An Arcane Inheritance by Kamilah Cole - 23

The nurse put Hudson in charge of monitoring Ellory for the next twenty-four hours, assuming that they were together and ignoring their fervid protests to the contrary. Ellory was given Tylenol and a lecture from Hudson before he took her to the student center, where she received a six-pack of ginger ale, an ice pack, a bottle of water, and a second lecture. She let Hudson preach about the dangers of leaving her phone behind, because they were in public and she was more concerned with checking every nook and cranny for more masked figures. But as soon as they were back in the car, she glared at him.

“You can do magic,” she accused, “and you didn’t tell me.”

Hudson paused with his hand on the keys. Instead of starting the engine, he dragged that hand over his face. “I didn’t know.”

Violet-gray clouds had overtaken the once-blue sky. Gentle rain began to fall, plinking against the roof like an intermittent drumroll. They were still in the parking lot of the student center, but the streets had emptied in light of the weather. There was no one to witness Ellory and Hudson in his Barracuda, arguing about the esoteric turn their lives had taken, and there was some comfort in that. Ellory opened her water, downed her pills, and stared through the wet windshield.

For a while, the raindrops provided the only sound.

“I didn’t want to watch you die,” Hudson murmured. “But I was too far away to do anything about it…until I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I understand that,” said Ellory, remembering Malcolm Mayhew and the murder she couldn’t prevent. Her frozen limbs had forced her to bear witness to something that haunted her to this day, and she wouldn’t wish that on anyone. “What I don’t understand is how . How could you not have known? How could you listen to everything I told you, everything I experienced, and not…?” Confide in me, too. Ellory’s throat was tight with an emotion worse than anger. She was hurt. Hurt that he hadn’t trusted her the way she’d been forced to trust him.

No, she hadn’t been forced. She’d wanted to. Maybe she’d even needed to.

“I’ve always believed in the unbelievable,” said Hudson, “but it feels different when it’s me . Surely you can understand that, too.”

Ellory knew he was referring to how hard she had fought against the idea that she might have magic, even after she’d accepted that magic did exist. But it still wasn’t enough to mollify her. He could have shared his suspicions. He could have admitted he had questions at all. He could have done anything but show up to help her again and again while keeping such a large part of himself hidden from her.

If he could cover this up, what else was he hiding?

He knew her, but had he ever allowed her to know him?

Hudson started the car. She stared out the window as they pulled onto Falstaff Road, driving south back to Moneta Hall. Soon, he would foist her off onto Stasie—or, more likely, Tai—and go back to ignoring her, leaving her frustrated under the guise of letting her rest. He was reliably unreliable, while she had been attacked for the second time this month by people who wanted to silence her at any cost. Ellory’s eyes traced the angles of his face in the mirror the graying sky had turned her window into. Rain carved his reflection in half, making him look like both monster and man.

“What were you doing at Moneta?” she finally asked. “I thought you were busy ‘studying.’”

“Boone told me you’d left the Communiqué office, but you weren’t answering your phone. I…worried.”

“Tell Boone to mind his own business.”

“I mean, I’m the one who asked how you were doing, but I’ll relay the message. Why weren’t you answering my calls?”

Ellory remembered again that her phone was still—hopefully—in a heap on the sixth floor with the rest of her things. She had put it on Silent before going to the newspaper office. “Why would I? You said you were done.”

“Morgan,” he sighed.

“ Don’t . Don’t talk to me like I’m the problem.”

“No, I—you’re right. I’m sorry. I did say that. And I shouldn’t have. That’s why I was asking about you. I come with a peace offering.”

Hudson tipped his head toward the back seat, where each turn caused a stack of books to slide from one side of the vinyl seating to the other. A battered tote bag was on the floor; it had clearly made a valiant effort to contain the books before sinking out of sight, defeated. It was joined by a pair of black soccer cleats, tied together by the laces, and Hudson’s Montblanc sling, each pocket zipped tight.

“I pulled these from my shelf because they mention secret societies and esoteric traditions. Maybe you’ll get more out of them than I did.”

His tone was different. She was used to his arrogance, his peevishness, his introspection. This was a clipped discomfort, like he was hesitating over every word while trying to seem like he wasn’t. The acetaminophen had eased her physical pain, but mentally she still felt out of sync with the hazy world. Except him, her enigmatic sometimes ally.

“I can’t trust you if you don’t trust me,” Ellory said, closing her eyes. She was exhausted all the way down to her bones, but she doubted she would sleep tonight. At least not until she had a theory about why that enforcer had chosen her room to wait in, and if they’d actually gotten inside, and what they had touched or taken if they had. “You encouraged me to believe in my magic. You gave me a way to investigate Boone. You’ve been there for me twice in the wake of these attacks. But you hid your magic from me. You didn’t notice that you live with someone who has the ideograms of the Old Masters written on his skin . And I feel more unsafe right now, in this car, than I did bleeding in that stairwell.” Her eyes opened, meeting his gaze through the windowpane. “Out there, I know who the enemy is. In here, I don’t even know you .”

“Morgan—”

The car came to a stop in front of Moneta. Ellory unbuckled her seat belt, eager to put some distance between them. With or without a concussion, she couldn’t think in Hudson’s presence. Every time she tried to hold on to her anger at him, he inevitably wore her down. But her anger was a gift and a shield. It had protected her from the person in the mask, and it would protect her from a man who knew only how to lie.

He caught her hand before she could get out of the car.

Ellory stopped, but she told herself it was because the rain had gotten heavier and she didn’t have an umbrella. With the door open, the evening wind bit through the car, making her shiver. She reluctantly turned to face him head-on, meeting eyes the dark brown of Southern sweet tea. His thumb touched her pulse point, and an infuriating warmth suffused her body at the way he was always so gentle with her.

“Should I walk you up?” he asked. “In case that—person is still hanging around?”

“You didn’t kill them?”

“What? No . Do I look like I kill people?”

Ellory stared at him. Hudson scoffed.

“I’m pretty sure I kind of…banished them. If I’d killed them, there would have been a burnt body. And no matter what you think, I’ve never killed anyone before. I wouldn’t be okay afterward.”

Ellory’s foot was getting wet where it rested on the pavement. She settled back into her seat, but she didn’t close the door. Hudson deserved for his precious car’s precious internal detailing to get water damage. He deserved worse than that, but she was too tired for punitive justice. All the while, he didn’t let go of her hand, and she didn’t make him. It was the only thing keeping her steady.

“Whatever you think of me right now, I’m on your side, Morgan. I want you to remember what you’ve lost. I want the Old Masters to be stopped. I want…”

I want you. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.

Yeah? Then do something about it.

Ellory gasped back to the present. She yanked herself from Hudson’s grip and escaped into the rain.

“I need to think,” she said, slamming the door. On his expression, open in a way it hadn’t been before, eyes tinged with an inexplicable grief. On the words she’d heard as clear as day, their voices having a conversation they’d never had. On this emotionally draining day, which was tearing her soul to pieces faster than any magic.

His lips silently formed her name. Ellory turned and fled into Moneta Hall without looking back.

***

That night, Ellory crashed into a slumber so deep that Rip Van Winkle would have been jealous. She’d told Stasie that someone had attempted to break into their dorm, and she’d listened to her roommate tear security a new one before ordering a camera for the door. She’d told Tai about her trip to the health center, and Tai and Cody had spent the rest of the night checking on Ellory’s head, leaving notes with time stamps so she would know they’d come to visit. When she woke up to an empty room the next day, her headache and nausea had ceased, and she felt less wrung out. Her stress hadn’t fully faded, but she was learning to live on high alert.

By late afternoon, she judged herself healed enough to read, devouring the occult books she’d gotten from Hudson. The tote bag was waiting outside her door, off to the left so no one would trip over it. She’d found it on her way back from the bathroom, and her stomach had flipped at this small consideration. Research was easier than thinking about him and all the tangled emotions his lies had embedded in her.

Two of the books were useless—if fascinating—histories of haunted artifacts and men made myth. Nicolas Flamel and Ostanes. The Bronze Lady and the screaming skull. They were great for contextualizing how the natural became the supernatural, even just in tall tales told by the superstitious, but there was nothing specific to her situation.

The third book covered secret societies, and it was halfway through that one that Ellory finally found something worth adding to her notes.

The Old Masters have maintained their anonymity to such an extent that it is impossible to confirm their existence. Though largely based on hearsay, their clandestine activities are said to have roots in the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). Or, perhaps, their ongoing activities were simply legitimized by the CIA.

Hudson had been right. This section was a mere page and a half compared to other chapters, so it wasn’t exactly enough to qualify as a break in the case. But something about it filled her with a heavy sense of significance, and she lingered over each word.

From the beginning, they have walked hand in hand with the occult. Starting with the New England Society of Psychic Research and then peppering the declassified Stargate Project with their members, the Old Masters are rumored to have wanted power unlimited to the natural world. In writings alleged to have been rescued from the burnt journals of rumored member Arthur O’Connor I, there are notes on occult magic and psychic phenomena from around the world, including alchemy, Māyā, ESP, and more. But when questioned, O’Connor, a former dean of Warren University, claimed ignorance of any such journals or organization.

Buzzwords leaped out at her as she read the paragraph again. New England Society of Psychic Research —the same group the founders of Warren University had allegedly belonged to. Arthur O’Connor —the same surname as her surly roommate. If he was a former dean, then she might be able to find a book in the founders’ museum gift shop, or at least there might be a mention of him on one of the displays.

The section concluded with the acknowledgment that the Old Masters were not as legendary as Skull and Bones nor as powerful as the Illuminati, but rumors of their recherché activities had never entirely faded. Ellory read the page three more times to make sure she wasn’t missing anything and then rubbed at the back of her neck. Goose bumps made her skin feel rough, and she knew that sickening dread would soon follow.

She took a shaky breath and refused to give in. She’d found a new lead, and she had the resources to investigate, people who would help, even if they didn’t know everything they were helping with. And yet her heart continued to pound like she was about to be attacked again. She massaged the space between her breasts, begging her body to calm down.

Stasie came clattering through the door a half hour later, her arms laden with shopping bags. She dropped them on her bed and wiggled her knit cap off her penny-brown hair, which had recently been cut into a short wavy bob. Christmas was only a couple of months away, but Ellory doubted a single one of those purchases was for anyone other than Stasie herself.

Her suspicions were strengthened a moment later when Stasie tugged a powder-blue wool sweater out of one bag and held it up to her chest. It was crocheted to look like a heap of snowflakes had joined hands to make a shirt. Pearl drops decorated the round collar. “What do you think?”

“It’s got holes in it,” Ellory pointed out. “It can’t be very warm.”

“It’s meant to be stylish ,” Stasie said, rolling her eyes. “Luxury sweaters are wasted on the poor.”

“A sweater can be stylish and practical—”

“Are you going to be in here all day?”

As always, Ellory had already failed the Stasie O’Connor test required to earn basic human respect. Stasie unpacked her clothes with the put-upon attitude of a wine mom who had found her prosecco bottle empty when she needed it most. If Ellory stayed, the rest of her night would be filled with eye rolls and passive-aggressive grunts from Stasie’s side of the room.

“I could finish this up in the library,” Ellory said, saving and closing her document, “ if you answer a question for me.”

Stasie paused in the middle of folding an oversize scarf. “You couldn’t afford it even if I told you.”

“It’s about your family, not your clothes.” Ellory took a moment to grab her temper with both hands and force it to a standstill. “Do you know an Arthur O’Connor?”

“My dad or my grandfather?”

“Um, your grandfather.”

“We call him Artie . Well, I call him Pop-Pop , but…” Stasie frowned. “Why?”

“I’m working on an article for the paper, and, as he’s a former dean of the university, I thought he might be able to help me. Do you have his number?”

“I’m not giving you Pop-Pop’s phone number. He’d have my head.”

Ellory resisted the urge to record the conversation, if only because she would have to notify Stasie that she was doing so and Stasie would definitely stop talking if she did. “So, you two aren’t close?”

“If I asked for your mom’s personal phone number, would you give it to me?”

Ellory swiftly changed tactics. “Your family’s prestigious. I want to make sure I’m talking to all the right people.”

There was a brief silence, during which Ellory could tell that Stasie was turning those words over for any sign of ridicule. She kept her expression open and her smile as genuine as possible, waiting Stasie out. This was a girl who had introduced herself as a member of the house of O’Conor, who had the O’Conor crest as one of her wall decorations, who took her family very seriously. Too seriously, if you asked Ellory, but that had never been her problem before now.

It seemed like ages before Stasie’s face softened. “I mean, I guess I could get you in touch with my parents while I see if Pop-Pop even wants to talk to you.”

Her eyes were bright with pleasure, as if the key to the intricate lock of her personality had been flattery all along. Ellory supposed she should have figured that out sooner.

“That would be amazing,” she simpered. “You’re the best, Stasie.”

“I know.” Stasie went back to folding her clothes. Then she glared in Ellory’s direction. “Now get out.”