Kill or Be Killed: A Reverse Harem Paranormal University Academy Romance (Cain University Book 2)

by Lucy Auburn

  I roll my eyes. "It's physical touch that does it, technically. We don't have to hold hands. I could jab my fingers in your eyes and see how that works."

  A lazy, slow grin blossoms across Levi's face, and I have the feeling I made a mistake. "Why go for pain when pleasure is so close by? I can think of other ways we could touch physically. Though maybe Instructor Abarra would disapprove." The way his silver eyes look at me, I feel as if I'm already naked, in a distinctly bedroom way. "I noticed a couple days ago that Mason left our bedroom in the middle of the night and returned far less wound up, smelling distinctly like lilac. Wonder what that was about."

  "Lilac?" Tearing my eyes away from him, trying not to let the heat growing inside me make my cheeks turn dark red, I watch as more students slowly filter in through the front door. Still no sign of the professor. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "It's what you smell like, at least most of the time." I can't keep myself from looking over at him as his eyes flutter half-closed, mouth a crooked smirk, and he inhales slowly. "I don't think it's a shampoo, either, because Eve doesn't smell like that, and I know you share a shower. Wherever it comes from, it's an Ellen-only smell. Which means he'd just been very close to you. I wonder what you two were doing."

  The way he's looking at me, I feel distinctly like a snack on a tray, about to be devoured. All this time, I've looked at Levi as a goof, a sarcastic ass, and at his worst, a man capable of causing great pain with the flick of a wrist. But he's also wiry and tall, his eyes like liquid silver, his relaxed and tawdry body language distinctly reminding me of the bedroom. He has broad hands and taut muscles, every movement he makes deliberate, even as his weakness betrays him with noise.

  "You're a bit much," I tell him, as his silver-tinted eyes roam my face and neck, making me blush with fiery heat everywhere they land. "Maybe dial it back to two or three."

  A wicked chuckle from that crooked mouth. "But it's so fun to watch you squirm." I glower at him, and he shrugs laconically, leaning away from me. "Whatever you want, Ellen. Just don't come running to me when you've broken Mason's heart just like you nearly killed him yesterday. That one bleeds profusely in more ways than one."

  "I didn't say anything about hearts," I mutter, knowing it's no use denying that we slept together. "I made that part pretty clear." I hope.

  "Just a hookup, then? Too bad you didn't come to me." A salacious grin. "I would've shown you just how high a tightrope walker can take you."

  I roll my eyes, trying not to squirm at the direction the conversation is going. "You're all hot air."

  "It's not hot air when it's true. Have you ever heard of this position called—"

  "Class! Here you all are." Saved by the bell, or in this case, the professor. I don't want to imagine the sex positions Levi has in mind. I have the feeling once I know them, I'll be picturing them all class. "Good to see you've made it in time, souls intact. Now..."

  As Professor Killington strides into the middle of the room, I forget everything Levi has been saying in favor of staring at our teacher in mute shock.

  Killington isn't just a name, apparently. It's a way of life. A way of life stuck in the 1980s, if you're this Professor Killington. From his teased hair to his leather jacket and smudged eyeliner, he looks like he came straight out of a classic rock band formed in 1984—and hasn't changed one iota since then. He has a black tattoo of skulls and what looks like a dragon peeking out of his collar, tanned skin with a visible farmer's line that shows as he takes the jacket off and throws it on his desk, and a worn Led Zeppelin T-shirt on underneath.

  He doesn't look like the sort of sage, otherworldly guy I'd expect to take me on a journey of spiritual discovery. Instead he looks more like the substitute teacher at my high school who sold marijuana to students—cut with dried oregano to really make his buck off us. I'm surprised he's not the one who goes by his first name.

  "It's a new day here at Cain." Bracing his hands on the desk, he scans us menacingly, the faded black tattoos on his arms stretching as his muscles flex. "What have you learned from the dead since our last class?"

  Rolling his eyes, Levi leans in close to me and murmurs, "You'll love Killington. He's all about the ghost whisperers. Me? I barely get any credit for my abilities."

  "I haven't whispered to any ghosts," I remind him in a low voice, heart sinking as I anticipate being called on and disappointing everyone. "I've barely been at this school, after all."

  "So? You showed off your powers pretty easily during your initiation. Must be that whole Brutus thing of yours."

  If only it were that easy. Sure, my force field comes fairly well—though as this morning's class proved, I have a lot to learn when it comes to my Physical Affinity. But brute force has always been my instinctual go-to when cornered. There's a reason why I stabbed Jack to death instead of facing off with him in a battle of Sicilian wits or sneaking up and smothering him in the night. Subtlety is not my strongest trait.

  The ghost whisperers, as Levi calls them, are eager to talk about their various sightings and encounters. Somehow, last night alone, they've spoken to a whole host of the dead: a fighter down in the arena, a peasant woman out in the woods, an old chef, and someone even spoke to a Civil War fighter somehow. I can't help but be suspicious; there's a whiff of exaggeration to their stories. But then again, maybe Spiritual Class Affinities are like this, though I don't know how it helps assassins.

  "Ellen." The professor's eyes land on me, and I do my best not to shrink down into my pouf of a chair. "You have the ability to summon ghosts. Speak to any lately?"

  "Err—none of them have spoken yet."

  Levi chimes in, "Also, she was kidnapped."

  "Ah!" Killington snaps his fingers. "That's right. The headmaster briefed me." A surprise, since she took the news with her usual lack of enthusiasm and swig from a flask. "Perhaps in the time of your kidnapping, your abilities came in handy."

  "I wasn't really able to use them." Before I can look weak in front of the other students, I add, "There was some kind of protective force field around the pocket dimension I was held in. It kept most magic out... though not completely."

  "Interesting. How disappointing, though. The dead are often great help when planning an escape." I'm not sure how. Thankfully, the big-haired man wearing eyeliner is prepared to explain. "You see, spirits can go places we cannot. Through walls. Underground and aboveground. A spirit could've advised you how to escape from your captor, or told you the secrets of the place you were being held in. That's how I escaped from Alcatraz—though you won't hear about it in the mainstream news."

  Of course. Probably a government conspiracy according to Killington, who has the air of paranoia to him, along with the '80s nostalgia. I wonder if he's even left Cain University's campus for longer than an hour or two since cassette tapes were a thing.

  Because I want to make a good impression, I tell him, "It didn't occur to me to summon a spirit for help. That's good advice."

  "There's so much more to the Spiritual Class than just seances and testimonies from the recent murdered." Pacing back and forth in front of us, he goes on. "The spirit tells us who we are as well as who we were. Its energy is the lifeblood of humanity. Without the Spiritual Class, what are assassins? Nothing. Ours is the most vital, the most powerful, of the four Classes."

  Ah, there it is again. That damned declaration of team solidarity. Based on the expressions of all the students around me, the others agree that theirs is the best of the four. I get the feeling that the professors in my Mental and Emotional classes will agree as well.

  "So, Ellen. Let's talk about what makes spiritual energy tick..."

  As Killington lectures, Levi lets his eyes droop closed and settles down into his giant pouf of a chair. I wish I could do the same, but every few sentences or so the professor looks to me to make sure I'm understanding.

  Meanwhile, students in the class are murmuring to invisible spirits in low voices, changing the color of each other'
s hair—I don't want to think about what Affinity that is—and projecting their auras and souls out of their bodies.

  I'm surrounded by people obsessed with death.

  Levi, a guy who can kill others with the power in the palm of his hand, is starting to look like the sanest of the bunch.

  2:15 PM Mental Class with Professor Vervaine

  Vervaine is the professor Eve wanted me to talk to the other day. She was excited when she found out I was finally going to her class—apparently, I'm going to love her.

  There's just one problem with that: my Mental Class is the one I share with Grayson the Asshole. If he's any indication of what the other Mental Affinity students are like, I have the feeling I'm going to hate all of them.

  Imagine what they must be like: getting into other's minds, using their mental acuity to strategize and plan, controlling people and animals. I feel a brief flicker of guilt at the thought—Eve has a Mental Class Affinity, after all—but even she's gotten rich by killing dictators and CEOs. All the Mental Class students must be just as formidable.

  And at the top of that pack, alpha to rule them all, must be Grayson Hughes, asshole extraordinaire, capable of making others dance with just a little bit of effort. The fact that he's a free agent who hasn't actually killed his Mark is the only shock—I have the feeling that the pain in his leg, and his subsequent addiction, are the only thing holding him back.

  It's no surprise to walk into the training room for Mental Class Affinities and discover that there are no weapons on the wall. Instead, there are just floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining either wall, full of books—another kind of weapon entirely. Rows of precisely placed desks all face an old-fashioned chalkboard.

  There's no computer here, no screens or even older projectors, but there are several chess boards set up in the front of the room, as well as several strategy-based board games. The neat desk gives me the impression that the professor who runs this class is exact in every way, unlike my first two professors and their kookiness.

  In fact, it doesn't surprise me at all when all the other students show up early to class, too. By the time the clock reads 2:14 PM, the last student to fill a desk is walking in, a distinct thump accompanying his steps.

  Grayson is here.

  The last open desk, thankfully, is a few rows away from mine. He does see me, though, and briefly raises a red brow before heading directly to his spot, which is right near the teacher's desk.

  No doubt he's a teacher's pet in his own right, the suckup who answers all the questions first and shows off all the time. I remember something Headmaster Shu said to him: to stop experimenting on his classmates. This is probably the classroom where most of that experimentation began.

  Professor Vervaine arrives just as the clock changes over to 2:15. A woman of moderate height, she's wearing unassuming black slacks, a modest blouse, a dark red cardigan, and simple glasses that set off green eyes and sleek auburn hair that brushes her shoulders. There's nothing about her that screams assassin—or anything unusual at all. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was about to tell us to crack about The Complete Works of Shakespeare or read some Walt Whitman poetry.

  This is a woman who kills.

  Looks, as always, are deceiving.

  Pacing to the front of the class, she surveys us all. Then she raises a hand—and the doors behind us swing closed. I startle at what seems like a Physical Class Affinity, but upon closer look, the doors were shut by robotic arms. Maybe it's just a trick to make her look smart, or maybe her Affinity is that she can build things.

  Like drones that kill people from a distance, or computer programs that override a security system.

  Or maybe she reads minds, like Grayson. Whatever it is, my guard is up. I have the feeling this won't be an easy class.

  "Your test results are in from last week's surprise evaluation." Her voice carries clearly through the room. "As a way of testing our new student, I'm going to call the name of the student who was at the bottom of the evaluations, and see what a battle of the minds reveals."

  That means I'm going to face off with someone in this classroom. Studying the rows of desks around me, I wonder: will it be the girl with the blonde pigtails, or the slouching guy with holes in his shoes? Both seem like candidates for the weakest leak among the Mental Class.

  So the name she reads from a list is a shock.

  "Grayson Hughes, come to the front of the classroom."

  Chapter 12

  "Ellen Arizona." It takes me a moment to realize my name is being called and force my eyes up front. "Come up to the front here. I'd like to evaluate you."

  Grayson is already putting his cane out into the row to his left and shifting his weight onto it so he can stand. I can't stop glancing over at him as I slide out of my chair and head towards the front of the class. It seems impossible that someone with so much power, capable of controlling the minds of others, could fail an evaluation.

  Unless all the other students in this class are that much more powerful than him.

  If that's the case, then the professor wouldn't be exaggerating to declare the Mental Class to be the strongest of all the four Classes. That would basically make them capable of ruling the world.

  A bunch of scary smart killers ruling the world... yeah, sounds about right.

  As Grayson reaches the front of the class and turns to face me, I find myself wondering if we're really going to do this again. The last time he and I squared off wasn't exactly fun for either of us. And I'm not looking forward to having him crawl around inside my brainpan again.

  "This is an evaluation of precision and control." Pacing around to the other side of her desk, Professor Vervaine pulls out a strange device. It looks like a small wooden clock with a chime, but the face of the clock, instead of numbering from one to twelve, goes all the way up to one hundred. The hands aren't moving, the chime doesn't tick, and various gears on the back that look like they power it are still. "Ellen, this is your first time seeing the Augmator. It calculates mental acuity and control. Though it doesn't look like much, you'll soon see what a marvelous invention it is—a dual Mental and Spiritual Class expert made it many decades ago, and it's the only of its kind."

  It's a weird looking clock that doesn't work, but I nod as if I understand what's going on. "So are we supposed to... fight while that thing watches?"

  She shakes her head, and a few students in the class laugh—mockingly. "Fighting is for those in the Physical Class who prefer brawn over brains. If those gifted in the Mental Class were to fight, there would be none of us left when the ashes clear. No, you'll only be facing off with yourself, though the competition between the two of you will help us evaluate your abilities. Maybe a demonstration will make things clear."

  Setting the Augmator on her desk, she pulls a key attached to a necklace out of her blouse and slots the key into the top of the wooden clock. Turning it seems to activate the gears, which power up and start the chime swinging and the hands ticking, though slowly.

  A moment after the clock-not-clock starts ticking, a ghostly spirit appears.

  It's a man, or at least almost. He's man-shaped, wearing a man's suit and little dress shoes, his whole form see-through from head to toe. But instead of being as tall as a man, he's almost as small as the clock, standing on the desk next to it. Looking at him, I get the sense that I'm staring at a little sliver of the spirit of whoever he was when he was alive. Creepy.

  "Now, I'm going to focus on the Augmator with my mental abilities, and imagine that the man is something different—a woman, perhaps, or a horse, though to start out with you'll want to just imagine that he's got on a different outfit, or is a little smaller or bigger. Anyone can use the Augmator, but only those of us with a strong Mental Class can truly control the shape the spirit takes. This helps me evaluate your skills, regardless of the nature of your Affinity."

  Ah. I'm starting to understand, then, how Grayson failed this test. No doubt he thinks it's beneath him, or maybe he j
ust doesn't have the creativity to imagine that the little dude on the desk is actually a six foot tall tarantula. I, on the other hand, majored in theater. I've had to do improv where I was the six foot tall tarantula. This will be a cake walk in comparison.

  "Let me show you. I'm going to make the man into... a serpent."

  Wiggling her finger in the direction of the desk, the professor just barely narrows her eyes and concentrates. The little man turns into a puff of fog, then reforms into a slithering dark-scaled serpent. Disturbed, I watched the serpent crawl up over the side of the clock and curl around it, opening its mouth wide to reveal its fangs.

  The hands on the clock twirl, hitting the numbers twenty for the big hand and fifteen for the little. "Two hundred and fifteen, a modest number for a simple trick. It goes up to one thousand. No one has yet hit that yet, though."

  She claps her hands, and the snake turns back into a man, the clock resetting itself. I swallow, glancing sideways at Grayson. If that's what it takes to get two hundred and fifteen out of a thousand, no wonder he's at the bottom of the pack. He's in luck, though: I probably will wind up underneath him after all this.

  No, not underneath him. At the bottom, beneath—below—well, there's no good way to conclude this thought. If I keep going this way, I'll wind up imagining that the little man is fucking another, slightly smaller woman. Better to just think nothing at all.

  "You'll each do one minute," Professor Vervaine declares, which isn't helping my dirty mind. "Grayson, you begin. Show Ellen how it's done."

  Think about cold showers, Ellen. It's not like Grayson is actually—well, I hate to admit it, but he's sexy in a brooding, terrible asshole kind of way. His reddish-brown hair sets off ice blue eyes, and the cut of his jaw is decidedly manly. If he kept his mouth shut and took all his clothes off, it'd be easy to get down and dirty with him. It's the part where he says jerky things that turns me off.