“No, really,” Francis was saying as Jonathan all but pushed him in.

From behind the plant, I watched Francis meet Trent’s eyes and swallow hard. “Uh, hello, Mr. Kalamack,” he stammered, coming to an awkward standstill. He looked more unkempt than usual, one of his laces peeping out from under his pants almost undone, and his stubble having grown from potentially attractive to ugly. His black hair lay flat, and his squinty eyes had faint, tired lines at the corners. It was likely Francis hadn’t been to bed yet, coming out for his interview at Trent’s convenience rather than the I.S.’s.

Trent said nothing. He went to sit, easing behind his desk with the relaxed tension of a predator settling in beside the water hole.

Francis glanced at Jonathan, his shoulders hunched. There was the sound of sliding polyester as he pushed up his jacket sleeves, then pulled them back down. Tossing his hair from his eyes, Francis edged to the chair and sat on the very end. Stress drew the features on his triangular face tight, especially when Jonathan closed the door and stood behind him with his arms crossed and his feet spread wide. My attention flicked between them. What was going on?

“Would you explain yesterday to me?” Trent said with a smooth casualness.

Confusion made me blink, then my mouth dropped open in understanding. Frances worked for Trent? It would explain his fast advancement, not to mention how a short-order cook such as himself made witch. A chill ran through me. This arrangement wasn’t with the I.S.’s blessing. The I.S. had no idea. Francis was a mole. The cookie was a freaking mole!

I looked at Trent through the wide leaves. His shoulders shifted slightly, as if agreeing with my thoughts. My nausea came rolling back. Francis wasn’t good enough for anything this slimy. He was going to get himself killed.

“Uh—I—” Frances stammered.

“My head of security found you spelled in your own trunk,” Trent said calmly, the barest hint of a threat in his voice. “Ms. Morgan and I had an interesting conversation.”

“She—She said she would turn me into an animal,” Frances interrupted.

Trent took a deep breath. “Why,” he said with a tired patience, “would she do that?”

“She doesn’t like me.”

Trent said nothing. Francis cringed as he probably realized how childish that sounded.

“Tell me about Rachel Morgan,” Trent demanded.

“She’s a pain in the—um—butt,” he said, flicking a nervous look at Jonathan.

Trent took a pen in hand and twirled it. “I know that. Tell me something else.”

“That you don’t already know?” Francis blurted. His pinched eyes were riveted to the revolving pen. “You’ve probably had your finger on her longer than on me. Did you give her a loan for tuition?” he said, sounding almost jealous. “Whisper in her I.S. interviewer’s ear?”

I stiffened. How dare he suggest it. I had worked for my schooling. I’d gotten my job on my own. I looked to Trent, hating them all. I didn’t owe anyone anything.