I’m bored—again. Nothing exciting ever happens at the guild anymore. Evander is still upset that I sprayed him down last month. I haven’t bothered to apologize, so it’s little wonder why. That’s okay; I don’t plan to say sorry.
It’s probably wrong of me, but I really feel like causing more trouble—and he presents the perfect target. I’ve already got an idea forming in my mind, and it’s going to drive him up a wall. Is it bad that I enjoy annoying him? His reactions are just so entertaining…
I hide in my shadows, stalking the halls of the guild. I pass Hunters and Elite Hunters, but they don’t know I’m here—the perks of having shadows at my beck and call. I may like mischief, but I hate talking to people. I’d sooner hunt rogues than make small talk with a colleague.
When I reach the classroom Evander is hiding in, I cast a glamour on the door so he doesn’t see it open. As far as he knows, it’s still closed. Grinning to myself, I stay hidden as I cross the room. Then, being the unholy terror that I am, I lay across the table he’s working on, only unraveling my shadows when my head lays on his notebook.
“Jesus!” he shouts, looking like he might stab me with his pen. It would be entertaining if he did.
I yawn, long and loud, putting my arms behind my head. “Whatcha doing?”
He’s forced to sit back in his chair now that my elbow is invading his space. “Working—unlike you.”
“I never work,” I tell him honestly. “Well, I hunt on occasion, but I seldom get assignments these days…not that I wouldn’t mind a good game of cat and mouse.” The thought of tracking down a powerful rogue gives me a thrill. They’re always so much more fun when they’re feisty.
“You’re demented,” he says, lip curling in disgust.
I grin. “How kind of you to notice.”
“Can I help you?” he snaps, pulling the notebook out from under my head.
He stares at me, jaw clenching. “I’m not playing this game again.”
“I’m not going to go away,” I say.
“Who’s there?” he finally asks through gritted teeth.
“No one knows.”
I smirk at my own bad sense of humor. When I was thirteen, I suffered some traumatic event—at least, that’s what we all assume because I don’t remember—that gave me amnesia. As in, nearly nine years later, I still don’t remember the first thirteen years of my life.
Evander blinks. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“I thought it was.” I shrug. “Knock-knock.”
He heaves a sigh. “Who’s there?”
“No,” he growls. “I’m not listening to that one again.”
“But you let me get away with it for two minutes last time,” I pout.
“You tricked me!”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t know that one.” My grin is slow. “It was entertaining, though.”
“You’re sick,” he says, putting his notebook on his knee and writing something down.
I prop myself up on my elbow, trying to spy his notes. “What’re you writing?”
“None of your business!” He snaps the notebook closed.
“Are you serious?” His tone is exasperated.
“As the grave.”
“Fine!” he shouts, hands balling into fists. “Who’s there?”
“Boo,” I say, adrenaline pumping in anticipation.
“Don’t cry, Evander, it’s just a joke.” Laughing, I’m up and across the room before his pen penetrates the desk—right where my arm had been. “Harsh,” I say, tutting. “Now, stop dallying and get to work.”
I feel his glare on my back as I exit the classroom.