by Sarah Piper
The day I watched her die.
I slide a notebook from the top of the stack and open it to a random page in the center, just trying to acquaint myself with it for now. Her handwriting leaps out from the page, tiny and neat, with occasional messy scribbles, as if she got so caught up in something she just couldn’t take the time for precision.
I run my fingertips across the page, reading the passage aloud:
Between the space where black meets white
Betwixt the woods of dark and light
A mirror flat reveals the sky
But turn it ‘round to know the why
Zero begets the next, the One
Innocence lost, magick undone
Beware the rise when darkness falls
For magick corrupts, and blood trumps all.
“Wow, that’s a little intense. I thought you said this was her early work?” I look up from the page to see Kirin staring at me, his mouth open.
“What was that?” he asks. “Did you just… make that up?”
“It’s my mother’s. It’s right here.”
“I’ve read through these books a hundred times. I promise you, it isn’t.”
“Look.” I spin the book around to show him.
Kirin scans the page, then flips to the one before it and the one after, shaking his head. “This is just a list of Tarot cards and positions. Current situation, The High Priestess. Crossing, Magician reversed. Past influences, The Fool. Future influences, Judgment reversed.”
I come around to his side of the table and peer down over his shoulder, ready to smack him for the practical joke.
But Kirin’s absolutely right.
“How is this possible?” I ask. “I know what I saw. I wouldn’t screw around about this. Also, I suck at rhymes.”
“Wait, you were touching it before,” he says. “Touch it again.”
I run my fingers along the lettering, and once again, the chant appears. He can’t see it, but I can.
“Holy shitcakes,” I whisper.
“It’s her magick.” Kirin looks up at me with wide eyes full of astonishment. “Try another one.”
I grab the next notebook from the pile and go through the motions. The same thing happens, this time with another verse.
“You’re picking up on her magick,” he says, getting to his feet. “She must’ve known you would come back here… She left this for you and…” He’s pacing the room now, a broad smile stretched across his lips. “Of course! Why didn’t we think of it? This is amazing!”
I get to my feet, his energy contagious. “Kirin, what are you talking about?”
He stops pacing and grabs my shoulders, his eyes dancing with excitement. “The key to cracking the prophecies isn’t in the actual words, it’s in the magick itself. Your mother put some sort of locking spell on it—a spell only you can access. Maybe it’s tuned to you specifically, if she did it after she found out about her pregnancy. Or maybe it’s just keyed to her blood, to any of her descendants.”
“Do you understand the chants? Because they still sound pretty cryptic to me.”
“Not off the top of my head, but if we pair the verses with the card positionings she recorded, it may start to unlock some of her symbology, thereby unlocking some of the more complex language from the later research.” He pulls me into an unexpected hug, his heart banging wildly, his strong arms holding me close. “Stevie, we’ve been at it for less than fifteen minutes and we’ve already had a major breakthrough.”
I lean into his embrace, my own heartbeat mimicking his, my body buzzing.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glazed, his hair disheveled. His hands slide to my upper arms, warm and solid, and for a moment it looks like he just might—
“Wait, the dream!” I blurt out, unintentionally breaking the trance.
Disappointment flashes in Kirin’s eyes as we break apart, but it’s probably for the best. Kissing him is definitely a terrible idea, especially now that we’re colleagues.
Ugh, priorities.
“My mother came to me in a dream last night,” I continue. “She said something that sounded like a similar chant.”
I close my eyes, repeating it word for word.
Book of shadow, book of mists
What magick draws, you won’t resist
Death to those who shun its call
Where one shall rise, the others fall
Book of shadow, book of mists
The truth emerges from the myths
Flame and blood and blade and bone
What starts with zero ends with one.
When I finish, I open my eyes and ask him what he thinks.
Kirin looks a little shellshocked. After a beat, he blinks at me and says, “Can you write it down for me?”
“Sure. There’s got to be something with the zero and the one, right? And maybe the blood?”
“Yeah,” he says, but I can tell he’s distracted, his mind already racing again.
“Kirin, do you know what she might’ve meant by ‘book of shadow, book of mists?’ Does it sound like a real book to you? Before she started chanting, she said something about a dark book.”
Kirin’s skin turns the color of old milk, but he presses his lips together and gazes skyward, as if he’s thinking. “Those are pretty generic terms. Back in the days before magick was widely known, a lot of witches and mages called their spellbooks and journals names like book of shadows or book of mirrors. It was all part of the necessary secrecy, I suppose.”
“Right, but this feels different. Book of shadow, book of mists… She mentioned it twice. And she repeated the chant several times, too.” I tell him about the rest of the dream. “I just wonder if it was an actual book or scroll or something.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he says dismissively, then scoops up Mom’s notebooks. “You should go. You’ve got Devane’s class next—you don’t want to be late for that, trust me.”
Kirin laughs, but it’s forced and tight.
I narrow my eyes, watching as he locks the notebooks back in the file cabinets.
He’s lying to me. His energy went from open and excited to dark and evasive in about five seconds flat, and I have no idea why.
What is it about this shadow and mists business?
When he turns around again, his smile is brighter, but his energy is totally anxious, and he’s having a hard time meeting my eyes.
Damn it.
Kirin is keeping secrets—secrets that have nothing to do with wanting to kiss me.
And something tells me if I’m going to figure out the real truth behind Mom’s prophecies, I’ll need to start keeping them, too.
Twenty-Six
STEVIE
If I thought our vigilante road trip had bonded us in some deep, unbreakable way, or that Dr. Devane’s excellent selection of rock-climbing gear and tea-blending supplies was indicative of his fondness for me, he’s quick to squash all those childish fantasies.
“You’re late,” he announces as I try to sneak into class unnoticed. His eyes flick over my body so subtly I doubt anyone else sees it, but I do.
So much for the unnoticed part.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I got hung up at the library.” I offer a quick smile—one I hope is at least a little bit disarming, considering what they charge for this lipstick—then scan the room for an empty seat near a friendly face.
As far as friendly faces go, looks like I’m out of luck there—Baz is closest to fitting the bill, but he’s already boxed in by Carly and Emory.
Unlike the big lecture hall from my intro Tarot class, this room is tiny, the desks arranged close together. Twenty pairs of eyes track me as I squeeze between rows to the lone available seat in the middle of the room, wishing Dr. Devane would just carry on with whatever lecture I interrupted.
But he waits in silence until I’m firmly in my seat, my tablet powered on, my tapping finger poised and ready to tap out whatever wisdom he’s here to impart.
&
nbsp; “Are you comfortable?” he asks, his hospitable tone dripping with mockery.
I glare at him. “I’m great, thanks.”
“Ready to be, I don’t know, educated? This is, after all, an institute of higher learning, correct?”
“Sure thing.” I give him a mock salute. “Learning mode—engaged.”
His nostrils flare, his icy energy like a warning shot blasting right over my head. “In my class, we respect one another’s time, Starla Milan.”
“Stevie,” I remind him, but it’s too late. Snickering starts up in the back, catching on like kindling.
“Twinkle, twinkle,” someone sings, and I don’t have to look to know it’s Emory. Carly may be the face of the brand, but out of all the Claires, Emory and Blue seem to be the worst actors.
“Carry on, Doc,” I say, shooting him a pleading glare.
“It’s Dr. Devane, Miss Milan. Professor Devane is also tolerable. Not Divine, not Doc, not any other nickname or insult you might be considering.”
I press my lips together. Wow, Doc has a serious hard-on for authority. He’s kind of cute when he gets all riled up, too.
Holding back a smirk, I decide to honor his wishes—for now. This is his classroom, after all, and he has the power to pass or fail me. I probably shouldn’t piss him off just yet.
“Sorry, Dr. Devane,” I say. “It won’t happen again. The lateness or the nicknaming.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer. “Good. See that it doesn’t.”
Though a hint of his scent still lingers in my suite from the day he delivered my stuff, this is the first time I’ve actually seen him since our prison break and subsequent meeting in Trello’s office. He’s dressed similarly—dark gray dress pants, white button-down and pale yellow tie, jacket. But here in his classroom, far away from the desolate desert highway and tacos and portal magick, he looks almost… sad.
I try to get a read on his energy again, but he’s got his walls firmly back in place.
“Mental magicks,” he says, finally breaking his gaze and pacing the room before us. “A subject as fascinating as it is dangerous, and one you’ll need to master if you have any hope of succeeding—not just in my class, but in the world that exists beyond these hallowed walls.”
He continues pacing, all of us riveted. He may be cranky, but the man sure knows how to command a room.
“If I tell you not to imagine a unicorn,” he says, “what are you now imagining?”
“A unicorn,” comes the unanimous reply.
“Precisely. My words easily and immediately influenced your thoughts.” Devane grins, holding up a hand in question. “Is it magick? Is it manipulation? Something else entirely? Miss Kirkpatrick, what do you think?”
“I think it’s a little of both,” Carly says. “I mean, anything can be considered mental magick if you think about it. Dressing a certain way to attract male attention, for example.”
I feel her eyes on the back of my head. It’s all I can do not to turn around and flip her off.
“Okay,” Dr. Devane says, “that’s a fair point. I suppose you could argue that’s similar to glamour magick, something that absolutely affects the mind. But what I want you to consider this semester is that a true mastery of mental magick is not just a matter of tricking your opponent, or simply implanting your thoughts into the mind of another person with words, as I did with the unicorn example. The skilled mental magick-user wields his or her mind like a sword, knowing when to block…” Devane holds up his arms, blocking as if he’s wielding an imaginary sword.
Then he looks at me and charges forward, stabbing me through the chest with his invisible blade. “When to thrust…”
I look down at my tablet, pretending to take copious notes, but oh Goddess I do not need to be thinking about words like thrust around my hot, wound-up professor…
“And when to walk away. Miss Milan,” he announces, so abruptly I jump in my seat. “What is your opinion on the use of mental magicks to gain an advantage in a situation?”
“I don’t know.” I glance up from my tablet. “I guess it depends on the situation.”
“Does it?”
“Of course. There’s a big difference between fending off an attacker and, say, sabotaging a competitor for a job you both want.”
“Is there a difference though?” He smiles, his eyes casting a wicked gleam. “In both scenarios, two parties are fighting over a single outcome, yet only one can win. Who’s to say which person is more deserving?”
“Nine times out of ten, you’re talking about a complete violation. It’s a slippery slope, and no offense, but I personally don’t plan on using mental magicks unless my life is in danger. Maybe not even then.”
I cross my arms, shooting him a meaningful look. Maybe it’s not a big deal to him, but I won’t soon forget the fear of being shot in the chest by someone claiming to be an ally. Granted, he saved my life, but still—there could’ve been another way. I don’t want to put someone else in that position—not ever.
Dr. Devane watches me a moment, then claps once and says quickly, “Debate. Use all available resources and persuasive techniques to make your case. Mr. Redgrave, you’ll be arguing against the use of mental magics. Miss Milan, you’ll be arguing for.”
“You know I can’t do that, Dr. Devane. I’ve just told you I don’t support it on principle.”
“You can,” he says calmly, “and you will, unless you prefer to fail my class on principle.”
An F on my first day. Perfect.
I close my eyes, forcing my hands to unclench. He’s just trying to get under my skin, and I’m playing right into his trap.
Mental magicks indeed.
The good doctor thinks he can break me? Fine. Two can play at that game.
“Mr. Redgrave,” he says. “Make your opening statement.”
“Mental magicks is wrong,” Baz says flatly from the back of the room. “It’s a violation. Do unto others and all that.”
Give me a break. Baz doesn’t believe anyone should be spared this mental torment any more than I believe it’s justifiable.
Goddess, I’m going to kill Devane. Maybe not right now, with all these witnesses around and no good place to hide the body, but one day he’ll pop in for that cup of tea, and I’ll see his Bugs Bunny mug sitting there, and… Oops? Was that hemlock that just accidentally fell in there unnoticed?
“Miss Milan,” he says with a grin. “Any time you’re ready, please make your opening statement.”
Eager to prove myself, I head to the front of the room and face the class, take a deep breath, and square my shoulders. “It’s my belief that… Well, when a person finds herself in a situation in which there are no options… That person may… It’s challenging, of course, but…”
“Miss Devane, your assignment is to convince the class that the use of mental magicks is justifiable, not to convince them that you’re a waffling politician devoid of opinions. We both know nothing could be further from the truth.”
The Claires are snickering in the back, half the class yawning and tapping messages into their phones. It’s Tres Búhos Middle School all over again, and I’m the weird witch-girl trying to give an oral report about the mating habits of kangaroos while all the kids spit at me and make signs against the evil eye.
I glare at Devane. He’s sitting behind a large desk with his arms folded across his chest, smug and superior, as usual.
That’s it, buddy. Gloves are off. You’re fucking with the wrong witch today.
“Let’s say you’re faced with a formidable… opponent,” I say, finding my voice and shooting a pointed glare at the good doctor. “He’s backed you into a corner, left you vulnerable and defenseless. He’s taking great pleasure in asserting his presumed power over you. Maybe you’ve got combat training. Perhaps you’re packing weapons. Maybe you’re an ace spell-caster, and with a few simple words, you can blast your opponent to oblivion.
“But it doesn’t always go down like that, does it?�
� I ask, making eye contact with each person in the room. “Sometimes your opponent catches you unaware and unprepared. Sometimes he’s a person you know, a person you might be starting to trust. You’ve got no weapons, no spells, nothing at all with which to defend yourself. After all, why would you need weapons against a so-called ally?
“I’m here to tell you—buck up, girlfriend. You’re not down for the count yet. You’ve got a weapon no one can match.”
“Pussy power!” someone calls out. Pretty sure it was Emory, and okay, fine, that one’s kind of funny.
“Alright, two weapons,” I say with a smile. Then, tapping my temple, “I’m talking about this one. Your brilliant, beautiful mind. One whose potential we’ve only just begun to tap.”
I pace before the class, adopting the same techniques I witnessed Devane using moments ago. I wait until they’re hanging on, desperate for my next statement, then I whirl around and lock eyes with our illustrious professor.
“Dr. Devane.”
“Yes, Miss Milan,” he says, clearly amused.
“I want you to imagine a moonlit beach.” I approach the desk, my boots clicking against the floor. “Waves lapping seductively against the shore, a gentle breeze ruffling through your hair like a soft caress.”
He cocks his head, his eyes flashing a warning. I keep waiting for him to throw up his mental shields, or call off the exercise, but he doesn’t. It’s like he’s testing me, wondering just how far I’ll push this.
If he thinks I’m going to back down easily after all his attempts to humiliate me in front of the class, he doesn’t know me at all.
I gaze into his eyes, daring him to look away.
He doesn’t.
In my mind, I let my thoughts roam into dangerous territory, the kind of superheated, inappropriate thoughts that could get me in serious trouble.
But there’s no going back now.
“You see a woman sitting on the shoreline in the distance,” I say, “gazing out over the glittering sea. Everything about this night, this moment, is pure serenity…”