Shadow Duel (Prof Croft Book 9)

plans to me by the end of the week,” Snodgrass said. “And I stand by what I said. I am not going to make exceptions for you. If you can’t use a computer, hire a graduate assistant who can.”
At the door to my classroom, I turned suddenly. “Graduate assistant?”
He must have caught something in my reaction because his lips pinched into a grin.
“That’s not a suggestion,” he decided. “It’s a requirement.”
Wonderful.
“Good morning,” I said to my class of fifteen. “I’m Professor Croft, and this is Intro to Ancient Mythology and Lore. I can’t fathom what you’re doing here, but welcome anyway.”
That always earned a nice ice-breaking chuckle.
“Over the course of this class, we’re going to explore the roots of mythology. We’re going to talk creation and destruction—fun stuff. We’re going to do a comparative analysis of the gods, heroes, and monsters across cultures. We’re going to grapple with fundamental questions of good and evil. And we’re going to discuss how all of this is relevant today. Indeed, commit yourself to this class, and it will change the way you see the world.” I paused the appropriate beat. “It could even save your life.”
Though that aroused more laughter, I was being much more serious than they knew.
I clapped my hands. “Okay, let’s begin with an overview of the next six weeks…”
I had taught the course so many times I could recite the first day material in my sleep. A good thing, because for the next two hours that was pretty much what I did. Sure, I paced and gestured and underscored, my wizard’s voice holding the students rapt, but my mind was on Snodgrass’s directives.
One of the perks of my position here had been the flexibility. When things got heavy in the wizarding dimensions of my life, I could schedule reading in lieu of a class or do my research at odd hours. As long as the student assessments remained glowing and the grants rolled in, the college board couldn’t care less.
But Snodgrass’s lesson-plan requirement coupled with having to take on a graduate assistant was going to put a serious crimp in my style. And right when I needed to be allotting more of myself to my home life.
Fortunately, the senior members of the Order were more available for supernatural issues, such as the box I’d recovered. Repairing tears around our world remained their priority, but Arianna could spare personnel now. I was really itching to learn what was inside the box. On the way to class, I’d called Claudius again, and he assured me that he himself would retrieve it later that morning.
“Professor Croft?”
I snapped to and focused on the raised hand. It belonged to a male student who looked way too young to be in college.
“Yes?” I said, afraid I’d spaced out.
“Question. You just mentioned Prometheus as an example of the archetypal trickster, but wouldn’t a figure like Loki be more appropriate?”
So I hadn’t spaced, but I found something about the young man jarring. And it wasn’t just the smoothness of his dusky face or the directness of his question. While the others were still emerging from their mild trances, his eyes were alert, mouth set in a way that could best be described as defiant.
“Your name?” I asked.
“Sven Roe,” he replied. “R-O-E.”
My mind, which unconsciously went to origins, noted the interesting combo. Sven was Nordic for “young man,” and the surname Roe was Celtic, signifying red hair. My student looked neither Nordic nor like a fiery Celt. His intense eyes were as dark as his hair—and they appeared ready for a brain brawl.
This should be interesting.
“All right, Young Man Roe,” I said. “Let’s hear your argument.”
“Prometheus wasn’t a pure trickster,” he said. “Sure, he deceived Zeus into accepting the bones of sacrificial animals instead of the meat, and he stole fire, but he did both to benefit humans. He loved them more than he did the gods. That makes him a cultural hero. Tricksters are pranksters and rule-breakers, indifferent to humans. They have no concept of right or wrong. They’re jerks, basically.”
I nodded, duly impressed. “Solid point, but keep in mind that tricksters such as Loki did benefit humankind, even though they may not have intend—”
“And because they have no concept of right or wrong,” Sven interrupted, “they can’t be considered good or evil, much less heroes. They’re amoral. That’s their defining quality, on par with the pranking, I’d argue.”
“Are you sure you should be in intro?” I asked.
The other students laughed, but my adversary wasn’t ready to back down.
“It’s just that if we’re going to throw around terms like ‘archetypal trickster,’ we need to be clear on what they mean. Prometheus is an alloy at best. He has way too much hero in him to be archetypal anything, least of all a trickster.”
The students looked between us nervously, but Sven’s forwardness didn’t bother me. I was thinking of something else.
“Do you happen to be doing work-study this term?” I asked.
Sven’s brow furrowed at the sudden change in direction. “Yeah?”
“Have a professor yet?”
“No.”
I grinned. “You do now.”

5
I held Sven after class to discuss the position, and he remained sitting while the students filed out. I closed the door and took a seat on the corner of my desk, wanting to make this seem casual. I may have singled him out for his boldness, but I saw in him an opportunity to turn my problem into a solution.
“So, what’s this going to involve?” he asked.
“First, how old are you?”
He rolled his eyes as if he got that question a lot. “I know, I know, I look fifteen, but I’m actually nineteen. Started college while I was still in high school and finished my major studies early. I can show you my ID if you want.”
“No, that’s fine.” I smiled. “What did you study?”
“Dualed in psychology and philosophy.”
I let out a low mental whistle. That explained his smarts and debating chops.
“Mythology is more of a hobby,” he said. “My mom got me a kid’s book of the