Pard gives Penter a forced smile. No way these guys nurse baby goats. And Pard pushes through the front door. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Pard takes off, slipping and stumbling down the ice-covered library marble stairs and his eyes fix on Fairstone glowing on the hill in the distance.
Miles, finally exiting the library, stands on the top of the stairs and watches Pard race away. “Professor, you sure are an antsy one. If you’re gonna hang with me you gotta chill out sometimes.”
Pard angles his body back. “Yitch!”
Miles continues strolling down the steps, not wanting to move any faster, his mind still focused on how it went with Pard and Selby, it doesn’t register that Pard said Yitch. “So it went well, did you get a date with her?”
Now at the bottom of the stairs, Pard whirls around and opens his arms. “Will you move! Didn’t you hear me? Yitch is here, right now in the library!”
“Yitch?” Miles says with a head twitch.
“Yes—move!”
Then it hits Miles in force, and with athletic precision Miles sprints down the rest of the stairs and doesn’t stop until both he and Pard reach the gate of Fairstone.
At the iron gate embossed with a falcon talon, which leads into the school grounds, they rest their hands on hips as they catch their breath.
“So tell me,” Miles says, “it went exactly as I told you, right?”
Pard chuckles, and not wanting to disappoint Miles, he looks him in the eyes, smiles, lies, and plays dumb, giving him a compliment. “Yup, just as you said, thanks a lot, great advice, you’re the best, and we’re going to study at the library the day after tomorrow.”
Miles grins, fully satisfied with himself. He pats Pard on the back. “See, I told you, if you listen to me, you and I will go far together.”
Pard laughs and gazes up to his little window on the fourth floor. “This is the best birthday ever.”
Miles flinches. “Today’s your birthday? Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“Huh, happy birthday, Pard, happy birthday.”
SOMETHING FROM THE CESSPOOL
The following day, in the Fairstone library, Pard hides in a corner, studying for the upcoming terms beginning on Monday in two days, and he does his best to stay out of sight from prying eyes. Everywhere he goes he either gets fearful stares, snide remarks, or questions about how he killed Nero with his mysterious blue light. Pard peeks up from his history book and away from The Treaty of the Mast, to find none other than Hector hovering over top of him with eager eyes and pen and paper at the ready. Pard lets out an annoyed sigh and looks back down at his history book. “What do you want now, Hector?”
“Would you like to comment on Nero and your upcoming trial for the Chronicle?”
“No. Wait what? Trial you say?”
“Word is that your trial will take place in the Fairstone cathedral next week; you should be excited that’s a real honor considering only the most special events and elite honorees and dignitaries are hosted in the cathedral—you’re a big deal—so you want to comment?”
“No!”
“It is said that—”
Miles interjects and shoves Hector aside with little care as he plops down in the chair across from Pard. Miles waves off Hector as if Hector’s a buzzing fly. “Scram, news boy.”
“But the paper—”
Miles gives Hector a threatening glare, and Hector’s mouth drops, and he freezes. An awkward show down begins between the mighty and the meek. A few seconds pass, Hector, still immobilized by Miles’s intimidating trance, finally relents as his body quakes in place. Miles’s nose twitches, and he grinds his teeth while letting out a menacing growl. “I said get lost, news boy—three, two—”
Hector spins away, his backpack haphazardly swinging in the crook of his arm, and loose papers tumble out of the leather flap as he darts for the library entrance. Hector waves his floppy hand back toward the table. “See you later, Pard. I’ll get your comments and catch up with you later.”
“No comment!” Pard says.
Miles takes in a deep inhale and turns back to Pard. “I can’t stand those nosey reporter types.”
Pard closes his history book and relaxes, leaning back in his chair and gazing through a stained glass window and the bright sun poking through the ceiling. “I know he means well—but still.”
“He’s a disaster chaser, get your head out of your ass, professor.”
“He said something about a trial. Yitch made it sound as if it was only an informal council meeting that would review the evidence.”
“Forget about that,” Miles says, stroking his chin, about to unleash the devious thoughts that are clearly etched on his face. “So, you ready for a little more mayhem today?”
Pard snaps his attention away from the window and to Miles grinning at him. With that look on his face, this can’t be good. “Shouldn’t you be studying? Our advanced mathematics term is on Monday, and you’re running out of time to memorize Hiner and Glib, Lord Marlow.”
“Screw Hiner and his nonsensical phallus phylum.” Miles leans forward and taps the table with authority. “This is way more important than any old math test or history. We’re on the verge of exposing a conspiracy of the highest order. Not to mention finding the murderer of your parents. That is history, professor.” Miles gently pats Pard’s history book with his palm. “History they’ll teach in this very text someday; and how you and I uncovered the most sinister plot that ever threatened the very being of this fine thousand-year-old school and saved it from the maniacal grips of a tyrannical murderer.”
“Potential conspiracy,” Pard reminds Miles, “and we still don’t know until we see the locket.”
Miles flings his body back in his chair and waves his hand in dismissal. “Formalities. Yitch did it and I know it, and that’s where our minds need to be focusing, not on some silly test that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Tell me, professor, ten years from now, will I ever use Hiner’s phallus or Gliber’s gibberish? Or anything else they teach us in that ridiculous class?”
Pard snorts, examining Miles’s face. “You? Uh—probably not.”
Miles slams his palm flat on the table, and the boys studying at the adjacent tables jump out of their chairs in a fright. Miles points his finger at Pard’s chest. “That’s right, professor, you get a cookie.”
Pard twists his face, unsure of what a cookie will do for him at the present moment, but he goes with it for the time being. “Still, the other night didn’t exactly go as planned.”
“You are correct, good sir, and as a result, I made arrangements. The plan will go smoothly this time, I promise.”
Pard’s eyes narrow. Oh this has got to be good. “What kind of arrangements?”
Miles grins and raises a wet, brown paper bag and shakes it. “Scraps from the kitchen for the spawn of whatever the hell that thing is that Yitch keeps in his roost.”
Pard raises his lip as he scans the soiled bag. “All right, so what about Yitch? Did you bring a paper bag of scraps to feed him too?”
Miles rolls his eyes and places the paper bag back into his pack. “No.”
Pard chuckles, not taking Miles too seriously. “Okay, so no bag for Yitch, and we feed the little beast. So then what?”
“Then we get inside the office through the tunnel, and while you distract Maximus the ugly with the scraps, I’ll sneak around him and toss Yitch’s precious family rug on top of the gnarled vermin and hold the little monster at bay so its yappy nip teeth can’t harm us while you check out the case for the locket. Then we bolt. What do you think?”
Pard’s jaw drops as he contemplates Miles’s plan. Is he serious? “You really want to know?”
“No, get up, let’s go.” Miles stands and leaves his chair away from under the table. He nods at Pard. “Move, professor, time to go on mission.”
Pard rolls his eyes along with his head as he reluctantly stands. “I’m going to regret this.”
“No you won’t, you’ll be thanking me within the hour once we solve the greatest Fairstone mystery of the last century.” Miles tosses Pard his backpack with the rotting scraps inside.
Pard catches the bag with a clumsy bear hug, and he contorts his face as the rotting fumes of flesh float into his nose. “How about I thank you now, and we can study?”
Miles places his hand in the center of Pard’s back and coaxes Pard forward. “We got this, you have to start trusting me. I would never lead you a stray.”
Pard forces an unconvincing smile. Usually when someone says to trust them, that usually means the exact opposite, especially with the double declarative. Not to mention if the one doing the suggesting is Lord Miles Marlow. He glances at Miles and gives him a skittish look.
Miles returns a devilish grin that makes Pard even more uncomfortable, but he can’t seem to tell him no.
They make their way to the library entrance and pass a small desk on the right with a giant stack of books on the counter. Lord Selwyn, the ancient, fluffy white-haired Master of Books, eyes them down through his cloudy thick-rimmed glasses that appear as if no one with eyes would be able to see through them. His crooked red nose twitches as Pard passes him by, catching a whiff of the rotting wind seeping from his bag.
Pard hurries through the library door and enters the hallway. He angles his back to Miles right behind him. “Why do I have to carry the stench bag? Everyone already looks at me weird because they think I’ll zap them dead—now they’ll think I stink like garbage too.”
A stunning young black-haired woman, Professor Klare, the geography professor that all the boys fancy, strolls through the hall toward them, her brown robe rippling with every step. She slows and smiles at Miles, and he confidently nods at her as if she’s just another girl.
“Lord Marlow,” the professor says, “studying for your terms, I see. Good for you.”
“You bet, Professor Klare. I’ve got your test aced for sure this semester.”
Pard gives Ms. Klare a goofy smile, now thoroughly intoxicated by the funky fumes reaching deep into his core.
Professor Klare folds her arms and smiles back. “Mr. Wenerly, I’m sure you—” She pauses, something catches her off guard. Her nose twitches, and without hiding it, she sniffs the air toward Pard. The professor swallows funny and awkwardly inches away. “Well, good day to you, boys, study hard.”
Pard’s shoulders slump, and he sighs.
Again, Miles presses his palm in the center of Pard’s back and nudges Pard forward. “Come on now, it’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? Lord Selwyn and Professor Klare already looked at me as if I haven’t taken a shower in the last year. I think you should carry the bag, it’s your bag anyway, and your brilliant idea.”
Miles chuckles. “No way, I can’t carry that nasty around. This is your mission—you’re the man.”
“What?”
“Look, everyone already thinks you’re a little sketchy right now anyway—so no need for everyone to think we’re both strange.”
Pard grits his teeth. “So I take the heat and let everyone think I’m even weirder than before, and I guess you’re walking with me for sympathy?”
Miles puckers his lips. “Exactly, something like that.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Hey, cat killer,” Blaine says, smug and sauntering up behind Pard; Nox and Sully skulk right by his side.
“Shit.”
Miles whispers, “Don’t worry, I got this, just relax.”
Blaine flicks his head toward Miles. “Slumming it now, Miles?”
Miles shrugs. “Working my way down the student body ladder until I reach the lowest in the class. So I’ll probably be ready to hang out with you by the end of never.”
Sully giggles, and Nox backhands him in the shoulder, knocking him off balance.
Blaine sneers and refocuses on Pard. “The headmaster is looking for you, Wenerly. He sent us to find and escort you to his office.”
“What for?”
Blaine leans forward. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe about killing poor Nero, his cat.” Blaine gyrates his arms and hands out in front of him. “With your electrifying personality.”
Pard glowers at him and snaps forward as if to attack.
Blaine flinches and backs off.
“Maybe I should reach out and touch you with my electrifying personality since you seem to like it so much, considering how much you always pester me.”
“That won’t be needed, Wenerly. We’re just here to escort you to the headmaster’s office, nothing more.”
Nox grumbles and folds his muscular arms over his barrel chest as he stares at Miles. Nox’s biceps pulsate with every shallow breath.
Miles scratches his cheek then winks at Nox. “Hey there, big guy.” Miles points at Nox’s face. “Did something happen to your cheek since the last time I saw you? Looks like you got in a fight with a cat, or did that little Sully creature that’s always attached to your hip finally bite you. I actually think your new look is an improvement over the old one, bet it will be popular with the ladies.”
Nox growls again.
Sully scrunches his face and boldly steps toward Miles. “You think you’re so special—”
Miles snaps his body toward Sully, and Sully cowers away. “Yes, Lord—” Miles’s eyes narrow, and he tilts his head to the side as he glances back and forth between Nox and Sully. “You know, I never quite caught which one of you is the lord and which one of you is the bastard birthed from the belly of that whore of a mother of yours. Word is she slept with half the Rickien Guard.”
Nox scowls, unfolds his bulging arms, and clinches his fist, ready the strike.
Miles, unfazed, looks up to the ceiling and chuckles, his body bouncing up and down. Miles lowers his gaze and slowly shakes his head in a mocking manner. “You know, for all I know, neither of you is a real lord at all, just some random discharge from the cesspool.”
Nox grits his teeth and twists his face into something even uglier and menacing than normal as he steps forward ready to pounce on Miles.
Miles’s face goes still, defiant and unnerved, unafraid of Nox’s advance.
Nox winds back to punch, fist held up ready to unleash its might, but something in the back of his mind makes him hesitate.
Miles leans in and whispers, “Do it, and see what cesspool you find yourself in by next week.”
Blaine grabs Nox’s wrist and presses Nox’s arm down. “Easy there, big fella. Lord Marlow here is just talking; no need for hostilities.” Blaine eyes Miles with respect. “We’re only here to escort Wenerly to the headmaster and nothing more.” Catching a whiff of the fumes emanating from Miles’s pack, Blaine squints at Pard. “No shower, Wenerly, the stress getting to you?”
“No—and shut up.”
Blaine shrugs. “The headmaster is waiting. We better get going, Wenerly, or your situation may deteriorate even faster than it already has in the last week.”
“Wenerly!” Yitch says with a dramatic wave, swooping through the corridor at the far end of the hallway. “There you are. Finally crawl out of your hole, I see.”
Blaine backs away while pulling Nox away from Miles. Blaine flicks his eyebrows twice and then nods. “See—told you.”
Yitch comes to a flourishing stop in front of the boys and his velvety red robe flutters. His overwhelming cologne fills the hall and almost masks Pard’s own special scent. “I need to see you in my office, Wenerly, right now.” Yitch eyes Blaine. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yes, headmaster,” Blaine says with a slight bow.
Yitch gestures toward the library door. “All of you, get to studying, terms start next week.”
Blaine, Nox, and Sully grumble and slither away and enter the library.
Miles stands firm next to Pard.
“You too, Lord Marlow, this matter doesn’t concern you.”
“I was thinking—”
Yitch scowls and cuts off Miles. “D
on’t think, Lord Marlow, it doesn’t become you, now off with you.”
Miles grits his teeth, then glances at Pard. “Right, all right, study it is then.” Miles turns away while tossing an apple up and down.
“With me, Wenerly, to my office,” Yitch says.
THE OFFER
Pard enters Yitch’s office, and the door slams shut behind him.
Grrrr
Maximus bears his pointy teeth and thin purple lips as he sits on his hindquarters a few feet away. His beady, bloodshot eyes glare at Pard, and his body pulses to preemptively strike at the bare hint of any movement.
“Maximus, come,” Yitch says from behind his desk on the other side of the office.
Maximus sneezes twice with a violent head movement then contemptuously trots away from Pard and back to his master.
Yitch, with a gaga face that only true love can produce, bends over close to the floor to greet his gnarled, pug-nosed companion. “That’s my boy, sweet Maximus.”
Maximus licks Yitch’s hand then again sneezes twice.
“That’s my big brave boy. I know you’re allergic to Wenerly.” Yitch’s face transforms into a hateful scowl, and he slowly lifts his gaze up to Pard. “Best stay away from him before he murders you with his light.”
Pard rolls his head and eyes.
“Now get over here, Wenerly, we have some important matters to discuss.”
Pard steps forward.
“Not the rug!”
Pard jerks to a stop and sidesteps around Yitch’s family heirloom.
Yitch, with his back to Pard, folds his arms over his chest and stares in deep thought out the panoramic window, taking in the snowy landscape that has the essence of a winter wonder land. “Two guests will attend our meeting today.” Yitch turns around and extends his arm and hand to the far corner along the immaculate redwood paneling that lines most of his office.
Pard slows to a stop and his gaze shifts to the two women he saw in the library last night.
In the corner, the pretty brunette woman with scars, one on both cheeks, moves out of shadow. Her long tan duster coat drapes over the back of the chair, and her loose, white, button-down shirt and grey wool trousers fit her elegantly, not too loose and not too tight.
The Ruens of Fairstone (Aeon of Light Book 2) Page 11
