by Sarah Piper
His words, his tone, everything about the moment feels charged. The hairs on my arms raise, my skin humming with something electric and unsaid.
I right my fallen chair, take up my seat across from him again.
After a weighty pause, he says, “We have reason to believe that the students and faculty—indeed, any magickal practitioners connected with Arcana Academy—are in grave danger. Your friend’s murder bears a striking resemblance to others we’ve been tracking over the past decade. All of the victims were connected by one or two degrees of separation to former students or faculty. In the cases where arrests were made, the accused were all witches and mages with no prior criminal records.”
“Were any of them ever acquitted?”
The briefest shake of his dark head confirms what I already know. Witches accused of capital crimes are never acquitted. That’s not how it works.
“How many?” I ask.
“Prior to this month, for the ten years we’ve been keeping track, we’ve identified forty-seven murders connected, however loosely, to the Academy.”
Goddess, that’s a lot of people. Forty-seven innocent victims, possessed and carved and burned. Tortured. Stolen from their families, their friends, their communities.
And forty-seven more innocent victims, accused and imprisoned for crimes they didn’t commit. Framed by our own kind. Executed. Not quickly.
“I’m afraid it gets worse,” Devane continues. “In the last three months alone, there have been an additional nineteen killings, including Luke Hernandez. We have no explanation for the sudden spike, but according to Anna, we can’t say we weren’t warned.”
“Warned? I don’t—”
“The Tarot prophecies.”
The room spins, and my throat tightens, as though the words themselves have wrapped around my neck. I can’t see straight, can’t suck in enough air.
“Breathe, Miss Milan. Just breathe.” He reaches across the table, grabs my hand with a firm grip. “It will pass.”
His voice dims as the sound of rushing water fills my ears. The spinning room fades away, and all I see is my mother’s face, her eyes beseeching me, her fingers outstretched as the water snatches her away…
Flame and blood and blade and bone… Flame and blood and blade and bone they will come…
“My mother,” I breathe, my voice no more than a whisper. “That’s what you’re saying. My mother knew this would happen. She predicted it.”
The room comes back into focus, the water receding into memory. I glance down at my hand, completely enveloped in his warm, strong grip. Heat crawls up my arm, and when I meet his eyes again, I find another flicker of compassion. He’s closer now, leaning forward, searching my face, though I can’t imagine what for. His scent carries on the air current, a warm sea breeze drifting tantalizingly past.
I’ve never seen the ocean, but suddenly I’m there, my body lying in the sand, the midnight waves nipping at my bare skin as a hot, wet mouth devours mine, hands pinning my wrists, my body arching closer, welcoming, begging…
Across the table, I see the moonlight in his gaze, and I gasp as a shock of pleasure zings between my thighs.
Dr. Devane holds my hand a moment longer, his eyes widening as if he’s witnessing the same vision…
He pulls away abruptly, and I gulp for air, shifting in my chair to relieve the aching pressure.
What the fuck was that?
“Not… not specifically,” he says, bringing me back to the moment. Predictions. Prophecies. My mother. “But yes, we now believe she saw much of this unfolding. As well as the bigger purpose behind it—a purpose we must unravel if we want to prevent more senseless killings. Which brings me to—”
“No one believed her.”
The cold, hard reminder douses the lingering heat from his touch.
“It’s taken the Academy years to put the pieces together,” he says. “Now that we’re seeing the patterns, we have a broader understanding—and appreciation—of your mother’s work.”
“Appreciation? I don’t know what Anna Trello told you, but that’s not how…” I trail off and take a deep breath, trying to keep the anger at bay. “They basically ran my mother out of the Academy, Dr. Devane. Destroyed everything she ever worked for, destroyed the life she and my father had built. All their plans just… poof! They had to move, to start over, to sever their connections to magick and everything it once meant to them. And that’s just the stuff I overheard them arguing about—they never wanted to talk about it.”
I hold his gaze, giving him the chance to deny it. To offer me some logical explanation for what his employer did to the people I loved most in this world. I’m practically begging for it—for an alternate take on the events that caused my parents to disavow their loyalty to the Academy.
Through her part in this treachery, Anna Trello is responsible for rerouting the entirety of my life around the one thing that’s more ingrained in my DNA than my mother’s eyes or my father’s love of chocolate.
Magick.
Yet, sent here under her authority to bargain for my freedom, the doctor offers no further comment.
Instead, he glances at his watch.
I get back on my feet, fresh anger giving me the strength to stand. “If you’ve got somewhere else to be today, Dr. Devane, don’t let me keep you.”
“You will have the opportunity to make your judgments about me soon enough, Miss Milan,” he says, seemingly unruffled. “But you will let me finish.”
His eyes spark with new fire, and I sit back in my chair, waiting for the rest. The offer. My only chance—as he so eloquently put it—at getting out of here alive.
“According to Anna, your mother was the most gifted Tarot witch the Academy has ever known,” he says, every word a revelation, a knife in my heart. “In the months before her departure from the Academy, she allegedly worked around the clock, researching esoteric occult knowledge, transcribing the visions and messages she channeled from her cards, desperately trying to correlate the two. Anna claims she was obsessed with her work. Utterly obsessed. Even your father didn’t understand the innermost workings of her mind.”
“That… sounds about right.”
Of the two, Mom always seemed to have more innate power. I always got the sense Dad was happy to leave magick behind—that deep down, he believed he was meant for the so-called normal life. With my mother, it was different. Whatever compromises she and my father had made in order to live that mundane life, keeping her end of the bargain was clearly a struggle—one I only began to recognize after their deaths. I wasn’t surprised to find her grimoire stashed in the attic; though there was no trace left of my father’s magickal history, my mother’s—however unspoken and unseen—practically permeated the house. The café. My childhood. My connection to her.
It still does.
“The research she left behind is thorough and impressive,” Devane continues. “As a result, we’ve been able to piece together some of her prophecies and predictions, which is how we started—belatedly—connecting the dots on these murders. But while her notes are extensive, they’re essentially written in code. Even with our most advanced witches and mages working on translations, we’ve hit an impasse.”
An image of Mom’s grimoire floats into my mind. Drawings and symbols, ancient words, rhymes, half-formed thoughts and incomplete sentences, footnotes and references to books upon books I’ve never read, authors I’ve never heard of, information that baffles even those great mages of Silicon Valley—a.k.a. Google.
If my mother’s academic research is anything like her book of spells, it’s no wonder they can’t make sense of it.
“It’s the Academy’s belief,” he says, tapping the table, “and our hope, that you might be able to crack that code.”
“But… how? I don’t know anything about magick, let alone my mother’s secrets.”
“Surely she told you something, even in passing. Some small thing that might help us find—”
�
�No small thing, Doctor Devane. Magick? The Academy? None of that was open for discussion in our house.” The hope I felt when the guard first announced a visit from some mystery attorney dims, and I shake my head, knowing I can’t give them what they want. “My parents died trying to keep me out of that life—away from all things magickal—all because of what your precious Academy did to them. Even if I did know something, I can’t… I can’t help you with this.”
“Maybe not today, no. But with the proper training, we might tap into something… something you may only understand in retrospect. You have the potential to save hundreds of lives—maybe even thousands—from meeting the same gruesome fate as your friend Luke Hernandez.”
I flinch at the mention of Luke, the images it stirs. Burned flesh. Blood. My old friend, throwing French fries at me under the Grande.
“Miss Milan. Starla…” Devane’s eyes soften when he says my first name, and when he speaks again, his tone softens too. “We’re just asking you to try. In exchange, you’ll receive a top-notch magickal education that will not only assist you in this task, but will serve as the foundation for any private- or magickal-sector career you could want. You’ll receive full room and board, research assistance from trusted advisors, and a personal stipend you’ll find more than adequate. Best of all, you won’t be here, awaiting your end. You’ll be free.”
I laugh, sour and bitter. “I’m on death row, Doc. So unless you’ve got a damn good escape plan—”
“Free, Starla. You’ll be free.” He glares at me, almost as if he’s forcing the word through my mind.
Sighing, I fold my arms over my chest. “So this is your big offer, then. You’ll get me out of here, but in exchange, you want me to… to…”
I can’t even bring myself to say the words.
“I want you to enroll at Arcana Academy,” Devane supplies for me, his eyes reclaiming their original fire. “To study your craft. To fully embody your Tarot magick, as you were meant to.”
From the moment he introduced himself, some part of me knew it would come to this—to the Academy. Why else would he be here?
Still, hearing it out loud makes it real.
Enroll at Arcana Academy… Embody your Tarot magick…
The idea sends a bolt straight to my gut—more guilt, mostly. Just being in the same room as a professor from my parents’ traitorous alma mater feels like a betrayal. But there, flickering behind that white-hot, tangled-up guilt and shame, other things begin to surface, snapping at my heart like startled copperheads.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
A sense of inner rightness I can’t deny, no matter how hot the rest of it burns.
They’re not just offering me my freedom; they’re offering me my dreams. Every last forbidden one of them.
A chance to learn magick. To unlock this power inside me. To uncover the mysterious past my parents tried so hard to outrun.
Forget magick, Stevie. It’s a curse…
“You’ll want for nothing at the Academy, Starla,” he says, as if he has to convince me not to rot in jail. As if I really do have a choice here. “Absolutely nothing.”
I lift a shoulder. “Nothing but my parents alive again. Nothing but my mother’s reputation restored. Nothing but magick to be cherished and embraced in this world rather than feared and shamed.” Then, pressing my fingers to my temples, “And maybe, if it’s not too much to ask, a caffeinated beverage? Goddess, my head fucking hurts.”
“Come with me and you’ve got a good chance at accomplishing three out of four.”
“Yeah? Which three?”
He cracks a smile—real, dazzling, mysterious—but before he can answer, his watch blares an alarm, startling us both.
“Code black,” a voice says from his wrist. Another male. Urgent. “Get her the fuck out of there, Cass. Plan B.”
Devane’s smile falls away. He glances at me, then the watch, worry tightening his brow. “Time?”
“Thirty seconds,” the other guys says.
Devane curses under his breath.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Stay calm,” he orders, getting to his feet. “Don’t speak.”
I press my lips together as he taps the watch face, then pulls something from his inside breast pocket and sets it on the table between us—The Moon card. I know its message isn’t meant for me—not like the cards that randomly show up in my life—but I hear it anyway. Feel it.
A great deception is upon us.
Death is only the beginning.
The moon casts not its own light; in its glow, nothing is what it seems…
Beneath his touch, the card glows silver-white, then vanishes, casting the room in cool light, as if we’ve been bathed in real moonlight.
I’m so mesmerized by the effect, it takes me a second to meet his gaze again.
To notice the fierce determination in his stance.
To spot the gun in his hand, pointing right at me.
“Shit! Shit!” I bolt out of my chair. “What the hell are—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Milan,” he says. “Truly.”
Then Dr. Cassius Devane—professor of mental magicks at the Arcana Academy of the Arts, extremely powerful mage, and my only chance at getting out of here alive—shoots me point blank in the chest.
Nine
CASS
I toss the gun into the briefcase and scoop the woman into my arms just as the south wall collapses, an explosion of cinderblocks and steel chased by a burst of magelight that rivals the desert sun.
The mage responsible stands just beyond the wreckage, arms outstretched, sparks crackling from his fingertips.
“Subtle, Mr. Weber. As usual.” Clambering over the rubble, I step out into the scorching desert heat. I haven’t even taken my first breath of fresh air when the security alarms begin to wail.
Kirin, who doesn’t do well with improvising when his precisely calculated plans run off the rails, glares at me. “Is she hurt?”
“She’ll survive.” I jerk my head toward the mess behind me. “Grab the briefcase and seal up that wall. We need to move.”
“What happened in there?”
“Now, Kirin. I need to get her to Lala’s. And you need to clean up that mess before the spell breaks down and the assholes inside figure out who we are.”
Kirin’s glare intensifies, but he nods, silently giving me his word.
Trusting the mage is on it, I whisper another incantation—a cloaking spell, this time—then run as fast as my burden will allow, crossing into the staff lot and the car I left there earlier. Glamoured, of course, like everything else about this jailbreak mission.
I get the woman situated and buckled into the front seat, then start the engine, rolling us out toward the exit. At the guard booth, I smile and flash a Tarot card.
Seeing only an employee ID badge, he raises the barricade and waves me through, wishing me a good afternoon. It doesn’t even occur to him to notice the unconscious girl strapped in next to me, still dressed in her prison uniform.
Thanks to my spellwork, it doesn’t occur to him to notice a lot of things.
I’m thirty minutes down the highway when Kirin’s voice buzzes from my comms watch.
“All clear,” he announces. “Straight from the internal communications system—one of the guards reported the bodies to the warden. Said the medical examiner already came to dispose of them, so it’s out of their hands.”
“Bodies? As in, more than one?”
“You had to off yourself in this story, Cass. Too many loose ends otherwise.”
“Ah. Good point. Have I told you lately that you’re brilliant?”
“You know, nothing says ‘you’re brilliant’ like cold, hard cash.”
“We’ll discuss it later.” I glance at my passenger, still unconscious, her head slumped forward against her chest. “And the death certificates?”
“I’m faxing them over now. Official cause of death—gunshot wound to the chest. T
he unofficial shit—well, the gossip is already making its way through the walls. Murder-suicide by a fanatic impersonating an attorney.”
“The other prisoners must be loving it.”
Kirin sighs. “It’ll die down soon enough. A little luck, and everyone here will forget Starla Milan ever existed.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Is she awake?” Kirin asks.
“Not yet. But she will be.”
“You’d better be damn sure about that.”
“Kirin? You may be brilliant. But try to remember who’s in charge.” I sign off, focusing my attention back on the road.
Another hour passes, and we’re well off the beaten path now, traversing the old county roads long since abandoned for the faster, well-paved interstates. I haven’t seen a single vehicle since I left the highway.
The road curves, and Starla tilts toward me, her hair brushing the arm of my suit jacket. When the road bends again, she shifts back to the other side.
Wake up, Starla. Wake up.
My hands tighten on the wheel. I know she’s unharmed—it was my spell. She’ll come to in another hour or so, once the initial shock works its way through her body and the illusion magick fades.
That magick worked exactly as designed. It always does.
Doesn’t make the hot rush of guilt in my chest any less painful. I’m pretty sure it’s going to take more than a few non-magickal, very hard drinks to wipe my memory of that look in her eyes. The disbelief, the anger, the confusion. The raw terror when I pointed my weapon.
I glance over at the woman again, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. Her color is good, her skin warm and soft beneath all the prison grime.
I should take my hand away. Focus on the road.
But I can’t stop thinking about what I saw back in that room.
When I touched her hand to calm her, I was pulled into some sort of vision, so strong I could’ve sworn it was real—a memory. I was walking through an ancient forest on a nearly moonless night, called forward by the peaceful sounds of night birds and running water. The trees thinned out, and I came upon a clearing—that’s when I saw her. She was nude, kneeling at the edge of a moonlit pool, her hair brushing her shoulders. Behind her, a circle of standing stones rose toward the stars. She saw me watching her, and got to her feet, approaching me with a soft smile. I returned it. Without words, she wrapped her arms around me, pressing her naked breasts to my chest, whispering my name as if we’d been lovers, finally reunited after far too long.