle. You could help me gather the source material.”
“And two hours of your time a week,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“Because I came to Midtown College specifically to learn from you.”
Really? I thought. Because for a second there, I thought you were intent on teaching me. “Well, that’s what my classes are for. But sure, anything else you want to discuss, my office hours are in the syllabus.”
“I’d like an exclusive block.”
Now I understood what had struck me about him. It wasn’t just his intensity or dusky features, though that was part of it. He was a younger, more ambitious version of myself. I couldn’t help but chuckle.
What had I gotten myself into?
“Look, Sven, there’s really no point. Few students take advantage of my office hours. You could probably have all of them if you wanted. Anytime you want to talk mythology, just stop on in.”
“I’m not referring to mythology.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not referring to mythology.” He looked meaningfully from me to my cane, which I’d leaned beside the desk.
I groaned inwardly. My second life as a magic-user was no secret, not after I’d been the public face of Mayor “Budge” Lowder’s eradication program. But that had been two years ago, and the fanfare had died down. I was rarely recognized on the street anymore—thanks in part to an enchantment the Order had installed in the citywide wards. But I still got the occasional student who remembered and wanted more.
“I don’t teach that here,” I said.
“So where do you teach it?”
“I don’t teach it, period.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t,” I said, pushing power into my wizard’s voice.
“The work study requirement for a graduate assistantship is fifteen hours a week. I’m just asking for two.”
My voice hadn’t fazed him. And here I thought I was so clever selecting the loudest, most brazen student in the class.
“Look, maybe this was a bad idea,” I said, standing.
He stood with me, his intense eyes turning earnest. “Professor Croft, I want to learn. I’m ready.”
I took a calming breath. “I can’t just teach the kind of magic I practice to anyone. Attempting to instruct you, even introducing you to the basic tenets, would be irresponsible and dangerous. Most of my work involves undoing the work of lay casters—and I don’t always reach them in time. I’ve seen way more disembowelments than anyone should have to.” Probably oversharing, but I needed to get my point across. He was exactly the kind of kid who would dabble in a powerful spell book. “My kind of magic requires a certain bloodline, understand? And it’s not a bloodline you and I share.”
Before he could reply, my flip phone rang. I checked the caller. Vega.
“Hold on a sec,” I told Sven, turning and opening the phone. “What’s up?”
“You busy?” By her tone, she was asking in her capacity as an NYPD officer versus my wife.
“Not really. Do you need me for something?”
“There’s a body we’d like you to take a look at.”
“I thought you were on light duty in another department.”
“This was Hoffman’s call.”
“Hoffman asked for me personally?” Though Vega’s partner in Homicide had come around to me and my magic in the last year or so, he’d never brought me in on a case. He usually pushed back.
“Right? Miracles and wonders,” she deadpanned. “From what I can gather, the circumstances are unusual, and the vic is some sort of VIP. I’m guessing Hoffman’s under pressure to deliver a suspect.”
“Just text me the address, and I’ll head over.”
“How’s your first day going?” she asked above the sound of tapping.
“Well, it hasn’t been dull,” I said, thinking of Snodgrass and then Sven. “Yours?”
“Wish I could say the same. I wasn’t built for desk work.”
“No, you weren’t,” I agreed. “But I’m sure the bad guys appreciate the break.”
She snorted. “Address is sent.”
My phone chimed. “Got it. I’ll see you tonight.”
As we ended the call, I turned back, surprised to find that Sven had left. A folded note sat on the corner of the desk. I strolled over and opened it.
“I’M READY,” he’d written, and underlined for emphasis.
Below, he’d rendered a sigil-enhanced circle using what looked like a silver-flecked grease pencil.
Great, so the kid was already dabbling. Just what I needed.
With a sigh, I carried the note to the waste basket. As it fluttered down, blue light broke around the circle, and the entire note erupted into flames. I startled back, staring as the paper disintegrated into gray ash.
“What the hell?”
It was a trick, I thought on the cab ride to the address Vega had sent me. Had to be.
I’d raced after Sven, but he’d disappeared into the ha
lls of Midtown College, and I didn’t have time to go looking. Which left me searching for explanations. Something in the medium he’d used to draw the circle had clearly held a combustible component. But how in the hell had he ignited it? If he were a magic-user, he could have used a timing sigil, but he wasn’t a damned magic-user. I’d checked.
Did he get his hands on a spell book?
It seemed he’d gotten his hands on something, but there was no use blowing a mental gasket trying to figure out what. I would agree to take him on as an “apprentice”—just long enough to learn what he knew and how he knew it.
I blew out my breath. Of all the things to have to deal with the first week of class.
The cab pulled over in front of one of the Upper East Side’s palatial apartment buildings. An officer out front escorted me inside. The crime scene was a penthouse on the top level. I smelled the body the minute I stepped off the elevator, a sick, swampy odor you never quite got used to. At the far end of the corridor, beyond a barricade of police tape, Detective Hoffman was waiting for me.
I could tell by the set of his jaw that Vega had been right. He was under extra pressure to deliver.
“Took you long enough,” he growled, lifting the tape as I approached.
“I came as soon as I got the address.” I ducked under and turned toward a table of personal protective equipment.
“Just mask and gloves,” he said. “Don’t bother with the rest. Forensics has already been here.” I donned an N-95 mask, which helped blunt the dead-body odor, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
“What are we looking at?” I asked.
“A fucking puzzle,” he replied, lifting his own mask back in place.
I usually took pleasure in riling him, but today wasn’t the day. He was really in a mood. His brown polyester suit squeaked as he led the way past an officer stationed at the door. We entered a large penthouse that was surprisingly minimalist. A few pieces of modern furniture, a few potted plants.
Shadow Duel (Prof Croft Book 9) Page 3