There were four seats in a row along the wall, and I’d been deposited in the one furthest from the door to the dean’s office. The next two chairs were unoccupied, while the last one…
“So what did you do to get sent here anyway?”
…held Mr. Fucking Talks-a-lot, who had come in halfway through my wait and seemed completely oblivious to my very obvious attempts to ignore him.
I was trying to be on my best behavior but there were limits.
“What?” I finally answered, infusing the single word with every bit of annoyance and irritation that I could muster.
“School hasn’t even started and you’ve already been sent to the dean’s office,” he replied cheerfully. “That takes some skill. So what did you do? Dig a tunnel to the girls’ dorm over the break? Hack a faculty net account? Have a wild orgy with the gardener’s rose bushes?”
“With the bushes?”
“Not a Druid then, I take it?” He nodded pleasantly. “Probably for the best. Bush fucking is something the faculty takes pretty seriously here.”
I cautiously upgraded him from clueless asshole to clueless-but-funny asshole.
“Are you a student?” He looked to be about ten years older than me, but the wrinkled tee, torn jeans, and sneakers pegged him as either a student or a writer.
“Nah, though I did run through the support curriculum a few years back.”
“The what?”
“Support curriculum.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s one of the tracks the Academy offers to non-powered students.”
“I thought this was a college for Capes?”
“It is,” he agreed, “but it offers degrees to the rest of us too, mostly specializing in Cape-related sub-fields. You know; marketing, PR, product development, information technology…”
“And support.” Whatever the hell that was.
“Yep. Everything a Cape team needs to run smoothly, and a half-dozen other related careers to keep the Free States plugging along.” He eyed me, dark eyes curious. “But since this is news to you, I’m guessing you’re here to become a Cape?”
“Yeah. A Finder picked me up yesterday and took me to a testing station. I passed.”
“And then the two of you fought through a horde of screaming pygmies to reach Los Angeles?”
“What?”
“Just trying to explain what’s left of your jeans.”
I scowled. Funny was one thing. Nosy was something else entirely. “I don’t think that’s any business of yours. And what the fuck is a pygmy?”
“On second thought, that must be why you got sent to see the dean,” he mused, ignoring my question. “What a shame. I was hoping it would be the bush thing.”
“Look,” I said, “I don’t want to be a dick, but I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, this school’s asshole dean has been keeping me waiting for no fucking reason, and answering your questions is way the hell down my list of priorities.”
That little speech won me another arctic glare from the desk-bound assistant, but my cheerful interrogator just shrugged. “I guess that depends.”
“Depends on what?” If I had any control over my necromancy, this guy would already be ass-deep in zombies.
“On whether you want to attend my school or not.” He flashed a wide, shit-eating grin, and offered a handshake. “I’m the school’s asshole dean. Pleased to meet you.”
“Son of a bitch.” I didn’t realize I’d said the words aloud until the dean shrugged a second time.
“Truer than you know. But I’d prefer you call me Bard.”
•—•—•
The dean’s office was half again the size of the waiting room, but felt even bigger away from the assistant’s sharp-eyed death stare. Bard took a seat behind the wooden desk that dominated the office and motioned me to one of the two chairs in front.
I eyed the chair he’d indicated, scowled, and dropped into the one next to it instead.
Bard raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. Leaning back, hands steepled in front of him, he watched me carefully, as if I was some sort of lab rat, or an equation gone surprisingly wrong.
I tried to match his casual indifference, but the truth was, I wasn’t feeling particularly indifferent. I’d nearly died the night before—twice, if you included Her Majesty’s sexual invitation, three times, if you added in my electrocution—and I badly needed some food, a shower, and an explanation, not a staring contest with a guy who, not five minutes earlier, had spoken to me about bush-fucking.
“Are you really Bard?”
“Last I checked.”
“The Bard?” Even I had heard of him; the Academy’s founder, and one of the Free States’ richest and most powerful individuals.
“Well, no,” he admitted. “He died three-hundred and sixty-odd years before the Break.”
“Huh?”
“William Shakespeare?” He noted my confused look. “Never mind. If you were asking whether I founded this university, the answer is yes.”
“Then what was the deal with all that… nonsense… in the waiting room?” With great—some might even say heroic—effort, I swallowed my usual assortment of expletives.
“I’ve found it easier to get a picture of who someone is when they are unaware of my identity.”
I rolled my eyes. “Anal probes and lies. So far I’m not thrilled with orientation.”
“Orientation isn’t for another two days, Mr. Jameson.”
“Banach.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Damian Banach,” I corrected. “I don’t use my father’s name.”
“Duly noted.” He flipped open the manila folder on his desk and made a correction. “As I was saying, this interview is not your orientation. This is where we decide whether or not you will attend the Academy at all.”
That cut right through my sulk. “What are you talking about? I tested as a Cat Three!”
“So I read. But as I find myself having to tell one or two prospective students every year, there is more to attending the Academy than your Test. Enrollment at the Academy is earned, not given.”
“Earned how?”
“Through multiple years of education in high school, a battery of academic and psychological evaluations, and long-term observation,” he replied.
None of which I’d had.
“The usual procedure,” he continued, “is to funnel people like you back into the system. Assuming you then re-emerge as a candidate, you would be properly prepared.”
“I’m eighteen. I have no family. I can’t afford to do
