Strange Academy (Hot Paranormal Romance) Page 3

  Shit. He couldn’t do it. She might be an enemy, but she was still a defenseless Non. So much for the easy way. And now he was walking down Sadie Strange’s hallway without a good plan.

  The problem was that his entire experience with Non-Meta females consisted of saving their lives and convincing them the big scary thing with the leathery wings in the alley wasn’t a demon, but an asylum escapee dressed like Batman. And turning down their drink invitations after seeing them home safely. They probably didn’t even feel things the same way Metas did.

  Same as demon hunting, he told himself. Get close. Find the weak point. Deliver the killing blow. Easy.

  And getting close to a Non didn’t go against every rule in his family. No, Dumbass, just the oldest, most important one.

  He ignored his inner voice and tried to shrug the stress knot under his shoulder blade away.

  Why did she have to take Ms. Strange—Pippa’s—apartment? Could he purposely hurt Pippa’s niece?

  Pippa. The thought of her made him want to put his fist through something. Damn. Why had he been so stupid? The intensity of the guilt cloud that settled over him nearly sent him back down the hall.

  Now was not the time to start thinking about what had happened. How she’d still be alive if he hadn’t...

  With effort, he shoved aside his regret. This wasn’t about his failure; it was about Sterling.

  Gray cricked his neck from side to side, loosening up for battle. Then he tossed his coat and his briefcase on the corridor floor, opened his collar an inch, leaned against her doorframe and knocked. At the last second, he crossed his arms so his biceps bulged.

  Ha. That would get her. Hell, she’d practically melted when he’d used a spell to stroke the back of her neck.

  The door opened. “Hi,” he said in a low, manly voice.

  But repressed librarian was missing in action. She answered the door fresh from the shower, still tying the belt of a black kimono. Her dark hair dripped over her shoulders, dampening her robe almost to her breasts. Her red-painted toenails looked like cinnamon-heart candies peeping out of her open-toed slippers.

  Cinnamon-heart candies? He really needed to get laid.

  “Alumnus,” Sadie said. “‘Alumni’ is plural. Saying ‘I’m an alumni’ is like saying ‘I’m an assholes.’”

  He smiled and ignored both her faux pas—no one would insult him intentionally, after all—and the pain from the stress knot in his back. “Came to give you the good news, Sadie. We’re going to be working very closely together. I was appointed senior residence advisor here this afternoon.” Hadn’t happened yet. He’d move a suitcase from his house in town tonight and tell Cross in the morning.

  She raised a damp eyebrow at him as if she saw right through his lie. Impossible. She was just a Non. “Come in.”

  Easy.

  When the door closed behind him, she crossed her arms, making her kimono gape and squishing her breasts together.

  A hard-sided suitcase Jackie O. might have carried took up one end of Pippa’s brown curlicue-patterned couch. A suit bag was draped over her tiny television.

  “Can I help you unpack?” Of course, his real goal was to gather ammunition. He walked over to the pile of loosely stacked boxes. C. books, said one. G. novels, said another. The shelves lining the room held nothing but dust. At least someone had had the sense to hide them from the Non.

  “Does this usually work for you?” A sneer tinged her voice, turning it caustic. When he looked up from her breasts, he saw the contempt on her pink lips.

  “What?” When had Nons started speaking another language?

  “Yeah. Definitely does. This—” she waved a hand at his chest “—gets you whatever you want from women. You just walk up, ring a bell and they salivate.”

  And it all became clear. She actually intended to fight him. He smiled inside. There was only one thing he liked better than an easy fix.

  A challenge.

  “But you feel nothing,” he said.

  “I feel something, Gray. Nauseated. I know everything, by the way.”

  A millisecond of panic, then his hunter’s calm clicked on. He looked her in the eye while his right hand slipped inside his charcoal gray sports jacket and touched the finger-slim vial in the secret pocket above his heart. Not a love potion. Something more permanent.

  “Please be a bit more specific about this ‘everything’ you know,” he said.

  “I know you don’t want me here. No one’s watching, so turn off the fake charm before I lose my dinner.”

  He relaxed and took his hand from his pocket. No desperate measures. For now. “I told Cross that stuff in confidence.”

  “A secret is something you don’t yell at the top of your lungs. The entire academy probably heard it. Montréal probably heard it.”

  He followed as she walked into Pippa’s small kitchen, though he doubted she was going to open a bottle of wine. The damp robe clung to the upside-down heart of her backside.

  “I don’t yell.” When he got pissed, he spoke lower than usual. But his heart pounded in his chest, just like now. That’s how he knew he was angry at her, not turned on by the way her slim waist twisted when she put the kettle on the ancient gas stove.

  “‘I don’t care if her aunt was Pippa Strange. She’s not one of us. She won’t fit into the environment.’” She mimicked his voice’s manly timbre.

  How had she heard that? He stiffened, feeling enclosed by the tight kitchen. And her.

  “You don’t want me here, so you move into Strange Hall. What’s the point? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

  “And your lover handcuffed to the bedpost,” he added.

  The point of her chin jutted. “Not working. Knock it off.”

  Not working? Her nostrils flared. Her body exuded tension. He stepped closer and dismissed the tension in his own. He really needed to get laid. “If it’s not working, you won’t mind if I don’t stop.” He reached for a strand of dark wet hair hanging down her neck like a licorice whip. She wrenched her hair out of his grasp. He rubbed moist fingers and smiled.

  She lifted her lips in an attempt at a smile. “Sometimes I like to insult gorgeous men just so I can watch them walk away.”

  Her voice had trembled. Maybe he didn’t need a love potion. He backed her into the corner between the stove and the sink. “I won’t be walking away.”

  He slid his gaze down to the white teeth just showing between her rosy lips, down the subtle curve of her throat framed by the waves of drying dark brown hair, and over the vee notch in her collarbone pointing the way down further. She stood stock still, as if the journey of his eyes locked her in place. A deep breath strained her breasts against the kimono. His own breath fell into a matching rhythm as he moved his hips to—

  The teakettle blasted a shrill whistle, breaking the spell. She snatched it up and thrust it between them, forcing him to take a step back, hands raised in surrender.

  Now armed, she seemed to gather strength. “So, you’re the alpha male and I’m on your turf. So I can either be dominated or get out?”

  He took the harsh note in her voice as a warning. He settled himself against the kitchen counter and tried to look non-threatening. He knew she wouldn’t hesitate to dump boiling water on his head. Well, she might hesitate. Then do it anyway.

  And she might choose a target lower than his head.

  “I’m immune to your ‘charms,’ Gray. I think you’re one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen.”

  Now he was just confused. “Not following.”

  She shrugged. “My perceptions tell me you’re attractive. Therefore, you’re repellent.”

  “Do you have some evidence of this?”

  She pointed a finger at him like she was taking aim. “Science teacher. Right. I’ll put it into language you can understand. The experiment has failed four times. There was Brian-the-handsome-jerk. Then Caleb-the-handsome-jerk. Oh yes, and Eric-the-handsome-jerk.”

  Just lik
e a woman, to dump her relationship history on him. “Is that in chronological order or alphabetical?”

  “They were just the run-of-the-mill handsome jerks,” she continued. “It was Fabian-the-handsome-jerk who took the proverbial cake. That’s when I stopped following orders from men. Probably because the order was ‘Hold still, bitch, and don’t you dare hit me with that lamp.’ Fabian-the-handsome-jerk was a firm believer in the third date rule.”

  Gray saw red. He didn’t know about this “third date rule,” but he got the gist. She’d said no, but what’s-his-name had insisted.

  Sadie’s head barely came to his shoulder. It was just the force of her personality making her seem to take up extra space. You protected those weaker than yourself. That was a rule.

  “What’s his address? My fist would like to meet him.”

  “I learned three things from this.” Sadie slammed the kettle down and ticked off fingers as she spoke. “One: No man orders me around. Two: I see things in men that just aren’t there. Three: It’s hard to get blood out of a carpet once it’s dry. Head wounds bleed like a sonovabitch.”

  He grinned inwardly at the mental picture—Sadie triumphing over her enemy, not the carpet scrubbing. But a sweaty Sadie with her heart-shaped ass in the air also appealed. “That’s four things.”

  When she blinked at him, he raised four fingers. “Orders. Things that aren’t there. Carpet. Head wounds.”

  She didn’t quite turn her back on him while she searched the cupboards, slamming each in succession. “What’s your damage? I’m just a teacher.”

  “My damage is you’re just a regular teacher and these kids are special. They’ll have to deal with your kind soon enough.”

  “My kind?” Her acid tone could have etched metal. “What, because I didn’t go to private school? Because I don’t have a Roman numeral after my name? That’s the most elitist thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not the Strange Academy for Mediocre Children.”

  Sadie banged the cupboard door shut after lifting down one mug and one teabag. The sight of the tea made him think of Pippa, and sent a fresh wave of guilt for him to shrug off.

  “So, you must be the most extraordinary chemistry teacher in the whole wide world.”

  His jaw clenched at the sheer irony of that statement. “Lady, you have no idea.”

  “You are so arrogant.”

  His teeth gritted. “No one talks to me like that.”

  “Then it’s no wonder you’re so arrogant.” She reached for the still-steaming teakettle and every muscle in his body twitched at the potential threat. The hair on his arms stood at attention until she’d finished emptying the hot water into her cup and replaced the kettle on the stove.

  “Did Aunt Pippa put up with this from you?”

  “I think there’s a law against people like you comparing themselves to people like her,” he said, despite the burning remorse in his stomach.

  She narrowed her eyes. “So what’s your next move, Gray?”

  “Think I’ll get you fired.”

  “Oh, really.” An eyebrow arched in interest. “How?”

  “You think I’m gorgeous. I’ll find a way to use it.” Women went weak kneed around him. Most of them, anyway.

  “It’s true. You’re very pretty.”

  Pretty? His jaw clamped and he gripped the lip of the countertop so tight he thought his fingers would break.

  “So, I’ll need a distraction. Guess it’s good I have a thing for blonds. You want to know who else is dreamy?”

  “You won’t start with Cross.” But Cross wasn’t under the Gray House rule against fraternization with Nons. Cross could easily—

  Gray dismissed the irritating thought before he finished it.

  Innocent dark lashes fluttered at him. “Is he gay?”

  “It’s inappropriate.” Why were his teeth clenched?

  “And fun.” She made an “mmm” sound too sensual to have anything to do with the tea she sipped. “Just thinking about his tight, hard, round—”

  “Stop.”

  “See, you do yell.”

  “Don’t push me.”

  “Why not? You push me.” She brushed past him, close enough to grab. But instead of shaking some sense into her, he followed her swaying backside into the living room.

  “I don’t want to, Gray, but I’ll play politics if I have to. And I’ll win. You wouldn’t be the first over-privileged elitist to look down on what I do. I’m still standing. And I can always use my feminine wiles on Christian.” She flicked off her slippers and curled up in a cozy armchair. He got a flash of elegant legs before she tucked her robe over them. He stayed standing, needing to tower over her. And she hadn’t invited him to sit.

  She was playing. So could he. “You don’t have the guts.”

  Blood rushed into her face and neck, a pink contrast to her shiny black robe. She slammed her mug down and vaulted out of the chair. Damn, it was fun to get her mad. He made a mental note to do this often.

  She jabbed a finger into his chest. “‘Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door.’”

  Something clicked in his brain. Edgar Allen Poe? The reference came to him and he laughed under his breath as he strode to the exit.

  Pausing in the doorway for dramatic effect, he looked deep into coffee eyes. “‘Quoth the raven, Nevermore.’”

  Chapter Three

  At the funeral, people had said Pippa looked like she was sleeping. To Sadie, she’d looked stone dead. Gone forever.

  Now, the Pippa standing at the end of the big oak bed where Sadie was sleeping looked like her eccentric aunt. The yellow swirly sundress with pink cabbage roses was more her style than the awful navy suit they buried her in. Her wide smile erased years from her face and her voice soothed in the way only an overbearing aunt’s could.

  It was a great dream.

  “Don’t be disappointed, dear, but I wasn’t murdered. Sorry to lead you down the garden path, but I had to get you here somehow, didn’t I?” Pippa, brown eyes gleaming with mischief, threw her hands up as if the whole thing was out of her control. “Well, there was one little thing, but it doesn’t matter at present. I’ll send you someone to help you later if it becomes important. Which it certainly will. For now, I insist you put it out of your mind.” Dream Pippa lowered her tone to a secret whisper, making Dream Sadie sit up to hear better. “Concentrate on more important things. Like how hunky Gray is.”

  Sadie burst awake, her mouth open to scream. She panted for breath. She could chalk the first part up to Freud’s theory of dreams as wish fulfillment—she wanted nothing more than her aunt’s death to be natural—but how did Gray get in there?

  Huh. Odd. She didn’t remember sitting up.

  7:33? Dammit. Neither of her alarms had gone off. She’d wanted to get in early to prepare and now she’d be lucky to arrive in time for class.

  In a burst of energy, she shoved her legs into yesterday’s pantyhose and threw on her favorite Salvation Army suit, the black one with wide lapels. Vintage, not out of date.

  Thank God she’d got her briefcase together last night. She glanced at her watch and judged she had enough time to frisk the kitchen for those cookies in the cupboard. It was a miracle she’d noticed anything but Gray’s broad chest last night. And him peering down at her like she was the last drink of water in his canteen during a desert crossing. And his glossy black hair.

  Stop it, she warned herself.

  She stuffed two Oreos into her mouth and left the box open on the counter, next to the unopened parcel with her name on it. She’d planned to open it before class, since dealing with Gray had taken up last night. No time now.

  Whipping on her coat, she shoved her feet in her black patent leather heels and threw herself out the door.

  Right into a Greek goddess holding a severed head.

  The cookies in her mouth muffled her scream. Mostly. A pair of passing female students in matching gray blazers and bl
ue-gray kilts peered around the statue, then whispered to each other as they hustled away.

  On second look—after her heart stopped thumping—it was more of a mask than a head. Both mask and goddess grinned at her, pleased they’d scared her.

  She sighed. No time to move the statue now, even if she could do it herself. It looked heavy. It would have taken a well-organized team of jokers to move it, like the engineering students who had moved a VW Beetle into the dorm during her first year at U of T. If she were lucky, whoever had done this would recycle the prank on someone else and she wouldn’t have to move the thing.

  “It really was a good joke, Miss,” she told the statue, maneuvering under the shepherd’s crook held in an elegant marble arm to lock her door behind her. She inserted a cookie in the open mouth of the mask. “Have an Oreo. And wish me luck.”

  *

  ***

  ******

  ****

  *

  “What’s that noise?” Sadie asked, turning from the sentence she was writing on the chalkboard.

  Nineteen fresh-faced fifth graders wearing navy blue blazers and gray plaid ties put on innocent faces. Who? Me? None of them even twitched. Her B.S. detector was going wild, but she turned back to the chalkboard.

  Sadie had survived the first four periods and lunch break without incident, despite the narrow time span between her arrival and the first period bell. Her worst problem was her small bladder. She couldn’t give herself a hall pass.

  The modern brightness of her assigned classroom had surprised her. The walls were a bluish shade of mint, trimmed in dark blue around the bank of windows. Friendly colors. Not like the drab beige tones of the big city public school she’d attended in Toronto. Thirty desks sat in five neat rows, and not a single one had a foul word scribbled onto its wooden top.

  Windows gave a good view of campus. The buildings were laid out in a U-shape, and wasn't just her luck the bronze spire of the library was constantly visible from her classroom window, constantly reminding her of Pippa death. Chapter House—the administration building of offices; including Christian's; the staff meeting room; and the theatre/auditorium for assemblies—formed the base of the U. Attached to it was the modern-looking Interfaith Chapel, with its abstract-patterned stained-glass windows and a politically correct sphere capping its spire. In the shadow of Chapter House’s clock tower was the Quad, an open space of grass and trees. The Arts Building, a three-floor structure of large brown stones, was one arm of the U. The columns in front of the door and the Latin inscription on the pediment—Ars Perditae, which Sadie had translated as “Lost Arts” when she’d walked below it this morning—gave it the air of a staid museum. The interior had obviously been retrofitted with green lockers and industrial tile in the 1970s.