Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 134: Office of Academic Affairs

The old, wiry lady manning the desk at the Office of Academic Affairs has two horns growing out of her forehead. Probably goblin; she’s too small to be a troll.

Despite being born and raised in a world filled with supernaturals around every corner, even I blink a little to see a chthonoid subtype guarding the gates of the Chancellor. Goblins and trolls don’t exactly have a reputation for... well. Anyway.

I wait at the counter, keeping my expression neutral while the goblin woman shuffles papers around as if I’m invisible. The tusks protruding from her forehead gleam; does she wax them? They’re polished to an impeccable shine, suggesting either pride or meticulous self-care. At the very end of one is a piercing, a simple golden hoop.

How fascinating.

She finally looks up, pushing her bifocals higher on her nose with one gnarled finger. The glasses hang from a beaded chain around her neck, giving her a grandmotherly vibe.

"Yes?" Her voice startles me—high-pitched, nasal, but wrapped in a crisp British accent straight from Buckingham Palace.

I clear my throat. "Good afternoon. I’d like to schedule an appointment with Dr. Blackthorn, please."

The goblin woman’s expression doesn’t change, not even a twitch. "All appointment requests must be submitted via email. The Chancellor will consider your request and respond if she deems it necessary."

Her tone carries the weight of bureaucracy—immovable, impersonal, immune to charm. Also, condescending.

"Ah. Yes. I understand. However, I don’t have Dr. Blackthorn’s email address."

"Then you don’t need to see the Chancellor." She picks up a stamp and brings it down with unnecessary force on a form, the thud echoing in the quiet office.

My entire face scrunches, before I gain enough control to smooth my expression. "I’m sorry, but this makes no sense. How am I supposed to email someone whose contact information I don’t have?"

"The Chancellor’s email is provided to those who require it."

"And how exactly does one determine that they require it?"

Her eyes meet mine, cold and unblinking. Human eyes are never truly black, but a deep, dark brown. Not hers. They’re black, indistinguishable between pupil and iris. "Those who need to contact the Chancellor know how to do so."

My fingers curl against the edge of the counter as I lean forward. "Why isn’t her contact information listed on the Thornhaven website? Every other faculty member’s is."

"Email your request to the Office of Academic Affairs. It will be forwarded appropriately." She returns to her paperwork, dismissing me without another word.

"But I’m standing right here. Can’t you just—"

"Email your request." She doesn’t look up. "The Chancellor’s schedule is managed digitally. No exceptions."

The absurdity of being directed to email a request while standing directly in front of the person who could simply write my name in a calendar makes my jaw clench.

"So you’re telling me there’s absolutely no way to schedule an appointment without going through this email process?"

"That is correct." She stamps another form with that same aggressive thud.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs until they hurt. Then I let it all out in one solid whoosh. "Could you at least provide me with the appropriate email address?"

Her hand pauses mid-stamp. For a moment, I think I’ve finally broken through, but then she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a business card, sliding it across the counter with two fingers.

Her nails are manicured. White, with pink polka dots. For an old lady of questionable temperament, she has a cute side.

The card is pristine white with simple black text: Office of Academic Affairs, followed by an email address and phone number. No names. No personal contacts.

"Thank you," I say, though the words taste of defeat.

"The office reviews all correspondence within three to five business days."

"Three to five—" I cut myself off. There’s no point arguing with a brick wall. "Fine."

As I turn to leave, something compels me to look back. "I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?"

For the first time, something flickers across her face.

"Mrs. Grimshaw." Her tone doesn’t warm, but there’s a subtle shift in her posture. A little less like a stiff board and channeling a bit more of an elegant grandma. Only with green skin and horns.

"Thank you for your help, Mrs. Grimshaw." I’m not sure why I’m bothering with politeness at this point, but it can’t hurt.

Pocketing the card, I push through the door, leaving the Office of Academic Affairs behind.

This appointment system is designed to discourage casual contact with those in power, but I’ve spent far too many years writing the most ridiculous requests to get through bureaucratic red tape.

Create enough hoops to jump through, and most people give up before they ever reach you. But I’m not most people.

A random bench beckons on the side of the pathway, and I flop onto it after pulling out my phone. The e-mail goes straight to my contacts—so I never lose it—and a glacial smile curves my lips.

I’ll craft an e-mail so perfectly professional yet passively aggressive, Mrs. Grimshaw...

My thumbs fly across the screen, hammering out a passive aggressive request, but I’m interrupted by an incoming call from Logan. The sudden vibration startles me, and in my fumbling, I swipe the wrong direction.

Call ended.

"Shit!"

He’s been gone for days, and the first time he reaches out, I hang up on him.

My hands tremble as I tap his contact, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. Voicemail.

I try again.

One ring. Two rings. The seconds stretch into eternity, and then...

"Nicole." His voice comes through, deep and controlled, but with an undercurrent of tension. The hair on my arms stand up.

"Logan, sorry, I accidentally—"

"Where are you right now?" No preamble, no pleasantries.

My entire body grows hot, my palm sweating against the heat of my phone. "Right outside the Academic Affairs building. I was trying to get an appointment with—"

"Is Penelope with you?"

"No. She’s out with the girls—"

"Stay there. I’m five minutes away."

"What’s wrong?" I ask, but he’s already hung up.

Blinking at the phone, my draft e-mail already forgotten, I wonder what it could be. The Moons? Did Shadow break in again? Is the Conclave up to something...?

Fuck, it could be anything. He could have at least explained before ending the call.