He turns to me then, his eyes flashing a warning. “Here’s what’s gonna happen: I am going to ask Dean McKinnon to assign you another mentor, because if we’re seen together on campus, it’ll raise suspicion. You are going to stop asking questions and move on with your semester, because this conversation is over. I’m sorry, Bree, but that’s final.” He turns back to the front of the classroom as if that’s that on that. Like he’s just handed down a decree.

I can’t help but snicker into my palm.

He catches it and scowls. “What?”

My smirk grows to a full-blown grin. I lean in close again until he tips his head toward mine, then whisper, “We may have experienced a life-threatening demon attack together and you may have saved my complete and total bacon—again, thank you—but this isn’t over. I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t tell me what to do.”

His shocked expression is wonderfully satisfying. I shove out of my seat and push down the row until I reach the aisle and the exit.

Time for Plan B.

It takes all of five minutes to look up a list of historic homes near campus on my phone, and there are a lot. But it only takes one minute to pick out the house surrounded by woods: the Lodge of the Order of the Round Table. Not a fraternity. A historic secret society. My mind flies to robes and chants and rituals in catacombs, but before I can keep researching, my father calls.

Oh.

God.

No use in hiding.

“Hi, Dad…”

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

Oh, he’s pissed.

“Why didn’t you call me back last night? What is your word worth right now?”

What is your word worth? Another family saying. “Not much,” I mutter. “I—”… think there’s something we don’t know about Mom’s death. Know for a fact that there’s a secret network of magic users who can wipe memories and—

“You what?” he demands.

I grit my teeth and lean into a lie. “I flaked. I got caught up with some people I met at dinner and just forgot. I’m sorry.”

“What’s going on here, Bree?”

I tell him the parts of the story that would most likely match the dean’s; when I know what happened that night, and I can prove it, I’ll tell him the rest. He’s still angry. “We have an agreement, kiddo. You take care of business, you can stay. If you can’t do that…”

“Then I come home.” I sigh. “I know. I made a bad call. It won’t happen again.”

During Statistics, I skim through Google results, marking the pages that seem most helpful.