Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 145

Chapter 145: Runic Magic

Apologizing is a lot easier said than done.

I’ve written—and deleted—a hundred drafts of an apology text, finally deciding in-person apologies are far superior.

But then there’s this whole thing where I don’t really want to call him at work, and calling him over to apologize just seems awkward, but I don’t want to assume he’s going to waltz over after a fight, either—leading me directly down a spiral of questioning myself so bad, I finally do send the text I’d just decided wasn’t good enough.

It’s two words.

I’m sorry.

That’s it.

Which is why I’m now sitting in class, forehead to my desk, as Professor Whateverhisfaceis drones on about glyphs and their mental manifestation versus physical, and how this is the difference between beginner’s spellcasting and advanced spellcraft, and how it was all discovered by some enterprising young wizard from ages and ages ago.

All very dry and boring.

"Before standardized glyphwork was adopted, magic was practiced through instinct and resonance—often by the Arcanists, whose raw magic was accessed by what we now call runes."

My head lifts just slightly from the desk. Something about that word—resonance—sends a little electric shock down my spine. Like when someone whispers your name in a crowded room.

Professor Hildegard adjusts his tiny round spectacles, which are constantly slipping down his nose. He’s approximately three hundred years old (estimated based on the amount of wrinkles on his face) and four-foot-nothing, with wispy white hair that defies gravity. He makes magical history into torture with the way his voice drones on.

"The Arcanists were credited with founding the first magical academies, codifying spellcraft so that it could be taught to non-lineage users..."

Non-lineage users. Basically, people without a strong genetic background in magic—children born to powerful witches and wizards.

That’s me in a nutshell, right? Then again, there’s whatever freak accident of nature made me a Catalyst. Which is probably bloodline. Never mind, then.

This resonance thing—it’s like an itch in my brain I can’t scratch.

Around me, at least three students are fully asleep. Two more are drawing elaborate doodles that have nothing to do with class. No one seems to give a single shit about what he’s saying, even though the price for every credit in this university is astronomical.

I’m the only one fascinated by the words dribbling out in monotone.

"...raw resonance shaped into stable keys..."

The phrase echoes in my head like it’s bouncing off the walls of my skull. I’ve heard these words before. Or felt them. Something.

This matters.

A folded piece of paper slides across my desk; for once, Penelope’s passing notes instead of talking. Probably because there’s almost no ambient noise to hide in during this lecture.

This class is making me homicidal. If I have to listen to one more minute about dead wizards, I’ll light myself on fire just for entertainment.

I should laugh. It’s funny. But I can’t stop hearing resonance and raw magic and stable keys. It’s like the professor accidentally switched to speaking a language only I understand.

I scribble back: Actually, this is interesting.

She frowns at the paper. Looks at me. Frowns harder.

Tilts her head. Looks at the professor.

Scrawls in giant, loopy letters: WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH NICOLE?

The rest of the class flows past like I’m underwater. I take actual notes, though they’re a little fragmented and more like jotting down key words. Something about the Arcanists. Something about magic that isn’t forced through rigid structures but flows naturally from intent. Something about runes being inherent to magic itself while glyphs were created as a way for humans to access magic.

When class ends, I barely notice until Penelope tugs on my sleeve.

"Earth to Nicole? Class is over. Did you seriously enjoy that?"

"No, I just..." I stuff my notebook into my bag. "Something about it felt important."

"You’re turning into such a nerd." Her smile takes any sting out of it. "Think Logan texted back yet?"

And just like that, my stomach drops again.

* * *

My apartment is too quiet. Princess Paws is curled up on the couch, looking as judgmental as a cat can look, which is exceedingly.

"Don’t start," I tell her, tossing my bag onto the coffee table. "He’ll text when he’s ready."

I pick up my phone, checking for the millionth time. Nothing. I reread my pathetic little two-word text.

I’m sorry.

What was I thinking? It’s so inadequate it’s practically insulting. But what was I supposed to say? I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me a ghost girl was actually a dangerous magical construct called a Specter that was trying to manipulate me? That’s a long text, and he was wrong, so...

Still. He deserves an apology.

But my stupid pride keeps getting in the way. That, and my strange level of insecurities. Why did I think a two-word text was good enough?

And following up feels impossible, like the weight of all my anxieties will crush me for even trying.

I throw my phone under a pillow and watch it disappear.

The apartment feels empty. Too empty. No Logan, no Penelope (once again out with her gaggle). Just me and my thoughts and a growing sense of frustration burning low in my chest.

It’s fine.

Everything’s just fucking fine.

I rub my forehead, frustration boiling up behind my eyes. Professor Hildegard’s words circle in my head: "Magic isn’t just about power; it’s about resonance. When intent aligns with the natural flow of raw magic..."

Dev’s words float back to me: "Maybe you’re not a battery. Maybe you’re a conductor."

Something shifts inside me. Not a well of power opening up, but a recognition. Resonance.

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