Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 130: Gossip

"I feel like we’re ghosts," I mutter during our fourth class. "Or wearing some kind of invisibility cloak."

"More like we’re the weird transfer students no one wants to acknowledge." Penelope flips through her textbook, not bothering to lower her voice. The professor doesn’t react. "Though I’d kill for an invisibility cloak right now. These chairs are murder on my ass."

Really? I thought they were pretty comfortable.

A girl nearby gasps at Penelope’s language. I bite back a laugh.

"Think it’s deliberate?" I ask. "The professors ignoring us?"

"Has to be. Too consistent to be coincidence."

She’s right. Four different professors, four identical responses. Or lack thereof. The students might stare and whisper, but the faculty treat us like we don’t exist.

The Conclave’s influence, maybe? Or something else?

I add it to my mental list of questions. Right below "what the hell is a Catalyst good for" and "why does Shadow keep breaking into my apartment."

"At least being ghosts means they won’t notice if we skip homework." I tap my pen against the blank notebook in front of me. My earlier confidence fell completely flat once I hit Defensive Magic and found out I couldn’t get my magic to do anything it was supposed to. "Silver lining?"

"Oh God, homework." Penelope’s head thunks against the desk. "I haven’t done homework since sixth grade."

"What? How did you graduate?"

"Charm and wit, darling." She winks. "Also, my parents donated a new computer lab." She was spoiled before she turned out to be a witch.

"Of course they did."

"Hey, not all of us can be overachievers like you. Some of us prefer the path of least resistance."

"I wasn’t—" The memory of late nights hunched over security manuals hits me. Okay, maybe she has a point. "Fine. But this is different. We need to learn this stuff."

"Says who? The Conclave?" She snorts. "What are they going to do, give us detention?"

"They could expel us."

"And then what? Send you to magical juvie?" Penelope stretches, her designer sweater riding up. "Face it, they need you more than you need them. Guarantee they’d figure something out."

The professors might ignore us, but a few students turn at her words. Their whispers buzz like angry wasps.

"Keep your voice down." I glance around. "We don’t need more attention." I’m sure the Conclave doesn’t want any part of themselves known to the public.

Then again, who would listen to a bunch of trust fund babies who had to bribe the school in order to be admitted? I guess it’s the perfect cover.

"Please. These babies are too wrapped up in their own drama to care about us." She gestures at a group of students huddled around their phones. "See? Probably planning their next yacht party."

"You realize you’re also a trust fund baby, right?"

"Reformed trust fund baby." She taps her chest. "I work for a living now."

"You own a bar."

"Exactly. I’m practically blue collar."

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. The professor doesn’t even glance our way.

"So." Penelope props her chin on her hand. "What’s the verdict on homework? Because I vote we embrace our ghostly status and hit up that new coffee shop instead."

"We should at least try—"

"Boring." She pokes my arm. "Come on, live a little. When’s the last time you had fun?"

"Fun isn’t in my vocabulary anymore. Aren’t you the one who told me to take control and advantage of the situation? In fact, you were so excited to be a student again." I poke her arm back. "Well, study up, buttercup. We’re about to be straight A students."

But only because I want to get out of here. Safely.

* * *

"This is cruel and unusual punishment." Penelope drags her feet as we leave the classroom. "I thought being a witch would be more spells and potions, less homework and pop quizzes."

"Life’s full of disappointments."

The halls of Thornhaven empty fast as students rush to their next classes. Our footsteps echo against marble floors, but we aren’t alone. There are groups of kids everywhere, unrelated to the rush between classes.

Penelope stops in the middle of the hallway, forcing a group of students to part around us like water around rocks. Her usual playful expression shifts to something more serious. "Real talk—are you getting any of this stuff? Because I feel like I’m reading ancient Greek written backwards."

"Somewhat." I tap my textbook against my thigh. "The theories are all similar to what I’ve experienced with our wards and anti-magic defenses. Like, I understand why certain elements work together, and how different magical frequencies interact. But..."

"But neither of us can do jack in practical applications."

"Exactly."

"Well, don’t look at me for help." Penelope shrugs. "My magic’s always been weak sauce. Best I can do is light a candle, and half the time I still need matches."

"It’s probably just practice. We’ll get there."

A familiar figure in an impeccable charcoal suit rounds the corner ahead, his leather shoes clicking against the marble floor. Marcus Ashby’s presence in these halls feels as out of place as a Porsche in a graveyard.

Penelope’s eyes light up with mischief. "Well, if it isn’t our esteemed Dorm Advisor Ashby."

Marcus’s jaw tightens, with a slight twitch. "Miss de Lucien."

Seeing the posh lawyer striding through a university’s halls is just strange. "Why are you the dorm advisor, anyway, Mr. Ashby?" The image of Marcus doing room checks and mediating petty student disputes is too absurd to process. Especially after having seen the hotels he stays in.

"It’s a favor for a friend." His tone carries that precise blend of politeness and condescension that only old money can perfect. It makes Penelope wrinkle her nose at him.

Sometimes, she stares at him like a choice piece of meat. Other times, she looks as if he’s gone rancid.

"Must be some friend," Penelope quips, as if we don’t already all understand that he’s talking about Logan.

"Indeed." Marcus straightens his already straight tie. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to. You two should get back to the dorms. And don’t take any walks at night."

My eyebrows shoot up. "What’s wrong with taking walks at night?"

Marcus’s scowl deepens, carving lines into his perfect face. "Have you learned nothing from recent events, Miss d’Armand?"

The sharp edge in his voice catches me off guard. His pristine suit seems at odds with the tension in his shoulders as he marches past us, his usual grace replaced by rigid steps.

"Something’s wrong." Penelope watches him disappear around the corner.

"No kidding. I didn’t even know he could get that rattled."

"Come on." She grabs my arm and tugs me sideways.

"Wait, aren’t we heading back—"

"Shh." Penelope pulls me behind a cluster of students—all designer clothes and perfect hair. They huddle together, watching Marcus’s retreating form with dreamy sighs.

"Did you see his new suit?" One of them fans herself with a notebook.

"Forget the suit, did you see those cheekbones?"

"God, I’d let him advise my dorm any day."

Penelope rolls her eyes at me, even as she continues to listen in. "The geese are gathering," she whispers.

"Geese?"

"You know, gaggling, gossiping..." An airy wave of her hand. "Best place to hear what’s really going on around here."

I cross my arms, torn between amusement and mild frustration. "You’re enjoying this way too much." She knows it isn’t a game, and yet...

"Come on, Nikki. Where’s your sense of adventure?"

"I think I used it all up getting kidnapped and almost dying."

"Details." Penelope edges closer to the group, dragging me with her. "Sometimes the best intel comes from the most vapid sources."

Maybe she’s right, but that doesn’t make this feel any less ridiculous. Here we are, grown women, hiding behind potted plants to eavesdrop on college students. After everything that’s happened, eavesdropping on what is effectively a group of teenage girls with out of control hormones seems almost absurd.

But Penelope’s already committed, sidling up to the group with a practiced hair flip. "Oh my god, isn’t Mr. Ashby just dreamy?"

The geese welcome her instantly, as if recognizing one of their own, despite Penelope being much older. I hang back, wondering how my life turned into this bizarre mix of mortal danger and high school drama.

The discussion about Marcus Ashby’s butt—which is apparently quite fantastic—goes on long enough that I’m considering rupturing my own eardrum with my pencil when the topic suddenly changes.

"Did you hear about what happened last night?" One of them leans in, voice dropping. "Jenny from Third Floor said she saw something weird in the gardens."

"Weird how?"

"Like, glowing eyes weird. And not the normal kind."

Is there a normal kind of glowing eyes?