Page 85 of Fatality on the Field

“Unplanned incidents are the spice of life, Iggy,” I say with a smile as I roll the stone in my palm. It makes a sound that would get me evicted from the campus library and I snort. “What’s the point of all this stuff if it’s untouchable? It feels like an unnecessary experiment in forced control. Is that why it’s here?”

Now he looks at me, and the impact hits me like a ton of bricks. I forget sometimes that under the dry professor thing is a man that I’m attracted to who knows what he does to me. His eyes are darker than usual, like he hasn’t slept well, which is unsurprising after that binge.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and tips his head back for a moment before saying, “Obviously, I can’t think of everything that could happen—like the poisoning—but I have a lot of things here that I removed from my vaults for quicker access. I figure it’s better safe than dead, but that doesn’t mean you can walk around like a toddler in a toy store.”

“That’s not what you said when Lucas caught you messing with dangerous shit at home after a bottle and a half of GlenDronach.” I grin as I arch a brow at him. “The poor kid was terrified you’d done something to curse the entire house; he just didn’t tell you. He sat with you drinking and talking until the rest of us got home to deal with it.”

The look he gives me is a mix of irritation and… something else. Annoyed affection? He’s never been great at hiding when I’m getting to him, even if he tries.

“Lucas couldn’t have known that I was cataloguing them after doing research on their special properties. Even drunk, I know my magic.” He sets the pen down and drums his fingers on the desk. “However, if you’re here to psychoanalyze my coping mechanisms, save it for a day when I’m less behind on my actual work. There’s way too much to do for mid-terms, plus the outside research for all the bad shit going on to focus on my shitastic relationship with my father, Slade.”

“I don’t want to analyze you, Iggy,” I say, returning to my chair and dropping the stone onto the desk with a solid thunk. “I want to talk to you—and listen. I’ve known you long enough to say that every time your father gets under your skin, you dive into something self-destructive. Women, dangerous magic, antique hunting, rare books, peculiar single-malts, and now… what? Sabotage-by-inventory?”

Sighing, Iggy glances at the clock. “Are you done? Because I wasn’t joking about being behind.”

“I’m not going away.” I slide my phone out and scroll. “I can outlast you every single time and you know it. You’ve even lost money on it in the past.”

He’s staring at the desk again, but I see the pulse throbbing at his temple. “Fine,” he says tiredly. “Tell me what you think I need to hear then.”

“Fine.” I cross my legs, lean in, and let my voice drop to a warm, even register. “Every time your old man contacts you or forces you to contact him, you go a little insane in the brain box. You either overcorrect—like, say, take on a crushing amount of work so you can’t feel anything but exhaustion—or you pick a fight with someone you know will punch back. If not either of those things, as I said before, you fuck up your life with shopping sprees, bad choices, and anything else that will sufficiently punish you.” I sit back, watching him absorb it. “You think you’re so slick, Iggy, but you’re the most transparent guy I know.”

He opens his mouth, probably to cut me off, but I plow ahead before he can. “And before you try to flip the mirror, yes, I have the same ‘my parents don’t love me’ problems as you do. The only difference is my family’s manipulation comes with a smile and a Black Amex they dangle to entice me. Yours comes with threats and violence.”

His mouth snaps shut. I hit something there, and he knows it.

“I had a spectacular talk with the old man this week,” he says after a beat. “It was perfectly cordial.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.” I snort as I prop one foot on his desk. “You don’t need to sink into booze like a fucking stone when things are cordial. Stop deflecting.”

“He’s always been… insistent that I keep the family name clean by distancing myself from anything that could make us look unstable or subversive. It’s never mattered that he and the elder Briartons run around like perverted, crooked, old fools. I have to remain aboveboard.” His hands flatten on the desk as he frowns. “He didn’t like me asking about the lesser traveled realms and who could be trying to fuck up everyone here with these murders. I don’t know why, but despite my careful wording, he reacted poorly.”

I nod, understanding the progression. “Did he threaten to cut you off or something?”

“This time, he wants to paint me as—” He stops, jaw clenching, and then goes on. “—incestual, by way of one of his many bastards running around the universe unknown to me. He didn’t threaten to leak that rumor as much as comment that there’s one he knows about who is pregnant. His words about the parentage and how indiscriminate I can be, especially when I was an undergrad were selected to let me know he’d be happy to not only spread that gossip, but manufacture evidence.”

I whistle. “Cold, even for Septimus.”

He makes a strangled sound that might have started as a laugh. “He’s always known exactly where to put the knife. He said if I didn’t stop ‘chasing down dead ends for the new Dean’ that I can choose to be a pawn, or a pariah. Obviously, he has no idea that my grandmother spell-marked me when I was very young to prevent such a thing from happening. I guess the women in the Briarton family have been doing it secretly for so long that if any of the males knew, they’ve forgotten.”

I look at him and feel something twist in my stomach. Not pity, not exactly, but a familiar spike of recognition. “That mark means you couldn’t do that, which would reveal his lies. Why not tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree instead of getting so depressed?”

“If I did, he’d just find something else to use. At least this thing I have the ability to refute.” He pulls a hand down his face. “I hate that I can’t stop caring what that fucker thinks. It’s the fucking curse of our line, I swear.”

“Family’s a hell of a drug,” I say softly. “And most of the time it’s not even the good stuff.”

He manages a weak snort at that, and for a second, the ice in his eyes cracks. “Was there actually a reason you dropped by? Other than to be the Jiminy Cricket on my shoulder, I mean. I’d hate to figure out that I’ve actually wasted your time by not behaving like a healthy adult.”

I could play coy, but I’m not here for that. “I thought you could use someone to tell you that it’s okay to not fix it all right now. For the moment, you can shelve your dad’s shit and pick it back up after this stupid game.” I let the silence stretch as I smile at him. “Not that anyone in our family gives a solitary fuck about football—we just want Morgana to succeed so the assholes leave her alone.”

My old friend holds my gaze, and the weirdest thing happens—he drops the wall for a second. “You’re persistent, even for a siren. I forget that sometimes.”

“That’s why you like me. I don’t give up, even when some crusty-ass womanizer has ignored me more times than I can count because he’s afraid of commitment."

“Can’t imagine who that was,” he says, but he’s almost smiling now.

We sit in silence for a while, both of us decompressing as the tension fades. He doesn’t reach for the pen, which is how I know he’s done pretending to work.

“If you were me,” he says quietly, “what would you do about it?”