Swept Away: An Epic Fantasy (The Last Elentrice Book 3) by S McPherson

Author:S McPherson [McPherson, S]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-05-07T22:00:00+00:00

Around the corner from the receptionist’s office, I hastily smear my lipstick across Jude’s mouth with my finger and he unbuttons half his shirt. Then he ruffles his hands in my hair and I pull down the scrap of sleeve left of my T-shirt, letting it hang off my shoulder. His hands are cold and I almost slap him away as he hikes my top just that fraction higher and then flings an arm around my waist.

‘Ready?’ he murmurs.

‘Ready.’ I throw my own arm around his neck and we stumble into the reception, laughing wildly. This time, the receptionist notices us, wide-eyed.

I attempt to look contrite, pushing my wayward hair behind my ears. ‘We’ve been sent to the headmaster’s office,’ I pant.

The receptionist quirks a disapproving eyebrow then frowns, as if trying to place us, no doubt wondering why we don’t seem familiar. Jude nuzzles his head in my neck and I squeal playfully.

The receptionist snarls, a guttural sound, before stalking from her seat and beating on the headmaster’s door. A voice on the other side calls ‘Come in’, and Jude and I simper at her as she opens the door and ushers us in.

The office is no different to any other: a box of a room with most of its space taken up by an oval desk. Behind this stands a bookshelf crammed with thick hefty books, some boasting authors like Faulkner, Shakespeare, Brontë, and Vonnegut; all their titles in cursive gold. I doubt the man before me has even touched them, the shelf just a prop designed to portray knowledge and sophistication. He sits in a faux leather swivel chair, bits of it flaking off. He’s a slim man, no hair on his head or laughter in his eyes. Across the desk from him, and on which a plaque states ‘Headmaster Burns’, stands two chairs that look like they might snap in a brisk wind. Next to me, so close I could reach out and touch them, are filing cabinets, their blue metal drawers just waiting to be opened, keys dangling from their locks.

The headmaster purses his dry lips and taps his clasped hands against his chin.

‘Close the door,’ he grumbles at last. Jude obliges. ‘Sit,’ the man snarls.

Steadily, we slip into the chairs.

‘Your faces,’ and he prods a finger in our direction; ‘I don’t know them.’

‘We came for a tour.’ I tug my torn sleeve back over my shoulder, pretending not to notice as Jude leans forward to rest his hands on the desk. ‘The tour guide wasn’t here when we came—’

‘So you thought you’d show yourselves around,’ he scoffs, ‘and then fornicate on college grounds?’

Ice creeps across the desk, spreading from Jude’s fingertips like an infection.

‘We sort of lost our heads,’ I simper.

‘You lost more than your heads,’ and Headmaster Burns slams his fist down on the desk, and I hope he keeps it there. For this plan to work, for Jude to freeze him, the Headmaster has to stay in contact with the desk. ‘Well, you’ve lost any chance you might have had of coming here.

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