by Liam Lawson
The best way around it therefore was to not set it off in the first place. He thought about it for a moment, then began to cast. Conjuration was not his strongest school by far. He preferred divination and abjuration. Fortunately, he didn’t need to be especially skilled. Professor Hunt was skilled enough as it was.
He cast a small shield spell, pouring in just enough magic to make it appear in his hand, rather than creating a full dome of protection. With an effort he began to shape it into a rough approximation of the paperweight. Trorm grasped the object and placed the shield over it as tightly as he could, then pulled the item free. The shield stayed behind, blocking the spell.
He’d gotten the inspiration from a movie where an explorer had undone a booby trap protecting an ancient relic by swapping the relic out with a bag of sand to keep the weight the same. Unfortunately, this worked about as well for Trorm as it had the movie’s hero. He’d barely made it to the study door when an alarm sounded. He must have succeeded in overcoming that particular trap because nothing appeared to have been conjured. What had he set off then?
It didn’t matter. He ran.
He heard footsteps. Raised voices. Something that sounded suspiciously like a spell being cast.
He raced out the backdoor, sprinting around to the side gate for all he was worth. There was no sign of his fellow players out front and he’d come on foot. There was no way he’d be able to outrun an angry wizard’s spell.
A car pulled up the curb. The passenger door flew open, revealing a curly blonde-haired young woman. Clare Blanchard. “Get in!”
He got in and they zoomed away.
Chapter Five
The Wild Hoop was one third restaurant, one third bar, one third dance club, and one hundred percent college hangout. Clare had draped herself on his arm, waltzed them inside, and proceeded to order appetizers. Drinks with alcohol had to be purchased from the bar area or she’d have already had something stronger than diet coke. Strange that humans gave special emphasis to a word to give it a slightly different meaning.
“So,” she said, drawing out the word. “What were ya doing?”
She said it funny. Trorm couldn’t tell if she was trying to sound like a small child or speak to him like he was. It would have been annoying except that she smiled and reached across the table to lay her fingers on his forearm. The light touch of skin on skin sent electricity coursing through him that made him want to pay attention to her words no matter how stupid her tone. It had to be a human thing. Was she flirting with him? He hoped she was.
“I’m honestly not sure,” he said, trying to hedge his bet. “I have no idea what we’re doing right now.”
She pouted, maintaining the childish demeanor. Was it supposed to be endearing? If it was intended to be attractive, he found it mildly off putting. What man, human or orc, wanted a woman that thought she was a child? That put an unpleasant sensation in his belly that buffered, but did not eliminate, the current from her touch.
“We are on a date,” she said, straightening up suddenly in a way that thrust her impressive breasts forward and made her seem much more mature and in control of the situation. “That’s why you’re buying me dinner.”
The change in demeanor was almost enough to give him whiplash. Damn he was missing those sunglasses. Would they even be any help here? Clare was so mercurial he doubted that their enchantment would be able to keep up. Had she somehow sensed that her baby-girl act wasn’t working? Or was this the act now? Women, regardless of race, were mindboggling.
“Okay,” he said slowly. A date. That was courting. And confusing as she was, the knowledge that she wanted him to court her was deeply satisfying on a very primal level. It brought a grin to his face.
It was an expression she returned, though he noted her eyeing his tusks. He quickly brought his lips back together. No point terrifying her before anything had even happened. Gods above, was anything going to happen? A man could hope. Football players were supposed to hold positions of high honor at human universities.
“So, since we’re now dating,” Clare asked, leaning forward and displaying a hint of her cleavage. “What have I gotten myself into?”
He could pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about, but they’d both know that was bullshit. And he didn’t want to start a new relationship with a lie. Especially since she clearly had some idea what was going on or she wouldn’t have shown up. She must have been listening in after football practice. How had she gotten the address though?
He decided not to look a gift warg in the mouth and not ask. She knew. That was what was important. Just as important was the covenant of secrecy that he had been wordlessly sworn to with his teammates. He was not going to throw them under the bus.
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me for starting things off with a secret but I am honor bound to hold my silence.” If the others betrayed him that would one thing. This did not seem the sort of thing that they would set up. He’d keep their trust.
“Oooh, honor bound,” Clare said. “That sounds sexy.” She stroked her fingers up his arm, sending little shivers through his flesh.
He clenched his jaw. She’d gone back to that silly little girl voice but there was nothing childish about the look in her eye or the intent in her touch. Oh yes, something was going to happen tonight. Perhaps the first of many.
She pulled her hand away as a waitress appeared with their food, setting it down on the table, and then pulling away quickly. Clare considered her salad for a moment, then met his eyes, that same grin back on her face. “I think I know just what we need when you’re honor bound to silence. Drinks.”
She wanted to get him drunk and make him spill his secrets? Clearly, she didn’t realize how high orcish tolerance for alcohol was. He grinned, not bothering to hide his tusks. “Sounds like a plan.”
He got up and navigated his way around the dancefloor toward the bar. The paperweight sat awkward in his pocket, creating a sizeable lump. That wouldn’t do. The weight pulled on his pants and it looked ridiculous.
Movement on the dance floor caught his eye. One of the dancers was a lagothrope, a rabbit-blooded therianthrope, sometimes offensively called beastfolk or beastkin. She wore little more than the cheerleaders had that afternoon and was moving for all she was worth. And she could move. She shook her hips, jumped up and down—higher than any of the other female patrons—and twisted about with so much energy that only her evident control made him able to tell that she wasn’t drunk. Judging from the guys crowding around the vigorous beauty, they couldn’t and were hoping to get lucky. Who knew, maybe they would.
Trorm hadn’t known many therianthropes back in the Glorious Horde. Those he had known were passionate. A lagothrope, he imagined, would love to be in motion and they were known for their libidos. Especially the bunnygirls. Call any other therianthrope female by an animal name like that, say a catgirl or a foxgirl, and you’d likely get your throat ripped out. Lagothrope women though seemed to actually like it. He’d never understood why.
For a moment their eyes met. She grinned at him, seeming to beckon him to the dance floor with her eyes. When he didn’t respond she leapt back into her dancing, spinning around one young man who’d been brave enough to approach her.
Trorm shook his head and finished making his way to the bar, the paperweight thumping against his leg with every step. He flagged down the bartender, who mercifully didn’t ask for his ID, and placed their orders.
“Do you have any sort of storage back there?” Trorm asked.
“What, you mean like, for coats and stuff?” the bartender asked, pouring the wine Clare had asked for.
“Or just random crap,” Trorm said.
The bartender gave him an odd look. “Nope.”
With a sigh, Trorm produced a twenty-dollar bill and held it up discreetly with the paperweight. “You sure you can’t keep something back there for me for a few hours?”
If this wa
s a date, then Clare would want to dance, and dancing wasn’t going to be possible with that hunk of metal swinging around in his pocket ready to hurt someone. It was more than he wanted to spend, but if it got him laid…well, men did stupid things in pursuit of women and he wasn’t going to ruin Clare’s evening when he already owed her.
The bartender made the bill vanish and tucked away the paperweight. “I’ll hold it for an hour, then it goes to lost and found.”
“Two hours,” Trorm said. “Ten dollars per hour.”
The barkeep shrugged. “Take your chances then.”
Trorm instead took the drinks presented him and made his way back to the table. Only to find that a group of guys had already descended upon it and were swarming Clare. He growled. Apparently, a man couldn’t leave his date unattended for a moment in this place. Especially not when she looked like Clare.
For her part Clare didn’t seem particularly interested in the guys, smiling and nodding politely as they said something that was no doubt idiotic. Arriving at their table, the group went awkwardly silent, glaring at him. He set down the drinks, then offered a hand to Clare. “Dance with me.”
Grinning, she took his hand and followed him to the dancefloor, leaving the stunned young men behind. Some said some very rude words under their breath. If Trorm had been one of his brothers he’d have turned around and made the little shit swallow his teeth. Fortunately for both of them, Trorm wasn’t one of his brothers, and he knew a much better way to get revenge.
He led Clare to the dancefloor and as the next song came on, they began to move. Only the bunnygirl rivaled them in energy or passion. They danced and moved to the music, Clare beaming, faces growing sweaty.
“I didn’t know you knew how to dance!” Clare practically bounced in his arms as the song ended.
Trorm had suspected that when it came to human women that many cultural misunderstandings could be forgiven or overlooked if he knew how to dance, so he’d made it a point to learn how. He matched her grin. Clearly, he’d been right.
The next song came on and they started again. Clare drew closer and closer to him, practically pushing herself into him as they moved. Her dancing was almost sexual, skirting that line between sexy and slutty. Trorm didn’t know or care which side of that line opinion fell. She was dancing with him.
They spun and he caught a glimpse of the bunnygirl, deftly dancing with three different partners at once. He blinked. That was damn impressive, the way she was able to keep rhythm with all three simultaneously.
“Got a thing for bunnygirls, huh?” Clare asked, pressing in close.
How was he supposed to answer that? He didn’t have a preference for lagothrope women, that lagothrope woman was simply eye-grabbing. She was just so vibrant and unrestrained. Trorm almost felt a sense of something akin to envy. Unrestrained was not an adjective that he would be able to apply to himself so long as he was an exchange student among the humans.
He shrugged. “She’s a good dancer.”
Clare giggled but her eyes narrowed. What did that mean?
“It’s rude to look at other girls while you’re out on a date,” she whispered, drawing in close, pressing her body fully against his and going up on tiptoe. She still couldn’t reach his ear to whisper into it and her lips instead brushed against his neck. He wanted her. Wanted to grab her, run from the Wild Hoop with her tossed over his shoulder, and ravish her in the back of her own car. He could imagine how she’d feel under him, her skin against his…she was still talking.
With an effort, he made himself focus on her words. “You’re in my debt now. But I know how you can make it up to me.”
Debt huh? He had a few ideas about how he could show his gratitude.
“Tell me what you were doing when I picked you up?” She whispered. “Why were you there?”
Trorm blinked. That had not been what he’d been expecting.
“I told you,” he said. “I’m honor-bound to silence.”
She pulled back, lips turned down in a pout. Was it supposed to be cute or convey genuine anger? Was this a human woman thing or was this a Clare Blanchard thing? Frozen hells but he wished he had his sunglasses. Any help would be good.
Abruptly Trorm became aware of his surroundings. Somehow, they’d ended up on the very edge of the dancefloor, almost off of it actually, and there was someone standing behind him. Releasing Clare, he spun about, expecting to find one of the young men who had been hitting on her earlier ready to exact revenge for whatever slight he’d perceived from Trorm’s actions.
Instead he found himself face to face with an older man in a suit coat and jeans. His head was shaved though he had a goatee and mustache, and thick, black-rimmed glasses. Something about the man’s posture suggested he was used to being in charge and Trorm didn’t need his sunglasses to know that the expression on his face was unamused.
It took him a moment to place that face because it was twofold familiar, though Trorm knew he had never met this man before. And then it clicked. It was firstly familiar because Arlen and this man shared the same cheekbones. It was secondly familiar because he’d seen this man’s picture on the internet when he’d been researching earlier that day.
Professor Ismael Hunt had found him.
Calm. He had to keep calm.
At the very least he had a cover story. Clare could vouch for him and say that they’d been out here on their date if Professor Hunt demanded to know where he’d been. A quick glance over his shoulder however made him do a doubletake.
Clare Blanchard was gone.
Chapter Six
Trorm was sent mentally reeling. Focus. If he lost control of himself it could be the death of all he had worked for. Clare was gone. Professor Hunt was here. He had no idea why either thing had happened and was just as sure that if he stood there gaping like an idiot it would bite him on the ass.
Surprise. He could show surprise. That wouldn’t give anything away. And ignorance. He should plead that for as long as he possibly could. What about stupidity? The orcish stereotype humans loved so much. He could probably get out of a lot with that. Only this man was going to be one of his professors. Not one that he’d seek a mentorship with, but an influential figure at the Academy of Arcane Ascension. Convincing him that Trorm was stupid could backfire in so many spectacular ways.
Not to mention the act would be demeaning. And speaking of acting, the longer he stood there doing nothing, the stranger he looked. While there was a time and place to keep one’s mouth shut, if he was to plead ignorance convincingly, it couldn’t be here.
“Who’re you?” Trorm said brusquely. “You scared off my date.”
That earned him a raised eyebrow.
“My name is Dr. Ismael Hunt,” the man said. “I’m a professor at the Academy of Arcane Ascension. I believe you attend there. I also believe that you have something of mine.”
That was straightforward.
“I’ve never met you before,” Trorm said, making his tone more respectful. Then added, “Sir.”
Dr. Hunt gave a slow, appreciative nod, but didn’t look away. “You are Trorm Coldstorm, yes?”
Trorm nodded.
“Where have you been tonight?”
Trorm’s mind froze. He’d been intending to say that he’d been out with Clare but that wasn’t an option now. And he couldn’t do anything to jeopardize Arlen and the others. Something clicked in his mind. This was a loyalty test. Dr. Hunt was in on it as Arlen’s father. The other players wanted to learn if he was trustworthy or not.
What was his alibi then?
“Trorm!”
Both Trorm and Dr. Hunt turned to find the scantily clad lagothrope bouncing off the dancefloor and right into Trorm’s side. She snuggled underneath his arm and fit there nicely. “Who’s your friend, Honey?” she asked.
Honey? That was a human endearment wasn’t it? Strange to call someone bee waste. How had she known his name?
Dr. Hunt gave h
er and him both a speculative look. “Dr. Ismael Hunt, from the Academy of Arcane Ascension. Who might you be miss?”
“Ooh, a doctor. Wait, you must be super smart if you work at the arcane academy. Well, I guess you said you’re a doctor so you’d have to be smart.” She beamed at him, revealing a slight overbite and front teeth just a bit too large to be typical for a human girl. One long ear twitched. “I’m Winnie.”
“A pleasure, Winnie,” Dr. Hunt said slowly, as if processing what he was seeing. Trorm still wasn’t sure what was happening himself. “Mr. Coldstorm, please, where have you been this evening?”
“Oh, I can tell you that,” Winnie exclaimed, bouncing up and down, still pressed to Trorm’s side. The feel of it was both pleasing and distracting. “He’s been dancing with me! Before that we were hanging out with some other guys from the football team. Erik, Wilbur, Arlen—you know, Arlen ‘Hellhound’ Hunt? Wait, you guys have the same last name that is so cool!”
Dr. Hunt made a smile that once again Trorm couldn’t identify. Those were supposed to convey happiness. This was not a happy smile. “Arlen is my son.”
“Oh wow! Tell him I am suuuper sorry about pulling Trorm away but I just had to get him to myself for a while.” She tilted her head, nose twitching as she smiled. “You know how it is between boys and girls. Lady of Fertility I totally love college.”
That had Trorm’s cheeks flushing with heat. And unless he missed his guess, Winnie had caused the same reaction in Dr. Hunt. The man’s cheeks had a slightly reddened look about them.
“I see,” Dr. Hunt said, then made a quick gesture with his left hand. The watch there glittered for a moment. No, not a watch at all, Trorm realized. It was a casting implement. Like his staff. He only caught a glimpse of ruins where there should be numerals and a circle within the face, but there was no mistaking what that watch was.