Tarot Academy 1: Spells of Iron and Bone

by Sarah Piper

  I arch my back, giving him access.

  “No conditions this time?” he teases, hands trailing down my thighs. “No one-time-only, never-talk-about-it-again, don’t-tell-a-soul?”

  “Just… just make me forget how to form words,” I say, remembering what he said that day at the rocks.

  It’s cute that you think you’ll still be able to form words while I’m fucking you…

  But Baz is way ahead of me, teasing my clit with the tip of his cock, my core aching with need.

  Sure, some guys are just good at sex—they know all the tried-and-true techniques, always making sure their partner finishes happy—but this goes well beyond just being generically good at sex.

  This man? He knows my body so perfectly it’s like we were born to do this.

  He leans forward, kissing my neck again, tracing my skin with his nose, inhaling my scent.

  And then he’s plunging inside me, sinking in deep as I arch to meet him, taking him in. He pulls out slowly, running his hand up my back and fisting my hair, tugging gently as he slides back inside, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to keep his promise, because suddenly I can’t remember how to speak.

  He moves slowly, deeply, then speeds up, thrusting harder and faster, but it’s not hard enough.

  I find my voice, forcing out breathless words as the heat crests between my thighs.

  “Harder,” I breathe. I want him fast and furious, unleashing the rush of pleasure that’s already building to dangerous levels inside.

  He plunges in harder this time, and I push back against him, taking it, demanding it. He grabs my hips and slams into me, and I feel his energy—all of his pent-up rage, all of his bitterness, all the hidden darkness swirling inside him, begging for a way out—but then it’s evaporating, chased away by a wave of pleasure, relief, and the raw desire I know he feels.

  Baz moans my name, his cock growing thicker inside me. My body tightens around him, and suddenly it hits me, the orgasm exploding in a starburst of white-hot pleasure I feel clear down to my toes.

  “Baz,” I breathe, digging my nails into his pillow, one hand braced against the headboard as I ride out wave after wave, and Baz lets out a possessive growl, shuddering against my backside as he comes.

  He collapses on top of me, nuzzling my neck, and there we remain. Minutes? Hours? I’m not sure. He’s breathing deeply, but everything is sticky and hot, and I need to go.

  Didn’t Baz warn me he’s not the cuddle-afterward type?

  As gently as I can, I extricate myself from the tangle of his limbs and sneak into the bathroom to clean up.

  When I come back to the bedroom, I see him watching me, smiling in the darkness.

  I feel the babble queuing up inside, all the things I want to say. That was amazing, thank you, holy shit can we please do this every day and twice on Sundays?

  But, you know. Dignity.

  I hunt around for my clothes, then step into my underwear.

  “Um. What are you doing?” he asks, narrowing his eyes as I pick up the dress.

  “Um. Getting dressed?”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t walk up to my room naked, Baz. Even if it is Halloween.”

  A low growl rumbles up from his chest, and it takes me a beat to realize it’s not a growl at all.

  It’s a laugh. Baz is laughing at me.

  Okay, granted, I’m balancing on one foot, my boobs hanging free, half-dressed in a blue gown, a devil’s tail trailing behind me. But I still don’t see the humor here.

  “And what,” he says, rising from the bed and prowling toward me like a panther, “gave you the impression that I was finished with you, Little Bird?”

  “The big orgasm, for starters.”

  “Orgasm? One? And you think that’s it? I’m just warming up.”

  “One is a respectable achievement, especially one of that magnitude.”

  “For amateur night.” He kisses my collarbone, slowly dragging his mouth down my sternum, pulling the dress off as he goes. Dipping his head, he closes his lips over my nipple and sucks hard, making me gasp.

  “But lucky for you,” he says, leading me back to the bed, “it’s not amateur night. It’s Halloween, and I’m not done handing out treats.”

  It’s the middle of the night, still dark outside, and someone is banging on the door.

  I bolt upright in my bed, quickly realize it’s not my bed, and commence the epic freakout.

  “Shit. Shit, shit, shit!” I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, darting around Baz’s room in search of my underwear and my dignity, neither of which can be found.

  The devil himself is just leaning back against his headboard, my devil horns perched on his head, looking sinful as hell with his sleepy eyes and sex-hair.

  “I’m glad you think this is funny,” I say, “but someone’s at your door, and they’re not going away.”

  “Fuck off!” he shouts toward the living room, then laughs. “Now they’ll go away.”

  “Excuse me?” the voice on the other side snaps. Definitely female. Definitely not going away.

  Baz goes, “Oh, fuck.”

  Yep. Definitely Carly.

  He gets up, pulls on his jeans.

  I cross my arms over my bare chest. “Seriously?”

  “I need to deal with this. Just wait, okay? Don’t go.”

  Like I’m going anywhere with that harpy outside the door.

  Baz goes out into the hall, leaving me inside to stew. Quickly, I pull on my clothes. Through the door I hear their muffled arguing—Carly’s shrill voice, his deep one.

  A few minutes later he’s back, darkness seeping into his energy.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “Stevie…” He shakes his head, blows out a breath. “I can’t tell you. But it’s not—”

  “Look,” I say firmly, trying my best to hold on to my anger. “I know we’re not exclusive. And it’s none of my business who else you’re seeing. But if Carly thinks you guys are together, I can’t—”

  “There’s no one else. Only you. Okay?”

  “I don’t want to do this if I’m going to have to fight off the Claires every time I want to see you. I’m still holding my breath, waiting for those pictures to turn up.”

  “They won’t. I deleted them off Emory’s phone.”

  “She might’ve made copies.”

  “They won’t,” he says again, adamant. He crosses the room, reaching for my face, but I step back.

  “Stevie, just… Trust me, please. Can you just trust me?”

  I offer a sad smile, plucking the devil horns from his head. “Sorry, Baz. That was the wrong favor to ask me tonight.”

  Fifty

  STEVIE

  Despite the late hour, the campus is still crawling with revelers, all of them happy and laughing, an endless parade of drunk skeletons and empresses and other sparkly-horned devils, too.

  I don’t want to go home. But I don’t feel like partying, either.

  So at three in the morning, I find myself heading to a familiar place.

  And there, on the steps of the library I’ve come to love, I run into a familiar face.

  “Stevie? You’re out late,” Kirin says, swallowing hard as he takes in the sight of me. I’ve still got the dress and the horns, but my hair is pulled in to a careless bun, my makeup left behind, all over Baz’s pillowcase. “I mean, you look nice,” he says. “Are you… did you have a good Halloween?”

  Oh Goddess… Please don’t see it in my eyes. Please don’t ask me anything else about my night. Please just… just go.

  “I was just… I felt like doing a little work,” I say.

  “Me too. I mean, I came here to work. But now I’m going home.”

  Silence. Awkward, heavy silence that presses in on me from all directions.

  I’m so mixed up inside, so twisted and tangled over him and Baz and everything I’m supposed to do to figure out the prophecies.

  I look into his eyes, letting him see the
hurt in mine.

  The love.

  I have to tell him.

  “Kirin,” I say, “the other night, when you said you were falling? The truth is, I think I’m—”

  “I should get home,” he says dismissively, and even though I feel the regret in his energy, the pain, and yes, the love, it still stings. He reaches up to touch my shoulder, but just gives it an awkward pat instead.

  And then he disappears down the path, leaving me with a head full of questions and a heart full of swords.

  Up in the archives, I throw myself completely into the work, blocking out all other distractions. All other pains.

  I keep going back to the authorless book—Journey Through the Void of Mist and Spirit. There’s something here, I’m certain of it, but I can’t seem to crack the code. I flip through each page, noticing again how the odd, broken language is written a lot like my mother’s grimoire, with thoughts that go nowhere, as if the sentences are literally chasing their conclusions off the page.

  Frustrated, I flip back to the original translations Kirin and I worked on our first few days here, reading one of them aloud—the one from my dream.

  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.

  Book of shadow, book of mists. Book of shadow, book of mists. I look through my notes, my journal, scanning over my Tarot reading again. All those twos.

  Book of shadow, book of mists.

  Book of shadows. A witch’s grimoire. My mother’s grimoire.

  Two.

  The broken, missing-pieces language.

  Two.

  Book of shadow, book of…

  Wait. That’s it! Two! It’s two!

  My heart hammers in my chest, and I flip through my notes once more, the idea taking shape, excitement and adrenaline flooding my limbs.

  I’m out of my chair, racing back through security and back downstairs, back to my suite.

  All along, I kept thinking it was one book—the Book of Shadow and Mists. Even Professor Phaines indicated as much—It’s said that the Book of Shadow and Mists will unlock the arcane spells protecting the sacred objects, thereby making their secret location known…

  Those were his exact words.

  But it’s not one book.

  It’s two.

  Book of shadow, and book of mists. A coded reference to a witches book of shadows and possibly the Journey Through the Void of Mist and Spirit. A long shot, maybe, but the books are written so similarly… I have to try.

  Back in my suite, I grab my mother’s grimoire from the dresser drawer where I’ve kept it, kiss her photo, then race back to the library. Up the stairs, through security, then I’m sitting at the table in the archives once again, my hands trembling.

  Kirin. I need to text Kirin.

  I grab my phone, and suddenly, it buzzes in my hand. My heart hammers, hope already rising…

  But it’s not Kirin. It’s Carly, of all people, texting through the student directory app.

  Stevie, where RU? she demands.

  Library, I text back, leaving off the rest of my thought, which is basically—what the fuck is it to you, and why the fuck are you bothering me?

  I watch the three dots, see her next message pop up. Get out of there. NOW. Something bad’s about to happen.

  I send her the eye-roll emoji.

  Immediately, my phone rings. What the hell does she want?

  “Carly,” I snap, “I’m busy and it’s late, so—”

  “Stevie, listen. I’m fucking serious. You need to get out of there right now before—”

  The line goes dead.

  Fucking Carly. It’s bad enough she barged in on my night with Baz. No way will I let her barge in on my work.

  I decide to hold off on texting Kirin. Instead, I bring mom’s grimoire to the table, open it to the first page.

  Next to it, I open Journey Through the Void of Mist and Spirit.

  Immediately my hands begin to tingle, the books emanating a faint glow. With both books open to the same page, I run my fingers along the passages, just like I did with my mother’s notebooks.

  Nothing happens.

  On a hunch, I tip her book up on its side, forming a right angle with the Journey book.

  Suddenly, new passages illuminate both books, writing before my eyes between the lines of the old words, filling in the missing pieces.

  “Ha!” I press my hand to my chest, my heart thudding, tears blurring my vision. “Holy shitcakes!”

  “Stevie? What are you doing here at this hour?”

  I look up to see Professor Phaines entering the archives, his eyes wide with excitement. “Have you found something?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, and I had a thought, and there were all those twos in the Tarot cards and the books and I just…” I force myself to take a deep breath, then try again. “Professor, the Book of Shadow and Mists isn’t a legend. And it isn’t one book, it’s two.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Look.” I wave him over, then show him one of our original translations from Mom’s notebooks.

  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.

  “The first part—between the space where black meets white, betwixt the woods of dark and light? She’s talking about the pages—literally, paper made from wood—and reading between the lines—the black text. The Book of Shadow and Mists—she mentioned it to me in a dream. Remember I said her grimoire is written a lot like the Journey book? Like, with half missing? Well, when I put her grimoire next to the other book, tilt it upright, and touch the pages, I can see the other verses. The missing text! Spells and symbols, so many new lines!”

  He stares at me, astonished.

  “Remarkable,” he whispers.

  “The mirror part? She’s talking about her own grimoire. Turn it round to know the why.” I tip the grimoire onto its side again, forming a right angle to the other book. The pages illuminate with new spells.

  “I don’t see anything,” he says.

  “No, it’s like that with all her notebooks. Only I can see them. But now I can start translating!”

  “That won’t be necessary, Stevie.” Professor Phaines smiles, but suddenly his energy shifts.

  Gone is the grandfatherly warmth, the sneaker of Snickers bars, the supportive pats on the shoulder. Now, his energy is cold and prickly and dark, a wave of pure evil washing over me.

  Carly’s warning echoes. Stevie, listen. I’m fucking serious. You need to get out of there right now…

  My heart drops to the floor, my hands trembling all over again.

  Professor Phaines is a fucking traitor.

  I whip out my phone, try to get a text out to Kirin, but the phone flies out of my hands.

  “Young people these days have no respect,” Professor Phaines says, the phone levitating before him. “Always texting, chat-snapping. But Kirin can’t help you now, can he? Just the two of us at this late hour, I’m afraid.”

  He closes his fist and the phone bursts into flames, melting into a twisted mass of metal, glass, and plastic before finally dropping to the floor.

  “Lovesick children,” he says. “That’s all you are. Paying more attention to your libidos than your research. Such a waste of a beautiful mind.” He dusts off his hands, still sneering at me. “Let’s go, Miss Milan. Bring your books.”

  I snatch up the books
and back up against the wall. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “I think we’ve had just about enough of your attitude problem for one night.” He holds out a Tarot card I can’t identify and mutters an incantation, the card glowing red, then vanishing.

  Just like that, I’m boneless.

  That’s how it feels.

  I drop to the floor like a bag of water, unable to coordinate my limbs, to move my mouth, to scream. It’s a wonder my heart still beats, my lungs still breathe. I can’t even blink or move my eyes.

  I’ve got one view now—Professor Phaines crossing the room, his robes swishing over the tops of his boots.

  Then he’s right in front of me, a boot rising like a dusty black sun.

  And the kindly old professor I once trusted, once cared for, once promised that all his secrets would be safe with me, stomps hard on my face.

  Fifty-One

  STEVIE

  Spells of Iron, Spells of Bone

  Bind now her magick to mine alone

  Spells of Earth, Spells of Old

  Through my will and way, the truth shall unfold

  Phaines repeats the chant, lifting the chalice to his lips, gulping down the contents like it’s the most exquisite wine he’s ever had.

  It’s not wine, though. It’s my blood.

  I’m tied to a petrified tree in the Forest of Iron and Bone, blood running down my naked body in warm rivulets and pooling darkly at my feet.

  I still can’t move my limbs, but I can speak now, shift my eyes. I can feel pain.

  Not from the boot to the face—no, those injuries have already healed.

  But now, every time he cuts me, drains me, the wound seals up, and the process begins again.

  Every time my blood touches his lips, an image sears my mind—a bearded man in red tunic and tartan. He’s sitting on a throne, a sword and chalice on a table beside him. His hand is raised in the symbol of the horned god, and I know instinctively he’s the High Priest of the Tarot, the Hierophant. But in this version, the one I see when Phaines drinks my blood, the Priest has turned dark, his eyes full of hatred, blood dripping from the chalice, running down the blade.