Page 26 of Divine Oaths

“How long has this been going on between you two?” Kasem said, but Honey was already pulling me away from him, the look of horror clear in her expression as she made her body a physical barrier between the two of us.

Moments later, the older man joined Honey’s side. He glanced at Kasem’s bloodied blazer and Honey’s protective stance.

“Well, look who it is,” he said. “I’m surprised your brother’s not here, covering up for your mess like he always does.”

It took a moment for Kasem to register the man’s words, but when he did, the icy look in his eyes was chilling.

“Ojore’s your puppet,” he said, “not mine.” He glanced behind Honey and the man. “Although, I wonder how he or the Board feels about you being with his ex-intended. You’re a tenured professor. And this is how you represent our school?”

“Honey can make her own decisions about who she sleeps with,” the man answered. “And I represent Westfield better than you or he ever could, cousin.”

He said the last word like it was a slur, like the thought of the two of them being related was some sick twist of fate. Yet, in my mind, they might as well have been speaking in another language, one strained by history and bitterness. I tried to decode the meaning beneath what they were saying, and yet, one word kept drifting to the surface.

“Ojore?” I repeated. A name and a question, all at once.

“I believe you know him as ‘Jojo,’” Kasem said. “My older brother. He’s a researcher here at Westfield.”

And there was my answer: the bracelet, the letter in Jojo’s car, the way he’d been so strange and distant when I’d asked about Westfield’s heir at Louisa’s booth in the mall, and now here at the university. Jojo had never spoken of his family before, and yet his cousin and his brother both stood before me in the flesh.

This entire time, everything I’d thought I’d known about Jojo was a lie. He wasn’t some impoverished historian or a vagabond with no family or name. Here was a statue dedicated to the Saint James line, and Jojo was a descendant of them; they were the heirs to Westfield.

“He didn’t tell you, I presume?”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”

On the other side of the maze, the professor tossed Honey’s shirt to her.

“I suggest you worry about yourself,” he said, speaking to Kasem. “Focus on your graduate thesis and your teaching assistant work. Or maybe nurse that flask you always carry with you.” He gestured to my bruised nose and the blood staining Kasem’s blazer. “How will you and your brother explain this to the president this time? Another accident, Kasem?” he said, his voice seething. “Has the statue come to life? Did it attack you both?” His recounting of events wasn’t correct, but it was closer to the truth than what Kasem had tried to make me believe. “You put the Saint James name in the mud.”

“And yet, I never sink it as much as you do, Alaster,” Kasem returned, emphasizing the man’s name in the same mocking tone that Alaster had called Kasem “cousin.” “This didn’t just happen. Don’t tell me it started when she took your classes.”

Splotches of red warmed Alaster’s cheeks. Honey’s too.

“Would both of you just stop?” Honey said. “I’m standing right here. You don’t have to talk over me like I’m invisible.” She was teary-eyed now, and when she turned to Kasem, he at least had the decency to look ashamed. Alaster didn’t seem to care.

“You’re on probation already,” she said to Kasem. She pointed to me and the blood-streaked blazer I was holding. “Do you really think you can risk getting caught in something like this?”

Then she spun to face Alaster. “And the state ruled what happened an accident. You can’t keep blaming Kasem. He’s grieving just as much as we all are. Let’s just leave and pretend none of this happened. Ojore told me he and Henning are doing orientation tours, and if she sees us like this—”

But then she froze, glancing in the opposite direction from where they’d come.

There were footsteps. A horde of them, and they were heading in our direction.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We may be better strangers

I HADN’T REALIZED IT THEN, but there was another door leading to the maze from the other side of the building. From beyond it, a voice boomed through the courtyard.

“You will call me Provost Henning,” came the voice of an older woman. “And excluding the unlikely and miserable chance that you are sent to my office, you will otherwise not see me until the end of the year, when I determine whether or not your academic output is worthy of the coveted Westfield scholarship.”

Alaster cursed. Honey looked terrified. Even Kasem looked unsettled.

“Put your shirt on, you silly little fool,” Alaster snapped, grabbing Honey by the shoulders and trying to force the shirt over her head. The gesture only caused her to sob more. Kasem grabbed Alaster, pushing him away.

“Touch her again. I dare you.”

In the bushes behind us, the sound of approaching footsteps grew to a crescendo, and more voices spoke. The person—Provost Henning—had come with students from orientation.