Page 46 of Fatality on the Field

Threading through the pre-dinner rush, I have my earbuds jammed in my ears to muffle the endless hum of Bowl Week bullshit. The whole campus is buzzing even though classes aren’t back in session, and it’s irritating as hell. My morning started with the theater department panicking over canceled tech rehearsals and half the cast is out with ‘seasonal flu’ when we’re in crunch mode. At noon, I ran triage for the music program’s rehearsal hall, which was being avoided by the performers because of the Rialto incident. It’s not even four, and I feel like I’ve been dragged over hot coals.

I round the turn past the library, and the magic building is hunched like a fat beetle on the horizon. It’s four stories of blackened, medieval brick with gun-slit windows and a crumbling lintel that’s been etched over so many times it looks like someone left a runic sudoku in the sun. Even when it’s locked up tight, you get a whiff of sour sulfur and scorched chalk dust from the doors as they open, especially if mages and wizards are working.

Overhead, a dark shape boomerangs out of the sunset—Morgana, her full wings unfurled, Des thrashing behind her like she’s auditioning for some action hero movie. She hits the landing with a sound that is more seismic event than athletic feat, and for a second, I think the railings might actually vibrate off their mounts. She’s got Channing under one arm, who looks exactly as you’d expect—windswept and pressed. The three of us lock eyes, and I pause before entering so they can catch up.

Morgana’s gaze says she’s as worried as I am, and twice as likely to break a door if she doesn’t get answers. I throw her a thin-lipped smile as I open the door, holding it for them as they straighten their clothes. She tilts her head as she looks at me. “You were pulled from rehearsal, I take it?”

“Got a text from Iggy, which I assume you did as well..” I hold up my phone, still lit up with the message from the mage.

“Of course we did,” Channing says, brushing her lapel and casting a look into the building like she’s expecting a sniper. “What the hell is going on now?”

“No idea. But when he says come now, I come.”

My mate snorts. “Well, whatever it is, Iggy was not playing around, so let’s get in there and see what mess we have to clean up this time.”

Channing and I fall into step behind her as she enters, and for the first time all day, I feel the spark you get right before a fight. I know it well from life with my parents and their gang, but I’ve never felt like part of it. It’s not fear, exactly—just the sense that something bad is coming and you need to be on your guard.

The doors close behind us with a teeth-rattling click, and I look up at the high ceiling, sighing softly as the adrenaline churns inside of me.

Whatever this is, I hope we can handle it without having to call in the rest of the cavalry.

The first thing new people notice about the elevator in the magic building is that it wasn’t built for anyone with claustrophobia. It’s got a gate made of wrought-iron filigree that groans every time you touch it, like you’re waking up a beast that’s been chained for centuries. You have to slide it aside, slam it back, and punch your destination in with a knuckle if your hands are full. Most days, I’d rather take the stairs, but today none of us are in a mood to delay whatever fire Iggy’s lit.

And yes, the Fae students have registered a million complaints about the iron, but it’s historic, so it cannot be changed or removed.

Morgana steps into it first, then Channing, and I tuck myself in last, bracing my back against the metal ribs. If you breathe too deeply, your elbow is in someone’s face or worse. For a moment, no one says anything, and the only sound is the dull clang as the lift jerks into motion and starts its slow, shuddering climb.

“How has your day been, Slade?” the gargoyle asks as the lift shudders upward.

“Frustrating,” I say tiredly. “The theater’s a mess because half the department is still off and the other half is threatening to mutiny because of the last-minute bowl stuff. In comparison, the music department is barely functioning; they lost their rehearsal space and the grad assistants are so freaked out they're double-booking studios. Nobody told either of them about Tantalus Bowl prep, by the way. They’re just getting wind of it now, and Rialto dying in one of the primary spaces before break doesn’t help the situation. It’s chaos.”

Morgana lets out a soft groan, and Channing looks at me with her lips twitching at the corners. I feel the tension coming off them in waves, so I know their day has been no better.

“We’re behind the eight ball in admin, too. There’s no communication; every contract is missing signatures, and none of the line items match up with what was on the planning calendar before break.” She looks at Morgana. “Your desk is not the only one drowning. I got three texts before noon from admins for heads of various departments, all losing their shit over last-minute deadlines.”

My mate is usually the master of deadpan, but right now her eyes are bright, and the vein in her temple is making itself known. “Good to know they’re fucking everyone over equally.”

“I don’t think anyone but the Athletic Director for the football team knew what was coming,” I chime in, trying not to move. “Rumor has it that the only ones who got their Bowl info before break are people who are tight with them. They had a meeting and everything, complete with catering, but the rest of us got it with zero time to prepare.”

“Football is always a priority at State U. You know that, Slade,” Channing says, and for a second, I think she might snap the stylus she’s white-knuckling in her hand. “But hiding something this big is a new level of petty. It’s like they wanted to make sure nobody had time to prepare except the coaches, and that means they had alumni and Board help.”

The elevator grinds past the next floor, jolting us all a half-inch higher as it continues on the journey to the top floor. Morgana doesn’t move, but the starch comes out of her posture just a little. “It’s sabotage,” she says flatly. “Someone’s pulling strings to make it look like every department is incompetent, except the one they care about. The only question is who’s getting the payback and why.”

It’s obviously to make Morgana look bad, but I don’t want to be the one to say that out loud.

Channing exhales slowly, then says, “My bet? A board member with a donor in their pocket who is entirely focused on the sports program. They want the event to look seamless on the outside, but they want the rest of campus to look like it can’t handle its shit. When the dust settles, it’ll be easy to push through whatever new oversight or policy they want.”

“Or just cut funding to the ones that struggled,” I mutter.

“Very possible,” Channing agrees.

We ride in silence for a long moment, each considering the situation. Des’s head has poked out from Morgana’s hair and is flicking her tongue at the ceiling, as restless as her owner. I keep one hand on the steel, letting it vibrate through my bones while I wait for the gate to open. The elevator shudders to a halt, and we all spill out at once, still silent.

Morgana takes the lead, her shoulders squared and murder in her step. Channing’s close behind, clutching her agenda like a shield. I hang back half a pace, not out of fear, but because you want to let the monsters go first when you’re not sure what’s in the room. The double doors of Iggy’s office are closed and pulsing with a weird, low-grade heat I can feel, even out here. My mate stalks up to them and stops, one hand clenched as Des twitches at her collar like she’s ready to lunge at anything that moves. Glancing over her shoulder once, Morgana checks that Channing and I are there, and then yanks the door open without knocking.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she expects the thing on the other side to bite back.

I’m shocked to see Kimiko Nakamura—the greenhouse boss and Botany professor with a grudge against Iggy—standing there. She’s wearing a lab coat and fingerless gloves, her hair pulled back so tightly it looks vacuum-packed, and her eyes dart past us to check the hallway before she lets us in.