Page 26

Aubrey

The Tower is empty when I step into the outer sanctum.

It’s unusual, to be sure, but the others have later classes or duties to attend to today that leave me with a rare opportunity to escape to the relative quiet of our meeting place. This is preferable to remaining in my library, where students and staff alike could bother me while I’m reviewing the information I received today.

I’ve begged Henny to close the library earlier, and more often—given that students rarely stay in my lair long—but she refuses. ‘The library is a place for all to find knowledge and comfort’ is her favorite way of saying she would rather they are under my surveillance, than hanging out where the likelihood of shenanigans is higher.

Plus, I’m the least likely person to tell her to fuck off when she insists I man the building like a sentry. My sense of honor and duty prevent me from calling her on her bullshit—dragons are bound to their calling, and the books are mine.

Taking advantage of that species-specific trait is not ethical, but nothing at Apex is ever ethical, so why should this be any different?

I drop into my handcrafted ‘throne’ in the sitting room, sinking into the comfort of one of the few things I’ve spent a great deal of money on.

Yes, yes, dragons hoard, and I’m old enough to be so wealthy that such frugality is completely unnecessary, but old habits die hard, as they say.

I dislike spending recklessly by nature—unlike the Khans—so when I do, it’s for things I cannot live without. Comfortable furniture, stress relievers, quality clothes, and books are the extent of my vices. I had all three of my thrones for the library and the Tower built to my specifications to ensure I can relax in luxury. Non-corporate craftsmen struggle in the technology age, and it bothers me to think skilled trade will go the way of the dodo shifters if the Council assholes get their way.

With a sigh of discontent, I open the app on my DiePhone, accessing the Bluetooth surround sound system Renard finally consented to having installed. He resisted at first, preferring the gramophone in the bedroom, but since introducing the game system and virtual assistant, he’s been a bit more flexible about the ‘infernal spread of technology’. I think he’s secretly enjoying being able to access information when he wants, rather than moving from his brooding perch to look it up in the library, but that’s more fodder for me to poke him with, so I let it go.

Which is more than I can say for him—he’s eternally riling me up on purpose, like inviting the snacklet to our nest the other night. I don’t care if he swears I told her she could. I know he was involved somehow because he’s a meddler like Fitz.

The soothing sounds of my music fill the air, and I pull my Smackbook out of my briefcase. The folders of organized research and first-hand reports get placed on the side table, and my notebook is the last thing I balance on the arm of the chair. I want to go over my own conclusions and evidence about what happened on prom night, while I wait on the Council’s results from testing the blood samples. I don’t trust them to provide us with the full picture—it would be entirely uncharacteristic for them to give us unredacted, undoctored reports—but I plan to fill in the blanks when I combine their shit with the files Renard’s friends in the nurse's office have shared.

I click on the email icon, growling under my breath as I sort through the various missives I’ve received throughout the day. Many of them are from students and staff regarding passwords, which I forward to Betsy. She can resolve those issues without me, and I’m never in the mood to deal with idiots who can’t memorize their shit and constantly lock themselves out of the Apex app or the Blackboard system for their classes.

The email from the Council lab finally appears at the top of my unread messages, and I open it, waiting for the extensive file to extract itself. Interestingly enough, the results seem to be straightforward. The toxin did not match any natural or synthetic poison in their database, nor does it match that of any venomous shifter species—including rare species and those thought to be extinct or so endangered that we rarely see them outside of their own communities. Nothing on file, even at the Library of Congress, matches the chemical composition of the substance found in the punch.

That still doesn’t explain why the dimwits attending Vom Prom were unfazed. Henny and the nursing staff got some of them to admit to the consumption of pred-stasy and various kinds of alcohol, but nothing in their samples is consistent enough to create a controlled group. It’s a puzzle, and I can’t help wondering if that ridiculous alcohol is the key, but without a toxin identified, it will be near impossible to confirm.

The results of Delores’ blood test, sent to an independent lab by the nurses, haven’t come back yet. I expect little to come from that, as the nurses told Rennie she didn’t drink the punch or imbibe anything on the foolish party bus.

That means she’s not an anomaly; she just avoided the contaminant.

I have to admit; the girl is still fascinating and having her between us wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. That surprised me.

Her work in my archives is articulate and impeccable, despite her clear lack of true self-confidence. She doesn’t fawn or simper like most of the idiotic women here—students and staff alike—because while I believe she craves positive reinforcement, she actually wants to earn the praise. Her upbringing must have been rough; she doesn’t talk about home or friends before Apex at all. In fact, she seems content to work alongside me, asking questions and occasionally poking at me until I divulge crumbs of information about myself.

Her effect on me is truly baffling. I've never met anyone quite like Delores Drew, especially given her background. The librarian in me finds her wit, organization, and professionalism extremely appealing.

My dragon… has his own ideas.

I understand why she’s wormed her way under the skin of my friends, and it’s a bit unsettling to find she’s crawling under my scales as well.

Fitz is damned near obsessed with her. He’s been blind to Rennie and me for a decade, yet he notices if this girl changes her fucking nail polish. Chess is a little out of sorts as he figures out how to handle his attraction to her, but he’s coming around. Hell, even Felix had a bounce in his step yesterday when he stomped in, smelling of bourbon and regaling us with the tale of the killer rabbit.

There may be hope for him yet.

Rennie and I have avoided addressing his struggle with being exiled, because his self pity was simply exacerbating the toxic masculinity programmed into alphas of many species. The gargoyle and I both came of age with powerful royals and clan leaders—which we would have been ourselves, if not for our own debacles—and these leaders did not always rule with an iron fist. His behavior since Delores arrived has been more befitting a king than anything he’s done in the past.

An angry teenager is affecting men several times her age simply by existing in our stratosphere.

I can’t decide if that’s a good thing.

“A-dog! Fuck am I glad you’re here! My baby girl is studying and Chess is working on knitting, so I’m bored. I bet I can whoop your scaly ass in Smash Bros.”

As usual, Fitz’s entrance is a cacophony of disturbance in my precious thinking time. I glare at him over my glasses, hoping to convey my wish to focus on the task at hand without words. When he doesn’t take the hint, I snap the Smackbook closed, watching him fire up the video game in annoyance. If he’d amuse himself, I wouldn’t mind his presence, but Fitz is like a hopped up rave kid 24/7 because of his ADHD. His inability to focus becomes everyone’s problem when he’s like this, and it makes my head hurt.

“I’m reviewing the files and results from the prom disaster. I fear it’s nowhere near being resolved and we all agreed this was bigger than an attempt on Council heirs.”

The tiger tilts his head to the side, tapping his fingers on his legs as if he’s itching to wrap his hands around either a controller or someone’s neck. “Is my baby girl in danger? Who do I need to kill? I dealt with that little shit who broke her heart already, and I have ideas for when I find out who trashed her room. Hint: it involves hooks.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose to push away thoughts of roasted preds, I breathe deeply. Of course, his concern is limited to the immediate people he gives a shit about. He’s not one for looking at the big picture and he revels in punishing the people who violate his rather interesting moral code. “I don’t know yet. The Council labs couldn’t ID the toxin in any of their vast databases, and that points to a more skilled opponent than a lackey or an idiotic teenager.”

“Ok, so what the fuck are we all gonna do about that?” he asks, fiddling with his controller in agitation, surprising me with his ability to hold the thread of our conversation.

“Again, the course of action is still unclear. At the moment, it’s a single incident with too many variables and not enough hard evidence to point in a specific direction.” I arch a brow, watching him fidget. “You seem more concerned with this than you normally would be.”

“Hell yes, I am! And the same goes for you too, you spicy lizard. The rest of you assholes might think you’re immune, but I see more than you know, dude.” He drops the controller, leaning back against the couch and clasping his hands behind his head with a smirk.

I fucking highly doubt that.

Snorting smoke, I shift in my throne, putting my work aside as I huff. “What are you hinting at, Fitz?”

“My Baby Girl, duh.” His grin widens as he watches me shift in my seat. “As you know, Felix got thrashed at lunch after her spectacular fight and told the entire staff she’s under Khan protection. We both know that’s getting around before the weekend and probably spreading further within weeks. Once she’s ready, Chessie wants her to join us. You’re spending time on technology—which you hate —researching something that’s been over for months. Fuck, even the rock man is brooding more than normal. You all need to get with the program.”

What in the seven wonders of the world is he babbling about?

I’m simply doing due diligence in investigating a threat that might affect our home and our group. Unfortunately, tech is a necessary component of that search. There’s no hidden meaning behind it.

“Miss Drew is a student, and she’s quite intriguing, but I’m not working on this because of her. Apex is the only home I’ve known for many years, and if there’s some jackass out there trying to harm students, we could lose our jobs and our residence,” I protest. My frustration escalates as I talk, causing puffs of smoke to escape as the fire burns inside.

Dragons are not good liars, for reasons that should be obvious.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep tragically lying to yourself, Smoky. I don’t know why I’m the only one in this crew who sees it, but Delores Drew is the best thing to hit this place since I arrived.'' He winks and shrugs, his eyes dancing. “And I’m pretty sure she’d be down with giving us all a little lovin’.”

Having Fitz Khan read my thoughts was not on my to do list. This has to stop.

My eyes widen and I sputter, unable to form coherent thoughts as his implication sinks in. I’m not one to share the intimate details of my people with others, so Fitz can’t know dragons are some of the few shifters that live in polyamorous communities. The strength of our people lies within the bonds of the mated groups, but I didn’t expect to find something like that after being exiled. In fact, for more years than I can count, I believed I’d spend the rest of my life alone.

That may have changed, but it doesn’t mean Fitz’s vision of the five of us sharing a Council heir is coming to fruition, either.

Not that I have any desire to—the girl is young, traumatized, and so sheltered that she barely recognizes her own desires, much less those of men exponentially older than her. My horn dog friend is biting off more than he can chew with his horny train of thought, and I don’t know how he expects me to react.

We’re an island of broken toys, and she’s badly damaged—what possible good could come from entertaining his little fantasy?

“Dude, chill. You look like your brain is going to explode. I’m not saying the kitty pile needs to happen tomorrow. Baby Girl isn’t ready for a dragon-sized dick… or your teeny weenie, either.”

Narrowing my eyes, I rise from the chair and stalk over to the chuckling tiger. “You don’t know shit, Fitz Khan—not what I’m thinking or what a dragon dick looks like. Give me the other controller, so I can kick your furry ass.”