The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Brad Magnarella (ink book reader txt) 📖

lords: Belphegor, Beezlebub, and, finally, the terrible demon Sathanas, who represented Wrath.”

“Sathanas was the precursor to Satan,” Meredith said in a distant monotone.

“In the traditional sense, yes,” I replied. “Saint Michael’s work wasn’t done, however. During their time in the world, the demon lords had taken many human concubines, their offspring precursors to the night creatures: vampires, werewolves, ghouls, other monstrosities. In answer, Michael wed a peasant girl, and they began a family of their own. Their sons and daughters became the progenitors of powerful lines of mages meant to balance the darkness of the night creatures.”

I wasn’t about to tell my students that I was a descendant of one such line. But it was true—on my mother’s side. Sensing I needed to wrap up, I began expelling energy from the circle.

“So, the First Saints Legend gave rise not just to later versions of the seven deadly sins—even though there were nine original demons—but to many of the creature and magic myths that persist to this day. Indeed, they’re all around us.” Much more literally than you kids realize, I thought, glancing at my watch. “Oops, we went over again.”

I clapped sharply to break the remaining energy in the circle. The students started as though coming out of trances, which they were.

“Keep working on those lit reviews,” I said as they stood and gathered notebooks and backpacks. “I have to cancel office hours tomorrow, so we’ll meet again Monday afternoon.” That would clear my schedule to follow up on last night’s summoning and learn exactly what I was dealing with.

I waited for the students to file out, Meredith’s gaze lingering on me from the hallway, then grabbed a folder of ungraded student papers from my desk, tucked it under an arm, and aimed for the door myself. I had just locked up when a prim voice sounded behind me.

“Well, if it isn’t the elusive Professor Croft.”

Recalling Caroline’s warning too late, I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose.

“Professor Snodgrass,” I said.

“Can you can spare a minute, I wonder?”

Not really, you self-important jerk.

“Yeah, sure.”

7

With a priggish clearing of his throat, Professor Snodgrass settled behind a behemoth desk that swallowed his five-two frame, making him look like a boy playing in his father’s office. In many ways, he was. Family connections, and not scholarship, had elevated him to chairman of the history department. He adjusted his plaid bow tie, then clasped his small fingers on the desktop.

“We have a problem, Professor Croft.”

“Is that right?” I dropped into one of the ridiculously steep wingback chairs facing him.

“Several, I should say. For starters, you were late to your own class again.”

“The subway broke down.”

His right eyebrow arched. “Your colleagues had no trouble arriving on time.” He gave a pointed sniff. “They also managed to arrive without the stink of alcohol emanating from their pores.”

“That’s aftershave,” I lied again. “Purchased from a street vendor, granted.”

“And yet, you’re clearly unshaven,” he said, touching his smooth chin. I remembered my own jaw as it had appeared in the restroom mirror: steel-blue with bristles. He had me there. “And how do you explain the rumpled condition of your suit—didn’t I see you in the same one yesterday? Or the unsightly stains on your collar. We have a professional code of appearance, you know.”

I lifted a gunky shoe. “Do you think it’s cheap keeping these kickers shined?”

I wasn’t typically such a smartass. Or as much of one, anyway. My headache and underslept state had a lot to do with it. That and the fact he’d chosen the morning after a demon summoning to re-air his list of petty grievances—an event that would have reduced a man like Snodgrass to a shitting wreck.

Although the man was my boss, he had little power in the matter of hiring and firing, thank God. That responsibility rested with the college board. Whether or not they shared Snodgrass’s low opinion of my character, they certainly liked the grants I hauled in. Not to mention that my student reviews were generally stellar. That no doubt irked Snodgrass all the more. His department meetings put grown men and women to sleep, so I could only imagine what his students thought of him.

“I’m glad you find this all so amusing, Professor Croft,” he said. “But some other concerns have come to light that go more to the heart of your role at the college.” Snodgrass, who agitated easily, remained oddly composed. No lip twitching or obsessive fingering of his little oval glasses. Instead, he gave a knowing chuckle, which I did not like.

I fought the urge to swallow. “Such as…?”

“Well, you already know how I feel about your course. Ancient mythology and lore hardly qualifies as academia. It comes across as pop scholarship and more than a little … occultish.”

I rankled at the suggestion, even coming from him. History might help explain the mundane world, but it was mythology that lent insight into the forces that supported the mundane—

“Given the present budget constraints,” he continued, “as well as dwindling interest in your course, I made my recommendation to the board that it be dropped from the catalogue.”

“Again?” I feigned a yawn.

His lips pinched, but not in irritation. He was trying not to grin.

That got me. Against my better judgment I pushed back. “And I’m betting the board reminded you that I bring in half the research grants of this department.”

“Oh, let’s not exaggerate,” he said, clucking his tongue. “It’s more on the order of thirty percent—and trending down. And there have been no grants so far this semester, am I correct?”

“They’re pending,” I muttered.

“But yes, the board is impressed by your grants. I’ll give you that. What they’re far less impressed by, however, is news of your criminality.”

“My what?”

He lifted a stapled-together packet from a neat wire tray and tossed it forward.

Heat spread over my face as I lifted the packet from his desk.

“Last summer you were picked up at an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen,” he said. “The scene of a murder. You were in