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I do my best to pretend like I’m used to this shit. I’m pretty sure my armpits are soaked. "Read the codicil at the bottom, Mr. Vance."

Vance’s eyes track down the page. He pauses. His eyebrows creep up toward his receding hairline.

"Clause Four," he reads softly. "'Acceptance of these funds is contingent upon an immediate, external forensic audit of all active doctoral dissertations, conference keynotes, and published papers produced within the Department of History over the preceding twenty-four months. Any candidate or faculty member found to have utilized uncredited research, falsified archival citations, or appropriated the primary-source translations of peers shall have their candidacy terminated, all departmental funding revoked, and be permanently barred from campus facilities. Failure to initiate this audit within forty-eight hours of deposit renders the entirety of the gift null and void, with immediate repayment demanded in full.'"

Vance slowly sets the paper down. He looks up at me, then glances nervously at Lachlan looming over my shoulder like a six-foot-eight storm cloud.

"This is unusually punitive for a university gift, Miss Estrella."

"It's extremely punitive," I agree, feeling a slightly manic laugh bubble up in the back of my throat. I push it down. "It's petty as hell. Call the university President's office. Tell them the courier is on his way, and tell them the check clears the second Dr. Henry Hobson signs the gift agreement in front of me."

Vance swallows, folding his hands over the desk. "It will take my associates twenty minutes to draft the formal contracts."

"Take thirty," I say, checking my bare wrist before remembering I don't own a watch. "I want it airtight."

The campus is exactly as I left it yesterday, except today the autumn air feels crisp instead of suffocating.

Dead leaves scrape across the red brick walkways of Locust Walk. Undergraduates in puffy jackets rush between lectures, clutching iced coffees and backpacks, completely oblivious to the world running beneath their feet.

Lachlan walks half a step behind me on my left. He doesn't look around like a tourist. His head moves slowly, methodically, his gaze sweeping the rooftops, the alleyways, the crowded benches, tracking every human being within fifty yards with the casual, cold assessment of an apex predator.

People move out of our way without even realizing why. Students part around his broad shoulders like water hitting the bow of a ship.

"You're making them nervous," I murmur without turning my head.

"Good," Lachlan rumbles, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the wind. "Keeps them from bumping into you."

"They're twenty-year-old philosophy majors, Lachlan. The most dangerous thing about them is their student debt."

"Anyone with hands can hold a blade, lass. Keep moving."

We climb the wide stone steps of College Hall. The heavy oak doors groan as we push through, the familiar smell of floor wax, radiator steam, and dry paper washing over me.

My stomach does a single, nervous flip. I touch the signet ring on my finger, feeling the cold weight of the obsidian, and remind myself that I am wearing a coat that costs more than this building's plumbing system. I can do this.

We take the stairs to the third floor.

When we reach the main department office, the frosted glass door is cracked open. Carmilla, the administrative assistant who has worked for Hobson for the last few years, is sitting at her desk, typing with two fingers while an electric kettle hums in the corner.

I push the door open.

Carmilla looks up, her mouth already shaping into the brush-off she gives to dropped students. "Miss Estrella, Dr. Hobson is fully booked⁠—"

Her gaze drops from my face to the tailored camel coat, then snaps upward to the massive wall of charcoal wool and Scottish bone structure filling the doorway behind me. Carmilla’s jaw literally drops, her hands hovering frozen over the keyboard.

"Good morning, Carmilla," I say pleasantly, feeling a terrible, delightful thrill of power. "Is Dr. Hobson in?"

"I—he—yes," she stammers, blinking rapidly like she’s trying to clear a smudge from her glasses. "He's in his office, but he's meeting with Mr. Gibson about the symposium schedule⁠—"

"Perfect," I say. "Saves me a trip."

I don't wait for her to announce me. I walk past her desk and push open the heavy mahogany door to Hobson’s corner office.

The scene inside is almost comical.

Dr. Henry Hobson is leaning back in his leather executive chair, his tweed jacket unbuttoned over a round belly, chuckling at something on his computer screen. Sitting across from him in one of the guest chairs—slouched, his legs stretched out in front of him, an expensive leather portfolio resting on his lap—is Cole.

He’s wearing the exact same navy blazer from his headshot, his brown hair styled with pomade, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.