HOW TO SUMMON A REVENANT.

4.

MISTAKES

"In which Bishop is caught"

Three days. Three torturously late nights spent frantically decoding the ciphered journal using his newly-inked arm. Bishop had not slept, how could he? He waited until the gentle cover of night and the alert of Jack's soft snoring to continue his work. When the journal wasn't in his hands, he kept it buried in the cemetery, with nothing but the corpses and statues for company.

He could no longer enjoy Carter's class.

The classroom was blisteringly hot, and devoid of discussion. Carter strode before his desk, lost in his own world and making wide, dramatic gestures as he lectured on the battle between modern and ancient philosophy in academia. Bishop tried and failed to listen. His pen was held in a white-knuckle grip, the paper beneath it entirely blank. His mind wandered to the journal, and his next steps.

He needed to find a Body.

Jack jabbered incessantly in his ear about anything and everything— Yvette and the party and an essay they had due in a week that he hadn't even started. Bishop found himself tugging the sleeves of his coat down even as sweat poured down his neck from the overly-warm Symposium. Mina's eyes snagged on his hands every time he twitched. He stopped.

"That's about all, I believe," Carter said. He leaned comfortably on the desk, his hands spread wide over its oak surface. "Any questions?" The classroom was almost silent, save for the impatient twitch of students eager for the day to end— shuffling papers, the crackle of zippers. Carter sighed, eyes roaming the room until finally snagging on him. "Bishop! You usually have something to say."

Bishop's lungs battered against his ribcage, pumping incessantly with anxiety. He gripped his pen tighter, felt its body bend. Thirty-six pairs of eyes focused on him, expectantly awaiting some hidden brilliance.

"I don't believe I do, this time," he eased out. His face burned as Mina craned her neck to meet his eyes.

"Shame," Carter laughed. "Well, see me after class."

Jack made an idiotic, "Ooo," sound before Mina smacked him across the back of his head.

"You alright?" she whispered, head bent down to his. "You're white."

"I'm fine," Bishop grit. "Don't worry about it." She wasn't wrong. He had foregone sustenance, along with sleep. At the thought, his stomach twisted in knots. Eating, drinking, sleeping— it all seemed trivial in the face of what he was dealing it, like menial chores. However, his poor self-maintenance had drawn noticeable shadows over his face and, paired with the cold, ashed the brown from his skin.

Mina quirked a skeptical brow, realized he wasn't worth the effort, and grabbed her things before shuffling out with the rest of the class. The void of the room unsettled him, emphasizing upon its own emptiness. Like this, the murmur and hush of the winter winds outside bled through the walls. Bishop shivered, despite the heat.

Carter beckoned Bishop forward and hiked himself up onto his desk. "I hope I'm not keeping you. It's just a quick question."

"I've got nowhere else to be, sir." A lie. He had Severin waiting for him in the cemetery, trapped within those pages and safely buried. The thought of Severin sent a creeping suspicion down Bishop's spine. Was this about the journal?

"There's a book missing from my office," Carter began, as if he'd sensed Bishop's nerves. "I was wondering if you knew something about it."

Bishop's blood tunneled in his ears. "A book, sir?"