There wasn’t much he could do about that. “I’ll be fine,” I said. He should worry about himself, not me.
He dressed and left, not even stopping for the glass of water from what I could hear from the common room. The main door clicked shut behind him. I looked at the rumpled sheets, the resiny smell of his skin that lingered in them tickling up into my nose, and all at once my stomach heaved.
I ran for the bathroom, making it just in time to vomit into one of the toilets rather than on the floor. The vodka came up a lot less pleasantly than it went down.
I sputtered a few times, acid searing my throat, before I got a hold of myself enough to sit back on my heels. My head spun, the headache waking up into a sharp throbbing.
Thank God none of my dormmates were here to see the mess I’d made of myself. Of course, if any of them had been around last night, things wouldn’t have played out as they had in the first place.
I rubbed my head, indulging in a moment of self-pity before I shoved myself to my feet and strode back into the kitchen. There, I gulped down a glass of water, because Noah’s suggestion wasn’t a bad one, and took a few slow breaths.
I’d fucked up. Noah probably thought I was insane—but that was okay. Maybe with some time to reflect, he’d decide he should steer clear of me and not bother with that additional talking he’d mentioned after all. Probably he’d keep his word about not saying anything about our tryst, and there weren’t any witnesses, so I wasn’t likely to face official sanctions.
The only person whose condemnation I’d have to deal with was my own.
With that lovely thought swimming through my hangover-addled head, I drifted back to my bedroom.
The space was so familiar and ordinary it made me grimace. The same school-issue bedcovers as every other room in the dorms lay tangled on the bed. The wardrobe was full of clothes mainly leftover from shopping trips with my mother, who had very distinct opinions about what sort of outfits were appropriate for a Warbury. A few notepads and library books I’d taken out for assignments lay on the desk, though I hadn’t written anything that was likely to awe my professors.
The only thing in the room I was remotely proud of was the illusion cast by the far wall, kitty-corner with the window. On a conjured image of a perch, an elegant bird alternately preened and fluttered its wings. The colors that gleamed across its long, graceful feathers echoed those outside the window: peachy pink and pale gold now with the dawning sun, soon to brighten into starker yellows, blues, and greens, deepening into indigo and purple when the sun began to set, and settling into midnight blue strung through with glints of silver throughout the night.
It’d taken me several weeks to figure out all the components I should take into account to cast the illusionary form the way I’d pictured it, and the better part of an hour working through the actual casting to bring all those elements into play and solidify the magic. So far it’d stayed strong for nearly a month, shaping up to be the most resilient illusion I’d conjured yet. Burnbuck had literally applauded when I’d shown him.
Before, looking at it boosted my spirits—knowing I’d been able to bring something that beautiful into the world, even if hardly anyone other than me would see it, even if its existence was fleeting. Now, my stomach twisted all over again.
That bird was a lot like me, wasn’t it? Pretty but insubstantial, an illusion of goodness with nothing more to it than a little flimflam. It could serve as an appealing distraction, but distractions could be as dangerous as easily as enjoyable.
Standing there, staring at it, I’d never felt quite so empty or alone.
I shook myself and ran my fingers over my hair, the white-blond strands wispy where many had slipped from my French braid. Maybe it was time to embrace what I was. Why shouldn’t I be off in Maine distracting the pricks who called themselves reapers—as if there was something commendable about wanting to harvest every drop of fearful energy from the Naries that they could—instead of screwing around and screwing up here?
They thought I was a traitor? I’d give them a fucking traitor. And this time it’d be because I actually had the guts to go after them and try to bring them down.
I might not be able to claim I was a brilliant mind or a brave warrior, but I could damn well stand for something this once in my life. I could be better than the woman who’d woken up in that bed a half an hour ago after a night that never should have happened. Even if only a little bit.
I retrieved my phone from my purse and didn’t let myself hesitate before bringing up my text thread with Rory.
I’m in. Ready for my marching orders, baron.
Chapter Five
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rory said, her hands on her hips, her chin lifted at a haughty angle. “As if anyone associated with the barony will want to work with you when everyone knows what the Warburys believe in. Whatever you figure out to keep yourself afloat after you’re done at the university, don’t come calling on us for help.”
Even though I knew she was only acting, I cringed inwardly. The caustic words weren’t all that far from what I’d have been totally unsurprised to hear—maybe not from her, but from the other barons? Sure.
I clenched my hands, letting the shame and frustration the words stirred up roll through me. I marinated in the emotions for several seconds before I allowed myself to respond. “Fine. Good to know where I stand after everything I’ve done for you.”
Rory scoffed. “You were only out to save your own hide. Do you think we don’t know you’d turn us over to the loyalists the first chance you get?”
“I thought you were my friend,” I snapped back, and whirled to stalk out of the office we’d been using for this dramatization.
Rory followed me a moment later, her mouth set at a pained angle. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I wish there was an easier way to give you memories the reapers will accept.”
I’d just gone through several rounds of various barons and professors spewing vitriol at me. Rory had explained that the strategy should protect me from exposure via magical interrogation—if the mages I was going to cozy up to insisted on using insight to pry into my mind to check my motives or persuaded me into answering pointed questions, I’d have genuine memories of being shunned and insulted to explain why I’d supposedly come back into the reaper fold. Knowing what purpose it served hadn’t made the process any fun, though.
“No problem,” I said, squashing down the uneasy emotions her verbal attack had provoked. “Now if they force the question, I can honestly say you were all assholes to me.” I offered her my best everything’s-totally-okay grin.
With my last berating session complete, a few of the other barons came over: Malcolm, Hector, Declan… and Noah. The younger guy hadn’t taken part in the construction of horrible memories, thank God, but he’d been observing from the fringes for most of our preparations over the last couple of days. I’d studiously avoided making eye contact, and so far he hadn’t demanded my attention.
I focused on the other three. “Am I good to go now?”
Hector Killbrook nodded. “I think we’ve given you a thorough shielding of memories to disguise your true intentions. We’ve received word from Emeric that he’s back in Portland and has already dropped a few hints to lay the groundwork for your arrival. He’s good to meet at the spot he suggested tomorrow.”