Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 130

Chapter 130: Gossip

"I feel like we’re ghosts," I mutter during our fourth class. "Or wearing some kind of invisibility cloak."

"More like we’re the weird transfer students no one wants to acknowledge." Penelope flips through her textbook, not bothering to lower her voice. The professor doesn’t react. "Though I’d kill for an invisibility cloak right now. These chairs are murder on my ass."

Really? I thought they were pretty comfortable.

A girl nearby gasps at Penelope’s language. I bite back a laugh.

"Think it’s deliberate?" I ask. "The professors ignoring us?"

"Has to be. Too consistent to be coincidence."

She’s right. Four different professors, four identical responses. Or lack thereof. The students might stare and whisper, but the faculty treat us like we don’t exist.

The Conclave’s influence, maybe? Or something else?

I add it to my mental list of questions. Right below "what the hell is a Catalyst good for" and "why does Shadow keep breaking into my apartment."

"At least being ghosts means they won’t notice if we skip homework." I tap my pen against the blank notebook in front of me. My earlier confidence fell completely flat once I hit Defensive Magic and found out I couldn’t get my magic to do anything it was supposed to. "Silver lining?"

"Oh God, homework." Penelope’s head thunks against the desk. "I haven’t done homework since sixth grade."

"What? How did you graduate?"

"Charm and wit, darling." She winks. "Also, my parents donated a new computer lab." She was spoiled before she turned out to be a witch.

"Of course they did."

"Hey, not all of us can be overachievers like you. Some of us prefer the path of least resistance."

"I wasn’t—" The memory of late nights hunched over security manuals hits me. Okay, maybe she has a point. "Fine. But this is different. We need to learn this stuff."

"Says who? The Conclave?" She snorts. "What are they going to do, give us detention?"

"They could expel us."

"And then what? Send you to magical juvie?" Penelope stretches, her designer sweater riding up. "Face it, they need you more than you need them. Guarantee they’d figure something out."

The professors might ignore us, but a few students turn at her words. Their whispers buzz like angry wasps.

"Keep your voice down." I glance around. "We don’t need more attention." I’m sure the Conclave doesn’t want any part of themselves known to the public.

Then again, who would listen to a bunch of trust fund babies who had to bribe the school in order to be admitted? I guess it’s the perfect cover.

"Please. These babies are too wrapped up in their own drama to care about us." She gestures at a group of students huddled around their phones. "See? Probably planning their next yacht party."

"You realize you’re also a trust fund baby, right?"

"Reformed trust fund baby." She taps her chest. "I work for a living now."

"You own a bar."

"Exactly. I’m practically blue collar."

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. The professor doesn’t even glance our way.

"So." Penelope props her chin on her hand. "What’s the verdict on homework? Because I vote we embrace our ghostly status and hit up that new coffee shop instead."

"We should at least try—"

"Boring." She pokes my arm. "Come on, live a little. When’s the last time you had fun?"

"Fun isn’t in my vocabulary anymore. Aren’t you the one who told me to take control and advantage of the situation? In fact, you were so excited to be a student again." I poke her arm back. "Well, study up, buttercup. We’re about to be straight A students."

But only because I want to get out of here. Safely.

* * *

"This is cruel and unusual punishment." Penelope drags her feet as we leave the classroom. "I thought being a witch would be more spells and potions, less homework and pop quizzes."

"Life’s full of disappointments."

The halls of Thornhaven empty fast as students rush to their next classes. Our footsteps echo against marble floors, but we aren’t alone. There are groups of kids everywhere, unrelated to the rush between classes.

Penelope stops in the middle of the hallway, forcing a group of students to part around us like water around rocks. Her usual playful expression shifts to something more serious. "Real talk—are you getting any of this stuff? Because I feel like I’m reading ancient Greek written backwards."

"Must be some friend," Penelope quips, as if we don’t already all understand that he’s talking about Logan. freewёbnoνel.com

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