Inside a man sat at a desk all alone. Books were piled on every surface not covered by papers. The bookcases overflowed; bound term papers had been stacked along two walls. On top of the highest stack sat a hat that made something tickle in my head. I recognized that hat, but I didn't know why.
The guy didn't hear us. No big surprise considering I was with a shape-shifting Indian and a lion in human form. They tended to move quietly, and I was no slouch in that department myself. However, the man's ears were plugged with white ear buds and cords trailed down each side of his neck, making a V that disappeared into the pocket of his light blue, short-sleeved button-down shirt,
He wore a tie and khaki trousers, loafers with socks, all of which had to be hell in this heat. The administration building either wasn't air-conditioned, or the powers that be didn't see the point of turning it on in the summer. The place was probably cold as hell in the winter, too.
A book lay open in front of him, and a yellow legal pad covered with illegible scribbles lay next to that. He tapped a pen on the desk to a beat I could easily distinguish since I had superior hearing, and he was blasting it. Of course Guns N' Roses sounded best at top volume.
Sawyer stepped forward, and I lifted my hand. I wanted to get a good look at the guy first, get a feel for him. Xander Whitelaw could be our salvation. Or, if what he knew turned out to be bogus, the seal of our doom.
His blond hair curled over the edge of his collar too long for an interview, but probably acceptable for the summer semester. I'd figured his skin would be sallow, even sickly—did prophecy professors get out much?— but instead his arms sported a golden tan. His shoulders were narrow, but sculpted. From what I could tell, he looked like a long-distance runner.
Suddenly the man shifted to the right, bringing his pen up to his mouth like a microphone as he sang the last line of "Paradise City" at top volume.
Axl really had nothing to worry about.
His jazzy side move must have brought us into his peripheral vision, because the man froze and turned his head. He was younger than I'd expected, around my age. Perhaps this wasn't Xander Whitelaw at all but a grad student.
His face was long, chin square with a tiny scar just beneath his lip; his blond hair sifted over dark brown eyes, framed by rimless glasses. He was cute if you were into book people—teachers, writers, librarians.
I expected him to be flustered that we'd heard his solo, perhaps blush. Instead he grinned, the expression making him appear even younger if possible and quite a bit more interesting than he'd been without it. If it had been another time, another place, make that another world, and I'd been another person, I might have smiled back, given him my number, or taken him home.
As it was, I didn't return the expression, just stepped closer and motioned for him to remove his ear buds.
"Oh." He did, then hit a button, cutting Axl off mid-wail. "Sorry."
"I'm looking for Dr. Whitelaw."
"You found him."
His voice had a soft Southern lilt that made you want to lean forward in expectation of his next words.
"You must be one of the youngest Ph.D.s in recorded history," I muttered.
Whitelaw laughed. "Not really. You'd be surprised at the rate of genius in the hallowed halls of education, Miss ..."
"Phoenix." I led with my hand. "Elizabeth."
Our fingers touched. I didn't get much. He was excited about his new book, enjoyed his summer class, thought I was exotically attractive—I nearly yawned at that observation. How many men had told me the same in my lifetime?
"And you are?" He glanced past me, gaze avid.
If I hadn't gotten that flash of interest in me, I'd think he was gone on Sawyer. As his hand slipped from mine I understood why. Sawyer was Navajo. Whitelaw couldn't wait to get him alone and interview him about his life, his family, his past. That would make for an amusing conversation. Too bad it would never happen.
Sawyer and Luther introduced themselves politely enough, though they both refused to shake hands by folding their arms across their chests, then staring Whitelaw down. I half expected them to start snarling.
Whitelaw didn't seem insulted. The Navajo weren't very touchy-feely, so he'd probably had his handshakes ignored before.
He turned to me. "How can I help you?"
"We—uh—" I stopped. How was I going to explain what we wanted and why we thought he had it?
Silence fell over the room. Sawyer and Luther were no help at all. They seemed to have taken an instant dislike to the professor, and I wasn't sure why.
As I floundered, trying to figure out how to bring up the subject, my gaze fell on the book Whitelaw had been studying, which had flipped closed when he stood.
The Benandanti.
That was too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.
"You're interested in ancient Italian legends?" I nodded toward the desk.
"Among others. I've studied the benandanti before, but lately—" He spread his hands, smudged with ink. I got the impression that when he studied, he did so with the same blissful abandon that a child would finger-paint in kindergarten.
"Lately?" I prompted.
"I've felt oddly compelled to learn more about them."