In a survey class, Ingrid had encountered the phrase wintered into wisdom. Most of the time, she felt as if she’d summered into exhaustion. Once, Neil had led her to the bedroom. It was 1:30 in the morning, and he’d managed to outlast her again. His small hand guided her to the bed, and he tucked her in, saying, Hush, Mummy. Hush, tired old Mummy. There you go.
“This way,” Shelby said, taking her through the doors that led outside. “It’s faster if we cut across the green. I’m not sure how long she’s going to wait, so we’d best be quick.”
Ingrid followed her silently. The campus green was touched by sunset. Burnt orange light moved across the dry grass. Two students were kicking a ball around. They looked up in surprise as the women passed them, as if they’d taken their solitude for granted. Someone had spray-painted Andy Warhol’s image on an upright pillar, and art lay scattered around the edges of the grassy swath. There was something that looked like a metal hamster ball, and concrete mushrooms painted various colors. The ground sloped as they crossed the open space. In the distance, she could see the communal garden. It was curious, this in-between green. Everyone had access to it, but no one had time to enjoy it. That was its curse. Bees gathered in a lazy cloud, humming around the crocuses and gardenias. Someone had planted peppers and drawn a small sign next to them with a stylized sombrero. She couldn’t tell if it was ill-advised or tender in some way. Let sleeping peppers lie.
Ingrid stopped in front of the garden.
Shelby gave her a look. “What? Is there a rock in your shoe? Just shake it out.”
“There’s a rock in my life.”
“That sounds like the opening line to a bad Christian musical.”
Ingrid watched the ball as it dazzled its way across the green. She thought of how Fortuna was sometimes called ball-player. She’d wait for you to draw near, then toss the sphaira in your direction. Most of the time, the love-ball hit you square between the eyes, and you went down like a ton of bricks, spitting blood. That was how she liked it.
“The plan almost makes sense,” Ingrid replied slowly. “It’s not our worst plan, that’s for sure. But what then? Even if it works, and we manage to rescue Carl, I don’t see what we’re supposed to do after that.” She looked at Shelby. “She’s got us on the run. All we do is react to her every move, and then she watches us scatter. I don’t think we can keep this up.”
“We? Or you?”
Ingrid frowned. “I’m in this as much as you are.”
“Right. No argument there.” She put a cautionary hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. It was the first time that Shelby had touched her since their fight at the library. “But you’re in a different position than us. You’ve got your whole family to think of.”
“You’re my family too. All of you. It’s not like we’re a separate unit anymore.”
Shelby’s expression softened. “I know. But ultimately, you’ve got a lot more to lose than we do. I’d understand if you wanted to back out.”
Ingrid could feel that curious shift in her gut, the moment when anger suddenly overwhelms stasis. “Why are you always telling me to run? It’s like you’re building this equation around me, and whenever I try to help, you push me away.”
There was a flash of anger in her eyes. But it faded. The sunlight was in her hair, and for a moment, she looked otherworldly. A falling star, crackling in the long, dry grass. Ingrid wanted to touch her face, to keep her from going out. Would she stay? Had it ever been possible, or was she just fooling herself?
“I don’t want you to run,” Shelby said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of lost without you. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
Ingrid reached out to smooth her hair. It was impossible not to. “It all hurts,” she said. “You can’t stop that. Luckily, I’ve got a full medicine cabinet at home.”
Shelby chuckled. “We’re going to need some aloe. Maybe some splints.”
“It’s a really big cabinet,” Ingrid murmured. Then she kissed Shelby. Two bright spots on the green. Their shadows danced in the weeds. Ingrid pulled away, just in time to see the ball whizzing toward them. She caught it smoothly, without thinking. Her hands burned from the impact, but she held it, redolent with grass and new plastic. One of the guys came jogging over with a sheepish grin.
“I’m really sorry about that,” he said, cheeks reddened. “The sun was in our eyes, and we didn’t notice you there.”
“Not a problem.” Ingrid tossed him the ball. “We were distracted.”
“Nice catch, by the way.”
“I have a child who likes to throw things. I’m kind of an unofficial goalie.”
He smiled at them both, then ran back to the green.
Shelby seemed about to say something. Then she shrugged helplessly and kept walking. Bees droned among the petals. Ingrid tried to remember what she’d been about to say, but the argument was gone. She made a mental footnote to return to it, adding to the long list of errata that she’d promised to deal with, if she ever had the time.
They entered the transitional hallway that connected the science and humanities wings of the campus. Ingrid smelled fresh paint. There was a sheet of drywall, standing abandoned and confused in the middle of the hall. Tools were scattered around it, as if some cosmic event had swept away the people who’d begun the repairs. They passed the shuttered café, and Ingrid noticed that Shelby was shivering.
“I’ve got a sweater in my bag.” She began to rummage through it. “And a Kinder egg, if you need that. Some jelly beans. A tape measure, for some reason. This might actually be a black hole that leads to another universe.”
“No, I’m not—” She managed to look slightly uncomfortable. “I had this dream, a while ago. The campus was covered in snow. There were monsters chasing me, and I couldn’t register for any of my classes.”
“Was I there?”
“Yeah.”
Ingrid smiled slightly. “What was I doing?”
“Being cryptic.”
The elevator rose. Shelby remained distracted. An age seemed to pass as they moved between floors. Ingrid remembered her own dream. Paul’s curious expression as he put a finger to his lips. The dragon made of smoke, devouring her hand as she reached for the sword that might have been a trick all along. She flexed her fingers experimentally, as if she could still feel the bite of the dark. All that treasure. What was it doing there? Heroes were always looking for treasure, but what did they actually need it for? She couldn’t imagine a fantasy realm that had embraced the gold standard. She could still see the gleaming armor, the spray of gemstones like shells on a beach. Dragons didn’t know the worth of their own hoard. Maybe her sword was just as pointless. Still, she could have used it right about now. If something attacked them, her only weapon was a bag full of oddments.
They stepped onto the third floor. The Department of Literature and Cultural Studies was a honeycomb of silent offices. Rumor had it that they’d soon be merging with the Faculty of Fine Arts, in order to create something even more far-reaching and complicated. A grand unified theory to solve the university’s budget crisis. They’d need to print larger posters, if that was the case. It would be hard to fit Department of Literature, Culture, Writing, Cinema, Communications, Sculpture, and Everything You Ever Wanted to Know but Were Afraid to Ask on a standard sheet. Maybe a banner of some sort.
“I don’t see any snow,” Ingrid said. “That’s a good sign, right?”
“I’m not sure. Weather changes on a dime around here.”
Ingrid paused in the corridor. “Tell me again how you managed to get both of them here on a weekday?”
“With Dr. Marsden, it was easy. I just told her I was having a thesis crisis, and that I might want to switch to liberal studies. She e-mailed me back right away. Dr. Laclos was a bit trickier, since he’s not even on my committee. I may have e-mailed him from Andrew’s account and pretende
d to be having an academic meltdown.”
Ingrid frowned. “You hacked into his e-mail?”
“Hacked is a violent term for it. I used my giant brain to guess Andrew’s password, which wasn’t all that hard. He uses Serenity for everything, even his bank account.”
“Please don’t hack into that.”
“Not a chance—he has the worst finances of us all.”
Ingrid gave her a long look. “Are you sure that you’re right about this?”
“No. But if there’s another option, I’m all ears.”
“You’re really going to tell your supervisor that you hit her with a car.”
“Sam hit her. And it was a truck.”
“And you don’t hear how crazy this sounds.”
Shelby flashed her a smile. “I didn’t say it was a great plan. But if I’m right, they may be our only chance of rescuing Carl.”
“How do you plan on beginning this conversation? So, Dr. Marsden, have you been experiencing any monstrous symptoms lately? Do you happen to remember chasing us through the park like a wild animal?”
Shelby squared her shoulders. “She’s an academic. She appreciates logic. I’ll make a strong argument and call on some secondary sources. That’s you, by the way. You’re my secondary source.”
“I want out of this assignment.”
“Too late. You’re in—you said so yourself.”
“I’d like to change my topic.”
“Come on.”
Trish Marsden’s office was everything that she’d pictured. The built-in shelves were lined with eighteenth-century volumes. Ingrid wasn’t much for that period, but she still wanted to run her fingers along their spines. The desk was covered in loose papers, as if to deliberately spite the neglected file folder in the corner. A narrow window overlooked a cement balcony that wrapped its way around the arts building. Mostly, this was the realm of neurotic students, burning through a pack a day while they waited for inspiration to strike. Of course, this never happened. All you could do was read until your brain melted, and then hope that you remembered how to write when the moment arrived. Before Neil was born, she pulled all-nighters with an explosion of junk food on her kitchen table, mainlining Twizzlers while struggling to decode her own sticky-note system. After he arrived, the process was much the same, only with more nighttime interruptions. It was hard to craft a footnote when your child would emerge from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes blearily and asking if you’d like to play One Thousand and One Hugs and Kisses.
Dr. Marsden sat behind the desk, her fingers steepled, as if she were about to offer a benediction. At first, Ingrid thought that she was talking to a student. But it was Dr. Laclos who sat across from her. Rumor had it that he was gunning for tenure, and the circles under his eyes were darker than usual. He wore a rumpled polo shirt with a lopsided collar, and Ingrid had to hold herself back to keep from fixing it. She had the same issue with Paul’s collars. She couldn’t stand to send him into the world looking uneven. He reminded her a bit of Paul, in fact. He had a faint beard, which was the result of neglect rather than design. His right hand was attached to a dangerously large cup of coffee, while the fingers of his left hand played with a red pen. He spun it absently, over and over again, until it was a flickering wheel.
Shelby knocked lightly on the door.
Dr. Marsden looked up. “Oh, hello. Dr. Laclos and I were just discussing the results of the last budget meeting.” Her expression darkened. “There were, of course, no results. There never are. Budget meetings are actually stitches in time that produce nothing, save for a lingering, existential headache.”
Ingrid had the feeling that her statement was both true and false. There had been a budget meeting, but that wasn’t the topic of her conversation with Dr. Laclos. The two of them exchanged a brief look. Shelby’s theory was that they were dating, but if that were the case, Ingrid couldn’t see why they weren’t more obvious about it. Trish was a bit older, but that often seemed the case in academic relationships, where people met each other at disparate career stages. There was no hint of a scandal. What was the point in being subtle?
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”
“Supervisors are always on call,” Dr. Laclos said, still spinning the pen. It was the first time that Ingrid had heard him speak. His voice was deeper than she’d expected. She could imagine him singing baritone in a choir.
“Funny you should say that,” Shelby began.
Both professors suddenly turned to regard Ingrid, as if they’d just now detected the presence of an interloper. Not an English person. That was how she often introduced herself to Shelby’s friends. They tended to have a whole constellation of weird prejudices about the Faculty of Education, so it was safer to just describe herself as not English, as if the language was somehow foreign to her.
“I’m Ingrid,” she said. “Pleased to meet you both. I’m—”
“—in education,” Dr. Marsden said. “Yes, Shelby’s told me about you.”
This brought her up short. What had Shelby told her? Ingrid couldn’t imagine her name coming up in a supervisory meeting. Did Dr. Marsden know that they were . . . whatever they happened to be? Had Shelby simply mentioned her name in passing? Ingrid was surprised by how quickly the paranoia bubbled up within her, like one of Neil’s science experiments involving vinegar and baking soda.
Dr. Laclos stood up. “I should probably be going. I also have an unexpected meeting.”
“Actually,” Shelby said, “you might want to sit down.”
Ingrid closed the door. The move was instinctual, but as soon as she did it, everyone stared at her. The door shut with a loud click. She froze with her hand on the knob.
“Sorry. Should I leave it open?”
“Nope,” Shelby said. “Closed is good.”
“What’s going on?” Dr. Marsden asked. “Why do I have the feeling that I’ve just walked into something that could involve litigation?”
“Nobody’s suing anyone,” Shelby clarified. “Andrew’s going to be furious at me for using his e-mail account, but I don’t think he’d commit to pressing charges. That would really eat into his gaming time.”
Dr. Laclos frowned. “Wait—did you e-mail me, pretending to be my graduate student?” He seemed to be seeing her for the first time. “Whatever for?”
“The better question,” Dr. Marsden said, “is why have you brought Ingrid? Are you supposed to be some kind of witness?”
It took Ingrid a moment to realize that the question was directed at her. “Ah—not exactly. I’m more of a . . . secondary source?”
Dr. Marsden’s tone was flat. “I don’t follow.”
This was spinning out of control. Andrew’s supervisor hadn’t moved an inch, but something had shifted around him. Ingrid could feel his anger rising. The room was beginning to turn. The books seemed to lean in, curious about what he might do. Dr. Laclos made a small sound in his throat. It resembled a cough but might have been a growl.
Shelby was poised to deliver her speech. But it wasn’t coming. She just stood there, mouth open slightly, ready for the explanation that couldn’t quite emerge. For a moment, the office was quiet as a grave. Shelby wasn’t saying anything. She was frozen on the edge of some impossible thesis. Ingrid sighed inwardly.
“I’m the one who hit you,” she told Dr. Marsden. “With my car. The first two times, I mean. The third time wasn’t me.”
The look that Dr. Marsden gave Ingrid was nothing short of astonishing. It was the same look you might give a stuffed bear that suddenly began talking about the economy. Ingrid saw the realization dawn coldly in her eyes. This one knows. She isn’t just part of the scenery. And that look confirmed everything that Shelby had suspected. Trish Marsden had been at the park that night. Only not Trish Marsden. A monster with her memories.
“I was hit by a drunk d
river,” Dr. Marsden said slowly. “Shelby tells me that you have a little boy. I’d hardly peg you as the type to cut a swath of destruction through the park.”
“I can be destructive when I put my mind to it,” Ingrid replied. “But I didn’t want to hit you that night. You . . . weren’t yourself. But you knew that already.”
Dr. Laclos was holding the pen tightly now. Ingrid wondered how fast he could move in this form. Was part of him always a silenus, or was it a kind of shadow, the way she experienced Fel? She didn’t want to test this hypothesis. Marsden was able to maintain her composure, but Laclos had stiffened and was looking at her with eyes that no longer belonged to a shy academic. In fact, she’d seen those eyes before.
“What are you suggesting?” Dr. Marsden asked finally. “Come out with it. I’ve no patience for this.”
In reality, she was stalling. She was watching Dr. Laclos with an expression of barely contained anxiety. He hadn’t said anything yet. He was drawing spirals against the desk with the red pen. Slow, deliberate spirals. The way that a hunter might track its prey in ever-tightening circles, until there was nowhere left to run.
“We need your help,” Shelby said finally.
Shelby’s voice broke the trance. Ingrid looked up from the desk and saw that Shelby had moved. Now she was standing directly in front of Laclos. Her hand was a light pressure on Ingrid’s shoulder, pushing her gently to the side. Ingrid didn’t move. Another part of her mind was scanning the office for something to use as a weapon. Lots of hardcovers but none big enough to do permanent damage. A stapler. That might do in a pinch. Her eyes fell on a letter opener. There. But would she be quick enough to grab it? She had to keep it in her line of sight.
“You may need a lawyer, at this point,” Dr. Marsden said. “Or a psychiatrist. Possibly both. Either way, you should go.” She glanced at Laclos. “Now, Shelby.”
Prize of Night Page 16