Page 43 of Eat. Prey. Love. (Apex Academy Capers #5)

I fidget in my seat, gripping my tablet and the folder with the hard copy until it bites into my palms. My heart skips a beat every time the door to the classroom creaks open. I’m half-hoping, half-dreading it might be Amity, breezing in with some flimsy excuse clutched in her hands alongside her half of the work. But no, she’s a ghost today, and as each new student enters, not one of them is her.

Not like I really believe she was going to do anything anyway, but it’d be nice to get proven wrong about a negative opinion for once.

“Settle down, everyone.” Asani’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. He stands with a predatory Giselle that belies his faux, designer academic attire, his sharp eyes scanning the class.

I resist the urge to shrink in my chair. Knowing he’s my tiger twins’ relative makes my skin prickle uncomfortably. He doesn’t look exactly like them, but enough that it enhances the aura of malevolence he tries to hide under the guise of being a stern professor. This class makes my stomach churn with anxiety and disgust because I know the gross vibes that I get from their cousin must be what all the current Raj’s acolytes feel like to my men. It’s both sad and icky at the same time, but I can’t focus on that right now.

Today is D-day—the dreaded day of our first project submission. As I said, I’m flying solo as expected. Amity, my supposed partner, has been MIA, leaving me stranded in a sea of unanswered emails and text messages. Not that I let her silence deter me; I’ve painstakingly completed the assignment on my own—ensuring every historical fact got checked and double-checked.

My take on the topic won’t make a Council stooge like Asani happy, but he can’t fault my methods, at least.

I settle back into my seat, the hard plastic somehow feeling more unwelcoming than usual. My ears itch, a physical manifestation of the unease that’s gnawing at my bunny. Asani paces in front of the classroom, his steps measured and deliberate, as if he’s the king of Bloodstone instead of a flunky of the king pretending to be a college history professor. My nerves buzz with anticipation and anxiety. It’s not just about getting a grade for me—it’s about proving I can handle whatever is thrown my way, even if that means tackling a two-person project alone.

“This project is a significant portion of your final grade,” Asani announces, his tone almost gleeful, as though he finds pleasure in our collective student anxiety. I don’t miss the way his gaze lingers on me a moment longer than necessary. “The quality of work you submit for this first assignment will make a very lasting impression on what success rate I anticipate for you in the class.”

Does he know about Amity? and how I’ve been left to fend for myself?

I fight to keep my expression neutral, despite the desire to roll my eyes skyward. The nerve of him— acting like he’s got some prophetic power to predict our academic future based on one shitty paper. I glance around, noting the anxious faces of my classmates, their pens poised above notebooks, ready to scribble down every word as holy writ. It’s all so unnecessarily dramatic for a ridiculous required general education course. Tuesdays and Thursdays are rapidly starting to rival the dread I reserve for Fridays, and that’s because I have to suffer through Rockland.

“This should be a lesson in commitment,” the pompous Khan continues, a smirk playing on his lips as he scans the room, “and the consequences of failing to uphold your responsibilities.” His gaze lingers on the empty seat next to me, and though I feel a surge of anger at Amity’s betrayal, I don’t let it show. Instead, I focus on the clock, watching the seconds tick by, a silent mantra repeating in my head: dance classes, theater, stupid jury practice, then freedom.

My own fears would have me fretting more than I am, but there’s quiet confidence soothing me from the inside. My secret weapon, Fitz, has kept copies of all my work in multiple formats, leaving a breadcrumb trail of documents scattered across various safe locations. If push comes to shove, I can prove this project is solely my effort.

I refuse to let this new Regina wanna-be pull the shit the Heathers already failed to execute.

Squaring my shoulders, I rise from my seat when Asani calls for submissions, clutching my project in my white-knuckled fingers. This folder contains a paper fortress built on sleepless nights and relentless determination, but I did it despite all the other shit I had to deal with. My steps are steady as I approach his desk, the soft thud of my heart echoing the thump of my feet on the floor.

“Here you go, Professor,” I say calmly, my voice betraying none of the turmoil inside as I hand over the fruits of my labor. “The complete project on the socio-political impact of the Shifter Accords.”

“Very well, Miss Drew,” he says with a sly smile, his gaze flickering to the empty seat beside me. “I’m thrilled you managed to make it to turn this in, unlike your partner.”

“Solos are only awarded to the most skilled performers,” I reply, mustering a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. With a small, satisfied grin, I turn and make my way back to my seat, feeling the weight of the project lift from my shoulders. That anxiety is replaced by a silent promise to myself that no matter what, I won’t let Asani—or anyone—undermine my hard work with their bullshit.

Delores Drew gets knocked down, but she always gets back up, even if she’s spitting out teeth.

Once he’s collected the papers, the class topic shifts to a period of false harmony after the accords, when wealth supposedly rained down upon all. I listen, my heartbeat a staccato rhythm against my chest, as he paints a picture of prosperity and contentment that I know is a facade. My fingers clench into fists beneath the table—history has always been written by the victors, airbrushed to hide the grim reality.

“Everyone benefited from their Council’s generosity,” Asani declares, his voice dripping with self-assuredness. “The golden age for preds was a direct result of banishing the magic users and restructuring our society to reflect the appropriate roles of all shifters.”

In my mind, I scoff at the blatant revisionism. I’ve seen through the gilded lies, and beneath my soft exterior lies a resolve as unyielding as steel. While the wealthiest preds rose to the top of the heap, many stayed the same or sunk below as the elite families used their Council positions to take control of industries. Men like Asani, who inherited their positions from those historical raiders, have no concept of what happened to other preds or Hera forbid, the prey species.

As Asani’s lecture meanders through a maze of pred ‘achievements,’ I keep my eyes fixed on the whiteboard, my pencil dancing across the page in feigned attentiveness. My ears are alert, sifting through the grandiose claims for nuggets of truth—anything that could serve as a lead.

When he reaches the Rostoffs and their so-called empire of ‘exports and luxuries,’ my pulse quickens. The Rostoff name is what my mother clings to as her legacy of power, so this is important. I sit up straighter, ears perked despite my instincts screaming at me to stay off of his radar. This is the part of the lecture that might hold clues to the enigma of my ancestry, the missing pieces of a puzzle long since scattered.

“Damn it. Of course it involves Lucille,” I murmur under my breath, the name leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. She’s my only link to the history that seems to chase after me with the persistence of a shadow. The thought of calling her sets my nerves on edge; conversations with Lucille are rife with overt barbs and outrageous demands. Yet, the need to understand the obsession the Fae have with me and why I’m a bunny shifter propels me forward. It’s a twisted curiosity, the kind that leads you down a path lined with thorns—you know it will hurt, but you can’t resist the urge to know what lies at the end.

And much like many things in my life, I don’t have a goddamned choice if I want to survive.

I scribble another note—a reminder to confront the venomous tangle of family history. Renard and Aubrey have to face their demons and so do I. After all, I can’t ask them to stare down the families that cast them out so we can get the info to protect me if I’m not willing to expose myself in the same way, can I? No, I can face Lucille over the phone, and if I’m fortunate, she’ll be too busy living it up with Bruiser and various cabana boys to consider why I put myself in the line of fire. With Bruno gone, her life must be easier, right? No more pretending, no more sneaking around, and power over everything in their domain. That should be enough to keep her from sniffing out my subterfuge… I think.

Turning my attention back to the lecture, I smooth down the pages of my notebook, each line a recorded testament to my solitary efforts. I can’t let Asani’s prowling eyes see the tremor in my hands; I have to be the image of a calm, yet dangerous pred shifter, not the prey he expects me to be.

“Moving on,” Asani’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and commanding, “we will now discuss the other titans of industry. These families also carved out their influence after the accords and their efforts are woven into the very fabric of our society.”

Asani begins with the Eriksons, their tech empire glittering like a constellation of satellites in the night sky. I jot down notes, straining for mention of anything that resonates with the shit we found in the vaults at Apex or Cappie. But the way they simply invented tech that no one had ever seen before over and over—doesn’t make sense. He transitions to the McLachlans, regaling tales of medical breakthroughs that seem more like miracles. I scribble furiously, each word a potential breadcrumb leading to the truth. We found a lot of Fae plants and herbs in their vault.

Perhaps that’s the key to all the Council families’ success—theft?

“The Barringtons,” Asani gestures broadly, “masters of media, shaping opinions as sculptors shape clay.”

My hand cramps as I take notes, but I push through, determined not to miss a syllable. Is it possible something the Barringtons are using is appropriated from the Fair Folks, too? How could they suddenly become gifted orators and news people, and the like? None of these people seemed to have any of this shit before the Treaty. But after? They rocket to the top as if propelled by missiles with zero information on how they achieved any of this innovation.

The Hopewells and their religious empires, the Charles’ dominance in agriculture—I capture it all, a silent archivist of history both grand and terrifying in its scope. The Leonidas’ sports empire, the Shirdals’ contributions to the arts—each family carved out a piece of the world, molding it to their will. And as before, there’s very little documentation about where all their skills and money to fund the path to the top came from.

Something is rotten in Denmark and it doesn’t take Carmen Sandiego fluttering by in her red trench to get me to see it.

When Asani reaches the Drews, my father’s family, I feel a spike of adrenaline. Exports and imports—could there be a link there? My pen dances across the paper, eager and anxious. Lucille and Bruno obviously married to connect their families’ businesses and take the operation global. Bruno was from the American South and marrying Lucille connected him to the Rostoffs’ European and Asian network. It makes sense, even though they were so dissimilar and obviously hated each other’s guts and by proxy, me.

“Legal matters fall under the keen eye of the Birkshires,” Asani continues, unperturbed by the weight of knowledge he dispenses.

I have to contain my snort at the thought of my ex taking over that empire someday and tangling with a skilled lawyer like Farley. My glee is short-lived, though, when I consider that he’s among the missing and we have no fucking clue what’s being done to them. Todd was a grade-A douchebag, but I don’t think he deserves torture or weird experimentation. He just deserved to live out his life knowing what he missed out on and how stupid he was.

That, ladies and gents, is called growth .

Asani drones on about the Draconises, Kavarits, Alexandres, La Portes, and Blitzens so I catalog every detail and name. In this relentless stream of history, I’m searching for the one revelation that will help us figure out how to stop the killing and get the kidnapped students back without me dying in the interim. It feels like it should be easier to find the tricksy magicals motives, but this class has me considering if they only have one reason. If the predator shifters cast them out unfairly and stole all their shit to make themselves rich, it tracks that they would be planning their vengeance for a long, long time.

Though what the fuck I have to do with it—or any of the missing students—I can’t tell you. Their methods are as opaque as their reasons, and that’s why I’m still listening to the pompous fool pretending to teach.

My kingdom for a week without a bunch of stressful drama, I swear to hell.

As the bell signals the end of class, my notebook is packed with a ton of shit I want to look into with Aubrey. It’s overwhelming; a deluge of facts and figures, but somewhere within the torrent of words, I sense the key to unlocking my story. With a deep breath, I tuck away my stuff, steeling myself for the future conversations it will undoubtedly provoke.

Knowledge is power, and armed with these insights, I am one step closer to facing Lucille, to braving the shadows of my lineage, and claiming my place in this court of shifters and intrigue.

That is, if I duck all the bullshit being flung at me from every direction along the way.