ash, streaks of it along his cheeks and jaw, underscoring one eye in a rakish dash like face paint. But he was laughing, as he helped an older student shovel sodden, charred remnants of notebooks into a trash bag.
But the moment Fox called, “Mr. Hemlock,” Summer went stiff, every bit of ease bleeding out of his body to leave his back rigid and his shoulders tight.
Hm.
Interesting.
Summer glanced over his shoulder, looking toward Fox but not quite at him. “Yes, Professor Iseya?”
“Leave the cleanup to Dr. Liu. It’s the least he can do to compensate for his crimes.”
“Hey!” came from the corner Liu had sequestered himself in. Fox ignored him, crooking a finger at Summer.
“If you’ve brought your possessions, fetch them. You can use my suite to clean up and change. We have matters to discuss.”
Summer ducked his head, scrubbing his hands against his jeans. Beneath the smears of soot streaking pronounced cheekbones, tanned skin turned a decided shade of pink. He nodded quietly, obediently.
“Yes, Professor Iseya.”
Fox frowned. There was something...off about Summer’s furtive behavior, something more than just a reticence he clearly hadn’t shaken over seven years away from Omen and Albin Academy.
It didn’t matter.
Summer’s demons were Summer’s demons, and Fox wasn’t staying at the school long enough to figure them out.
* * *
Fox waited only long enough for Summer to retrieve his suitcase from his car, then retreated to his private suite in the southwest tower. While he let Summer have the run of the bathroom, Fox wiped off his face, washed his hands, and changed into a clean shirt, slacks, and waistcoat, then settled in the easy chair in the living room to wait; to keep himself busy he flipped to his last page marker in the absolutely abysmal Jordan Peterson book he was forcing himself to read for a class exercise.
Pop psychology, all of it, based in flawed and inhumane principles, but it provided an interesting exercise in logical fallacies and poor application of outdated psychological principles; examples he could use to demonstrate poor reasoning to students as a caution against falling into the same traps. He underlined another passage riddled with subjective bias in red, and jotted down a few notes on his legal pad, idly listening as the shower shut off with a faint squeak and an ending of the quiet, rain-like sounds of water striking tile.
A few moments later Summer emerged, steaming and still dripping, a pale gray T-shirt clinging damply to his chest and slim waist, a fresh pair of jeans slouching on narrow hips. He scrubbed a towel through his messy wet hair and peeked at Fox from under the tangle of it in that way he had, offering a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” he said. “Not really up to dress code, but technically I’m not checking in for work just yet.”
“I hardly think you need to worry about work attire in my living room.” Fox pointed his pen at the plush easy chair adjacent to the sofa. “Sit.”
Like an obedient puppy, Summer dropped down into the chair, resting his hands on his knees. “Thank you for accepting my application.”
“Your qualifications met the requirements, and as a former student you’re familiar with the school, the curriculum, and the standards of my classes.” Fox crossed his legs, tapping his pen against his lower lip, studying Summer thoughtfully. “However, I don’t think you’re suited to teach.”
“Wh-what?” Summer’s gaze flew up quickly, then darted away. “Then why did you accept me as your assistant?”
“No one else applied.” Fox arched a brow. “Look me in the eye.”
Immediately, Summer bowed his head, staring fixedly at his knees. “Why?”
“You cannot, can you?”
“Does it matter?” Summer threw back, biting his lip and turning his face to the side.
“It matters.” Fox set his pen, notepad, and atrocious tome aside to lean forward, resting his hands on his knees and lacing his fingers together. The longer he watched Summer, the more uncomfortable the young man seemed to grow, sinking down into his shoulders and curling his fingers slowly until they dug up the denim of his jeans in little divots. “Do you recall why most parents send their sons to Albin Academy, Mr. Hemlock?”
“Because...” Barely a murmur. “Because they’re rich and horrible and don’t want to deal with their problem children themselves, so they ship them off where no one can see them?”
“That is a more crass explanation of our function here, yes,” Fox said dryly. “The point is that these boys have no respect for authority—and while we are not their parents