Page 35
“Great, not even the birds want to talk to me,” I mutter. I can’t feel too sorry for myself, though. Ever, Bree, and Eli are pretty amazing so far. I don’t need more friends, especially not finches. I’d rather be friends with a crow or falcon, something murdery.
“Mornin’,” Oliver greets me from his office chair as I dip into the locker room for a smock.
“Unfortunately,” I tell him with a shake of my head. “This is the devil’s hour.”
“Aw, come on, you and I know the devil ain’t real.”
I give him a look as I secure the ties of the smock. It’s an unflattering scrap of material, but I don’t need to ruin my clothes. “Not the point.”
He spins to face me, drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair, watching me move at a glacial pace that’s a tad dramatic for a paranormal being, but I’m freaking tired, okay?
He smirks, as if reading my thoughts. “Better get a move on.”
I wave goodbye and head out. My first stop is the cafetorium staff housing.
That goes fast enough. I make my way through the route, returning once to the facilities building to drop off a full cart before heading back out. I drag the empty one to the next place, the wheels whirring over the sidewalk as a warm summer breeze teases my hair. The stop is a Gothic-style house with dramatic vertical lines, pointed arches, and a steep roof. The stone is painted a moody dark blue that doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the university, but it’s beautiful.
I make my way to the back entrance, breathing in the fresh morning air and the scent of the lavender from the plants on the hill next to the home.
The warding surrounding the building brushes over my skin as I reach for the knob. Each place I’ve stopped has warding, but my badge has allowed me entry. This one is different from the last, though. Stronger. A custom spell placed to keep people out.
My fingers wrap around the metal and I twist and tug. The door doesn’t budge. I try again, pulling on the door as hard as I can. What the crap? The badge should work. The ward ripples in interest, and a prickle of awareness races up my spine. I have the distinct feeling that the magic is watching me. Waiting for me to make a wrong move. There’s a static electric charge in the air and a stone in my gut.
“Listen, I’m only here for the laundry,” I tell the ward. Like it can even listen. I jiggle the knob. “Can you be a good ward and let me in?”
The magic hums loudly and coalesces to a sharpened point that presses against my jugular. Sighing, I lift my gaze skyward. Why do I always get the shit end of the stick, Vaeloria? Seriously, what the actual fuck did I do to you?
The Goddess doesn’t answer, but I didn’t expect her to. Nope, I’m all on my own, held in place by a bloodthirsty ward.
I release the knob and hold up my hands. The power stays steady against my skin. “I’m not trying to murder anyone,” I tell it, completely aware that if anyone is listening, I’d sound a little batty.
Someone wrenches the door open.
Oh, thank fuck. “Hi, I’m so—oh. You.”
Carver stands in only a pair of low-slung joggers, gripping the door and scowling at me. I do what any paranormal would do when presented with a half-naked body: I take it in. He has the build of a Vanguard, muscles honed for battle, and the tattoos that crawl over his arms trail down his ripped torso in sweeps and whirls of gray scale that lead to the strong V—and that’s enough ogling.
“Raina,” he grouses. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Damn, he’s fucking ripped. The definition of washboard abs. Wait, no more ogling. Right. I wrench my gaze from his body.
His eyes are narrowed on me.
Is he really annoyed? I’m the one with a metaphysical dagger pressed to my neck. “Call off your ward.”
His eyebrows lift, as if he forgot all about it. He blinks, and as easy as that, the magic recedes. “What are you doing here?” he repeats.
“Relax, I’m here for the laundry.” I wave my badge and try to brush by him to get back to work.
He steps in my path. “You’re not coming in here.”
I stifle a frustrated growl, shoulders bunching. “I have to, it’s my job.”
He crosses his arms over his impressive chest, biceps flexing. “Too bad. I said no. I don’t let students into my house.”
That’s it. What the fuck is his problem? I close the distance and poke his chest. “Listen, you don’t have to like me, but you will not mess up this job for me.” I all but growl the last bit. “I need the money, so kindly, get the fuck out of my way.”
Carver stares down at where I thrust my finger into his skin for a few beats, slowly lifts his steely gray gaze to meet mine, and squints. Bossing around a professor is probably breaking one of his stupid rules.
