~ Sylas ~

My mouth goes dry, and I swallow the tang of panic at the back of my throat.

"I'm sorry, professor," I say, doing my best to keep the tremor from my voice, "but I don't know what you mean."

He regards me with narrowed eyes a moment, then pushes himself away from the desk and takes a step towards me.

Reflexively, I retreat a step in turn, and the back of my legs bump against a large, upholstered leather chair.

Quirking a pale, critical brow at me, Edwards continues around to the back of his desk, pulls a key from his pocket, and unlocks a drawer. From this, he withdraws a bundle of cloth, which he unwraps to reveal what appears to be a small ceramic cup. It has a little lip on one side, as for pouring, but no handle.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks, gesturing at it with an open hand.

I shake my head.

"It's a crucible. Do you know what that is?"

Again, I shake my head. I know it's the title of a play I was once forced to read, but I'm guessing that's not what he's getting at.

The corner of his mouth quirks upward slightly. "It's not a common object, I suppose. It's used in metalwork—holds the material as it heats, and then is used to pour the molten metal into molds. It's also my Sign," he adds.

He points to the models hanging from the ceiling and to the strange little machines on his desk.

"I made all these by hand and—as you also may have guessed—some of them are powered by magic. These machines are the physical representation of my spells."

He pulls something from his pocket. It looks like a closed pocket-watch—a sort of concave disk.

"This, for example, is something I call a 'deception detector.' It gets hot whenever someone attempts to deceive me."

He lifts his eyes from the strange object and locks his gaze with mine.

"Deception, you understand, is different from a simple lie. People lie all the time without meaning to deceive. When someone asks how you're doing, and you tell them you're fine, when really you're not, that's a lie. But you're not trying to fool anyone; you just know the other person doesn't really care. Deception is a little more complicated; deception means you're trying to hide something. So, Mr. West, why did my detector heat up when I sat next to you, and why did it nearly burn a hole in my pocket when you told me your name?"

"I—"

"And don't bother with anything but the truth," he adds, cutting me off, and closes his hand around the little device.

I swallow again as my mind scrambles to come up with a way out of this. I decide to try evasion. At least if I mess up, I won't get stabbed.

"The school has all my documents," I say, trying to keep my tone cool and slightly defiant.

"The school has Sylas West's documents, yes," he agrees. "I checked. But is your name Sylas West?"

I press my lips together and glare at him. The calming effect of Aurelio's tincture has kept me from completely panicking, so far, but barely. My heart beats fast, my breath comes shallow and quick, and my hands would tremble if I didn't have them tucked beneath my crossed arms.

Professor Edwards shrugs. "Well, I can't make you tell me, but I'll have to report this to the Dean, you know. We take security very seriously here—especially on the Crafter side. I can't just let you go."

He reaches for his desk phone—a big, black antique thing with a real rotary dial.

My panic wins.

"Wait!" I gasp, holding my hands towards him. "Please, I—I can't tell you who I am, but I'm not here to trick or hurt anyone—I swear. I'm here to learn."

That much is true, even if what I want to learn isn't taught in any class.

He pauses, hand resting on the receiver, and watches me with narrowed eyes.

"All right, Mr. West," he says. "I'll make you an offer. I've got ten minutes before I need to get to my next class. You've got ten minutes to convince me why I shouldn't report you. Succeed, and whatever your secrets are, they're safe with me. I can guarantee it, Crafter's honor. Fail, and... Well, the result's the same if you tell me nothing at all."

"You don't understand," I whisper, undeniably shaking now. "I can't."

It's not just me at stake, after all.

Edwards shrugs. "Very well."

He lifts the receiver to his ear and hooks a finger in a number on the dial, spinning it clockwise.

Unable to help myself, I lurch forward and press my hand to the switchhook, stopping the call.

"Alright," I say, not bothering to hide my desperation. "Please—I'll tell you what I can. Just please, please don't report me."

"The offer stands," he replies. "Convince me. You've got...nine minutes now," he says, checking his watch.

I open my mouth, but I'm honestly not sure where to begin, and probably look something like a bespectacled fish out of water.

"Why don't you have a seat," Edwards says, gesturing to the one I'd bumped into earlier, and sits himself in the executive-style office chair behind his desk. "Take a few breaths. I won't say there's no rush, but..." He lifts a shoulder, rests his hands in his lap and crosses one ankle over the opposite knee. "Do try to relax."

Reluctantly, I do as he says, sitting stiffly on the edge on the upholstered chair. The taut, shiny leather creaks beneath me, and I wonder if the chair is meant to be slightly uncomfortable, to discourage visitors from staying too long.

"By the way," Edwards adds, opening his palm to show me his deception detector again, "don't bother with anything but the truth. If this goes off, I'm reporting you."

I shut my eyes a moment, rubbing at the bridge of my nose beneath my glasses, and take a breath. If he's going to report me anyway, and I can't lie, then I don't have a choice but to take a risk and trust him.

"My name is Sylas," I say. "It just isn't West."

"Yes, we've established that bit already," he answers dryly. "You'll have to do better, I'm afraid. Eight minutes."

I shoot him a glare—or what I hope looks like a glare.

"You've heard of the Spellwright murders?" I ask.

He nods. "Who hasn't?"

"What about...the Lovecrafts?"

He tilts his head to the side. "I've heard that Marcus Spellwright is engaged to one. Why?"

"She's my sister," I say, so quietly I wonder if he'll hear.

"Ah—so you're the missing brother, then. Murdered, or else a murderer, the rumor says."

"Neither. Jaxon Spellwright was framed, and I got framed along with him. What does your device say to that?"

He narrows his eyes at me, turning the disk over in his palm like a coin. "Go on."

I speak in a rush, throwing all my cards on the table in a desperate bid. "We believe Marcus has my sister enthralled, and that he plans to use her in a forbidden ritual. He needs something first, though—a book of spells called The Devil's Song. We think... We think it's here somewhere—at the college."

I finish slightly out of breath, and watch Professor Edwards carefully. My lips feel a little numb, my hands are tingling, and sweat prickles my brow. I hope to all the gods I'm not about to pass out.

"You know, you're lucky, after all, that I trust my devices as I do," he says. "Because they tell me you've spoken the truth, and yet you look as guilty as a dog caught eating shit. As a matter of fact," he frowns, "are you quite well?"

"I'm fine," I say, wondering if I could safely take another of Aurelio's drops. He didn't warn me against more than one.

Edwards does his brow quirking thing and a little smile twitches the corner of his mouth. "That's the first lie you've told—and despite my earlier example, enough of a deception after all. So what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," I snap.

His brow lifts a little higher, and shakes his head. "Strike two."

"It's just anxiety."

He still looks skeptical, so I dig the little vial from my pocket and hold it out to him.

"See?"

Aurelio had affixed a very official looking label to the bottle, in case I was challenged for having an enchantment on me, which is why I had it with me in the first place.

Edwards squints at it, gets up and comes around his desk to take it from my outstretched hand.

He examines it a moment, then bursts out laughing, and I jump like a startled cat at the sound.

"Oh dear," he cackles, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "So, Aurelio's behind this, is he? Surely he must have known I would catch you out, and I'd know his style anywhere. I can't imagine—Ah! I see now." He grins. "I'm the test, then. Did you know?"

"No," I say, wildly confused and still pressed against the back of the chair, barely managing not to betray my fright. Even so, my voice comes out strained.

Edwards hands the bottle back to me, still laughing. "Rel and I went to school together. We were bitter rivals—nearly to the death, in fact. He was so cool and unflappable—all logic and methodology—while I was...a bit of a hotheaded brat, if I do say so myself."

He grins, as if he's just given himself a tremendous compliment.

"We competed for everything—women, prizes, honors." He bites his bottom lip and looks at me with narrowed eyes. "All sorts of...conquests, in fact. You don't look very much like a Lovecraft, now that I think of it. Aren't you supposed to be unworldly and beautiful, and...irresistibly seductive? Or... Ah, I see it now." His grin widens. "He's keeping you for himself, then?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I return sharply. "Aurelio helped me, yes. He wants to stop Marcus, too. That's all."

Edwards squeezes his little silver detector device and squints at me, then huffs out a breath.

"Not a conscious deception, that, but I'd wager good money it isn't true," he says. He leans to sit against the side of his desk, arms crossed. "I'll tell you what, 'Mr. West,' I won't report you. I'll do my best to help you, in fact."

I lean forward, ready to express my gratitude, but he raises a finger.

"On two conditions," he continues. "First, tell no one—and I mean no one—of this conversation, except Aurelio. And second," he bites his lip again, and raises a second finger, "have lunch with me tomorrow. At the Spire. Rel knows the place. Tell him he can come along, if he likes. Are you free at noon?"

"Yes," I confirm, unsure what else to do.

"Good. I'll see you then. In the meantime...your secret is very safe with me...Sylas."

A shiver trills down my back, but I manage to keep my expression neutral as I rise from the chair and extend my hand towards his. "Until tomorrow then, Professor Edwards."

"You may call me Linden," he says evenly, "When we're not in class."

"Professor," I say again, firmly, and he grasps my hand with a smile.

"Mr. West," he agrees.

And with that, I make my escape.