I eyed him darkly. “You can and you will. Or …” I ran my thumb across my throat menacingly. “And your soul belongs to me, you smelly little rodent. So death is no escape from the endless torture that awaits you.”

“Oh my God,” he mumbled tremulously, scraping that hideous lock of hair off his face once more. I itched to scalp him, just to get rid of that stupid hairstyle.

I laughed bitterly. “Oh, She cannot help you now.”

From the look on his face, I thought that if he’d had anything left in his bladder to empty, he would have done so, right there, walking towards a large red brick building with big brass letters pronouncing it ‘Fine Arts’.

* * *

Professor Gregory Proctor was exactly the man I’d imagined from Jemma’s story about him. Small, rotund, and pompous. Salt and pepper hair that was combed perfectly. Trousers with a crease down the front and a tie that had a jaunty pattern similar to those I’d seen on the work pyjamas the healers at the hospital wore. He probably thought that made him approachable.

I thought it made him look like an utter twat.

He answered Chad’s limp-fisted knock, his eyebrows raising when he spied his ex-student.

“Oh! Mister Cockburn! What a pleasant surprise. It’s been, what … two years since that alumni exhibition! Goodness, we got a little tipsy on sake together that night, hoho!”

If I wasn’t completely fuming at how friendly these two seemed to be, I would have heartily guffawed at Chad’s surname. As it was, both Beezle and Bub were wheezing under my earlobes.

“Cockburn! You honestly couldn’t make this up!” Beezle choked out. I shifted my shoulder to silence him. The movement caught the eye of Professor Proctor, who lifted his gaze from Chad to me. His bushy eyebrows disappeared up his wrinkled forehead.

“Well, well, well, what a delightful addition to this little surprise party.”

My fingers twitched to choke the life out of this self-important little shit. My expression must have given me away because the smile dropped from his face and his jowls wobbled, his eyes darting back to Chad.

“We should really go inside, Greg,” Chad mumbled. Greg? He was on a first-name basis with this git?

‘Greg’ backed away, a shaky hand ushering us into his office. I took a cursory glance around. No art on the walls, which seemed very strange for an art professor. There were, however, dozens of framed articles. All of them written by ‘G.F. Proctor, Esquire’. All of which seemed to be from art journals. And all of which appeared to be scathing critiques of actual artists.

The hatred I felt for this man was so intense that I felt my human form slipping involuntarily. I forced myself to calm down. Now was not the time to play that card.