Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 129: First Day

"Get up." I nudge Penelope’s shoulder with my foot. The textbooks scattered across her bed crinkle under her weight as she shifts.

"Five more minutes." She pulls the pillow over her head.

"We have class in thirty minutes."

A muffled groan emerges from beneath the Egyptian cotton. "Skip it."

"Can’t. Professor Lancaster already thinks I’m some rich kid. Missing the first day won’t help." But it’s incredibly appealing.

Penelope rolls onto her back, red hair tangled around her face. Dark circles ring her eyes. "What time did we fall asleep?"

"Four? Maybe five?" The numbers on my phone blur together. My brain feels stuffed with cotton, heavy with magical theory and complex glyphs.

"Did you finish the reading?"

"Most of it." I pick up my textbook, the pages dog-eared and marked with sticky notes. "The basic concepts aren’t too different from what I dealt with at work. Just more... thorough."

"Lucky you." Penelope drags herself upright, her designer pajamas wrinkled beyond repair. "I got through two pages before the words started dancing."

Our morning feels so normal. Nothing like the dream I had last night. It’s not very clear and I don’t remember the details, but I remember a few things. Cold metal tables, needles, the sharp smell of antiseptic. Torture, I think.

It isn’t my first dream since being rescued, and I’m sure it won’t be my last.

My hands shake as I gather my notes.

"You okay?" Penelope peers at me, concerned. "You went pale."

"Bad dream. About the kidnapping."

"Do you get a lot of those?"

I nod, focusing on organizing my papers. "Yep. Except they don’t end in rescue."

"Hey." She grabs my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes. "Maybe the Conclave did you a favor."

"By forcing me into magical high school?" I mean, it’s a university, but it feels like going back to high school.

"By giving you somewhere to learn how to kick ass." A yawn interrupts her pep talk. "Next time someone tries to grab you, you can turn them into a toad or something."

"If I don’t blow us all up first."

"That’s what the classroom’s ward system is for." She stumbles toward the bathroom. "Now move your butt. If I have to suffer through morning classes, so do you."

Pointing at myself in amusement, I say, "I’m already dressed."

"Mmkay."

Flopping onto her bed to wait, I think about the Conclave. They want something out of me. Our relationship is very transactional. They don’t care about me, but they want me alive for their benefit.

Not evil, like Logan explained.

But not friendly, either.

"The Conclave doesn’t give a shit about me. They sent me here for their benefit, not mine."

"So take advantage." Penelope emerges from the bathroom, toothbrush dangling from her mouth. "Why be a victim? Take control. Just because you’re here because they sent you here doesn’t mean you can’t take advantage of it yourself. And maybe you can make more little Catalysts."

"More?" My brow arches. Does she think I can conjure them out of thin air? I think if that was possible, the Conclave would have conjured their own Catalyst instead of trying to help me.

"Think about it. If you’re some kind of magical catalyst, wouldn’t they want more of you? Then you could be free."

"That’s..." I pause. "Actually disturbing. Also, weird. I can’t just make new Catalysts."

"Maybe they could clone you."

"Now you’re just being ridiculous."

"Am I though?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "An army of Nicole clones, each one sassier than the last."

"Stop." But I’m laughing despite myself. "We’re way off base here."

"Probably." She sits next to me, toothbrush still dangling. "You know who might help us figure it out, though?"

"Who?"

"Marcus."

"He works for them, Pippa."

"Exactly." Smacking my thigh, she grins. "He’s connected. Plus, he gives off that ’I know everything’ vibe."

"So you want to pump him for information? I don’t think he’ll give it up easily." But he doesn’t seem to be bound by the same constraints Logan is. It’s a thought.

"I’ll be subtle about it."

"You’re about as subtle as a brick through a window."

"You wound me." She presses a hand to her chest. "I’m an excellent information gatherer. How do you think I know all the local gossip?"

Penelope checks her watch and curses. "Shit. We’re going to be late."

In the end, we slip into Professor Lancaster’s classroom ten minutes late. The door creaks, announcing our entrance like a foghorn, but there’s no pause in the lecture. Marker squeaks against the whiteboard as it fills with intricate diagrams.

"Back row," Penelope whispers, nudging me toward empty seats. freewebnøvel.coɱ

My shoes squeak against the polished floor. A few students turn to stare—some curious, others dismissive. A girl with perfect blonde curls wrinkles her nose as we pass. I catch fragments of whispers.

"That’s the new one—"

"Heard she’s like thirty—"

"Why would they let—"

The chairs are shockingly comfortable. I guess that’s what happens when only rich kids attend this place.

My textbook lands on the desk with a soft thud. Professor Lancaster’s voice drones on about frequency matching and harmonic interference. The terms float past me, technical yet familiar from my security work. Different context, same principles.

Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought it would be.

Penelope squints at Professor Lancaster. "Guess we’re beneath notice. I can get used to this."

The pattern continues in Defensive Magic. Our professor, a stern woman with steel-gray hair, surveys the room without her gaze ever landing on us. She demonstrates a basic shield charm, her movements precise and controlled. The air shimmers as magic takes form.

"Partner up," she commands.

The students scramble to pair off. No one approaches us.

"Their loss." Penelope grins, raising her hands in the starting position. "Ready to get your ass kicked?"

"In your dreams."

But, of course, we don’t manage to summon a single charm. Neither of us know how. And no amount of consulting the textbook helps.

History of Magical Theory passes in a blur of dates and names. The professor, a tiny man who looks ancient enough to have witnessed most of these events firsthand, lectures from behind a massive desk. His eyes skip over our corner as if we’re invisible.

A boy two rows ahead keeps turning to stare. His friend elbows him, whispering something that makes them both snicker. I focus on my notes, ignoring their antics.

I miss the workplace. A land of adults.