Carefully, this time, I made for the nearest alley on the other side of the road, ignoring the prickling sensation crawling up my neck as I passed through the thin film of protective magic. I’m not sure what I expected, but he wasn’t there when I stepped through, nor could I hear him.
A gust of wind funneled through the alley and I clasped my hands around myself, trying to rub out the chill. “Where are you,” I whispered, mostly to myself, not wanting to raise my voice too high.
The atmosphere prickled with wild energy, moreso than just from the ward. Alistair was here, alright. I just had to find him.
I stuck to the spray-painted walls, tip-toed over littler and around mounds of trash and other debris. For all the times I ever imagined my reunion with Alistair, this was not how I ever would have pictured it. In this dark, dank place, among the filth and rodents.
I bit back a squeal as one darted out to prance right over my left boot. Why couldn’t he have been holed up in a Norwegian spa?
Or, just anywhere else would do.
Pulling my jacket tighter around myself, I moved faster, eager now to find him and get this whole mess over with. If it weren’t for the fact that he could be in danger, I’d wish I’d never left home. Right about now I’d be sitting by the fireplace with my nightly glass of red and a good book. Or asleep.
As it was now, I couldn’t imagine falling asleep. Any bit of exhaustion I’d felt evaporated the moment I recognized Dolores’ green eyes.
My teeth clenched, and I almost tripped over a loose bit of pavement, cursing as my ankle rolled painfully in my heeled leather boot. That’s when I heard them.
Two voices. Hushed. I clamped my lips shut and slowed my breaths. Trying not to make a sound.
They were close. I moved like a cat, at once more alert, the world around me going into sharp focus. My movements, though slow, were deliberate, as I maneuvered further down into the heart of the matrix of alleyways. As the voices grew in volume, I found I recognized Alistair’s deep baritone. Even with the passing of a hundred years, I knew that voice.
The other was harder to place. Gruff. Monotone. Resigned.
They were arguing—that much was clear. Though they didn’t shout. Their words were rough, loud whispers, as though afraid someone might hear them, even with the ward in place.
“Will you help me?” I heard Alistair ask of the other man as I hurried quickly to where the alleyway forked up ahead. Unless the echo was throwing me off, they were to the right.
“Atticus?”
Atticus? Surely Alistair wasn’t in this dank, awful place with Atticus Sterling. He was our old Ancient Language Studies Professor at the Academy. He was still there last I heard, still at the same post. Though there were rumors he was the one who would be appointed the new empty council seat and take over for Kellerman as the new Headmaster of the academy in the fall, if he played his cards right.
“You’ve really made a mess of things, Alistair.”
I peered around the edge of the wall in time to see them, thirty yards away, standing at another intersection of alleyways. A spotlight from the back of an apartment building just past them illuminated their figures enough that I could see their movements, but not enough to make out their expressions.
I stepped out from behind the wall.
Atticus lifted his hand, palm up.
My heart stopped.
Alistair’s spine went rigid.
The sigil bloomed over Sterling’s open hand, an intricate formula of lines and angles. Ancient runic symbols and glowing, pulsating firelight.
I opened my mouth to call to him, but Sterling was faster.
Alistair lifted his hands in defense, and I heard his gasp at the exact moment Sterling unleashed the spell, roaring the incantation with a force I didn’t know he possessed.
“Aetermun Immotus!”
I froze, watching in horror as the spell penetrated Alistair—watched him fall before I could break free of the shock rooting me to the ground.
My chest ached with the need to scream. To cry. But I didn’t do either of those things. I stepped back into the shadows, my white-knuckled hands clawing at my chest—at my throat in silent fury and pain. Trying to breath.
Why couldn’t I breathe?
Black spots crowded my vision, interspersed with blotches of orange and white.
It burned.
It was like trying to force air down a hole the size of a pinhead. My lungs protested in burning agony, and my eyes watered from the pain. I sank down against the wall, not caring that the rough brick was pulling at the expensive fibers of my jacket, or that my boots were being scuffed against the hard ground, the heels getting grimey.
Finally, after what felt like far too long, a full breath came, and a sob poured from my lips. I called to my magic and it surged into me with a force unlike any I’d ever known. It filled my head with the intoxicating buzz of power that made my thoughts erratic and my legs unsteady. But that didn’t matter.
I was going to kill him.
Using the wall for support, I hauled myself up and around the corner once more, no longer bothering to try to cover my sobs or the sound of my heels echoing against the ground. Heaving, sigils ignited upon my palms. The worst kind. The kind not many witches knew. They would cause pain. Torment. And then when I was through with Atticus Sterling, I would use the same spell he used to kill my Alistair.
There were only two spells strong enough to kill on contact. One was lost with the Alchemical Codex to sea. And the other, aeternum immotus was illegal. Only to be used by order of the Arcane Council.
But this once, I’d make an exception. I’d break the rules for him.
I went into view and hurtled the stunning spell at him, ready at a second’s notice to hurl the other, the incantation for it already on the tip of my tongue. But the attack spell hit brick—not man. A portion of wall the size of a minivan exploded into the space. And I thought I heard someone towards the street scream at the blasting sounds ricocheting through the dark.
The ward was down. And Atticus Sterling was gone.
11
Amidst the rubble he laid, still, and pale.
But not dead…
Though the movement was so minute I may not have noticed it had I not been looking, I saw the slight, broken, labored rise and fall of his chest. And if that weren’t enough, his eyes blinked, and then he tried to turn, alerting to the sound of me running to his side.
I fell to my knees on the concrete next to him, my hands itching to touch him, but not wanting to bring him pain.
It’d been so long, but I would’ve known those rich brown eyes anywhere. His dark hair was still longer than most men wore their hair, and still a luscious dark near-black color—though now it was shot through with bits of silver and gray.
“Al?”
The surprise in his eyes was unmistakable. He opened his mouth to try to speak, but his body convulsed at the small effort.
“No, don’t. Don’t try to talk.”
I laid a hand on his chest, blinking to clear away tears as they welled up. My chest felt near bursting, but I wouldn’t break—not yet. I wouldn’t have my frantic face be the last thing he saw.
The healing spell materialized over my hand and I pressed the golden runic orb it into his chest, where tiny droplets of blood were seeping through his shirt and buttoned vest. It wouldn’t save him—there wasn’t any way to heal from aeternum immotus.
But the healing sigil did its work, if only to allow him a momentary reprieve. Truly, it was a miracle the spell hadn’t killed him already.
Alistair gasped as the power of my spell coursed through him, rushing to bind the broken bits of him faster than they were being cut apart. It wouldn’t last long. “Diana,” he breathed, and the sound of my name on his lips made my throat burn. His voice wrapped around my heart, squeezing painfully.
Looking into his eyes, I found that time had no meaning. I would do anything for this man. Even after the lies he told me. Even a
fter he chose Dolores over me.
None of it mattered.
I’d tear the world to shreds in his name. I’d make the man who did this pay for taking Alistair from his earth.
“I’m here,” I whispered, brushing the hair from his face with cool fingers, admiring the way age had wrinkled his brow, but in the most handsome way.
He reached up and laid his hand atop mine on his chest, trying to squeeze. “I-It’s true,” he stammered, his voice rough. A droplet of blood ran down his chin. “The curse—it can be b-broken.”
He coughed violently, though his body lacked the strength to double over—to cough up the blood welling at the back of his throat.
“Don’t talk,” I said, pulling his head into my lap to try to help him breathe. Unbothered when the crimson droplets fell to cover my legs.
His hand clenched mine, almost painfully. “Listen,” he groaned, wincing from the pain. “The curse… can be—”
But he had started to fade. His eyes grew unfocused, and he seemed to forget what he was saying. The spell had taken hold of him now. He would be gone within seconds.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, losing all the urgency of the moment before. “So… sorry, Dee.”
“Alistair,” I choked, clutching to him tightly as the tears came harder. I couldn’t hold them back anymore. I leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “Dolores is safe. Your child is safe. And I forgive you. Do you hear me? I forgive you. I hope—I hope you can forgive me, too.”
He sputtered trying to form a reply.
I hushed him, rubbing some warmth back into his rapidly cooling hands.
I let my head rest against his.
He exhaled, and I felt the lifeforce leave him like smoke from an extinguished candle. A little bit at a time, and then suddenly… gone.
I fisted his shirt in my hand, feeling my magic roil and writhe in me at the immense loss, trying to fight against the invisible foe causing me so much unadulterated pain. It begged for escape from my body. To right the wrong laying limp and lifeless in my lap.
And I remembered the spell. The drawing of the sigil that was confiscated from a dark witch who’d practiced blood magic and necromancy. It was beyond illegal. Punishable by death to use—and the witch who’d used it hadn’t been just put down—no, she was drawn and quartered.
But I was fascinated by it. The angles of the sigil were sharp, the design intricate, chaotic. The spell didn’t give life, it traded it. The witch had used it to bring back an infant from death by sacrificing a lamb and giving the animal’s lifeforce to the child.
It was an original spell, from the dark times in Emeris.
I’d memorized every line and curve.
Before I consciously knew what I was doing, I already had half of it drawn. Sirens blared in the distance, alerted to the blasting sound of my stun spell hitting the wall. With my free hand, I threw up a small ward around Alistair and I. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would conceal us for a moment, which was all I needed.
The sigil was complete, and I poured my magic into it, lifting a jagged piece of broken brick from the ground. I stabbed it into my palm, infusing the spell with the blood it demanded as payment. If it worked, the spell would take a lot more than my blood.
It would take my life.
A trade I would make happily if it meant Alistair could live again. He had a family. A purpose. A singular goal.
I had none of those things.
The incantation… why can’t I remember the incantation!
No.
No. No. No.
“Vivifica… mortem.”
Nothing.
“Mortem vivere!”
My stomach dropped. I had to save him. It couldn’t end like this, not for him. This wasn’t the legacy he was meant to leave. He needed more time.
“Tenebris a—a… vivere,” I said, my voice breaking with a sob.
I couldn’t remember. It was no use. Without the accompanying incantation, the sigil was useless. I couldn’t save him.
I felt sick.
The sigil radiating light and shadow above my palm flickered before blinking out of existence.
“Over here!” I heard someone call from the alley behind me. Whoever it was, they would be here within seconds. If they stepped to close to my ward, they’d find us. Using magic in the presence of mortals was forbidden. If I was caught, I’d be stripped of my alchemical power. And if that happened, Alistair’s purpose would never be fulfilled.
I had to make sure it was.
I laid a tear-dampened kiss on his forehead and used my blood coated fingers to close his eyes. “You will be avenged,” I promised him, my voice coming out oddly deadpan. Not sounding like myself. Hoping somewhere in the great unknown that he heard me. “And I believe you,” I added, giving him what he’d wanted from me all those years ago. Upon that stone bench outside of the academy—my unwavering support.
“If there is a way to reverse what was done in Emeris—to break the curses—I will find it. And I will finish what you started.”
And I meant it.
I’d wait and I would plot. I’d draw my enemies near, and I would listen, and I would learn. I’d hide my feelings—lock them away somewhere hidden inside.
Those were things I was good at. They were things I could do.
And I would do them.
I stood, the tears drying on my cheeks with a renewed sense of purpose. With one last look at the man I’d never stopped loving, I tucked my bloody fist into my pocket and disappeared into the night.
*
Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed this Arcane Arts Academy Prequel novella! To read more in this world, continue with Of Wolves & Witches, book one in the Arcane Arts Academy series and follow Harper as she finds her place at AAA!
Get it here: mybook.to/owaw
Thanks for reading!
Wolf Boys
A Ravenwood Academy Prequel
Lena Mae Hill
Alarick, Adolf, and Dominic know they’re different. Though they are only teenagers, they have the bodies of hulking men, and inside those bodies lives a beast. Growing up in foster care, they learned to hide the presence of their animals, but it hasn’t kept them from being ostracized. Now they live quietly, hiding their monstrous natures and avoiding human contact so they won’t hurt anyone by accident.
But when a man shows up at their work telling them he knows what they are, they have to know more. They accept an offer to Ravenwood Academy for the Exceptionally Gifted, a decision that will change their lives and the halls of Ravenwood forever.
Excited about Ravenwood Academy series, releasing in August? This is your chance to get an exclusive first look at the Wolf boys before they walked the halls and ruled the school.
Copyright © 2019 Lena Mae Hill
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogs are products of the author’s
imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events is strictly
coincidental.
1
Alarick
Beyond the velvet curtain, Rodney was psyching up the crowd. Behind it, the cloud of deodorant spray was thick enough to choke me. My eyes watered at the overwhelming chemical scent, so offensive to my sharp senses. Holding my breath, I silently urged our manager to get right to the point tonight.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present a show like no other. The Men of Memphis features only the biggest hunks of one-hundred-percent purebred American beefsteak. Let’s give ‘em a hand.”
Thank hell.
A chorus of whistles and catcalls met Rodney’s declaration. I reached down to adjust myself inside the thong I wore inside my tight-ass jeans, then glanced over at Adolf. He grinned and made hi
s pecs dance, swishing the fringe on his leather vest. Adolf actually loved this ridiculous job. He ate up the attention. For me, it was just a way to make a shitload of cash without too many questions. If they ever found out we were fifteen, not twenty-five, there would be a lot more questions.
It was worth the risk. The three hundred bucks we’d nicked from our last set of fosters the night we ditched them and set off on our own had more than paid for itself. The fake IDs earned us ten times that much a month—each.
The six dancers working tonight waited until the applause died down and a hush of anticipation fell before we parted the curtain and strutted out on stage in our silly cowboy get-ups. Cheers and raucous excitement rippled through the crowd.
“Bless my soul,” yelled an older woman wearing an honest-to-god fruit hat. Her group of friends giggled and swatted at each other like schoolgirls. I edged away from them, hoping they’d choose someone else to give them a lap dance. That sort was always the gropiest.
We all stomped and boot-scooted in perfect synchronization, shedding clothes as we went. By the end of the song, we were all down to thongs, cowboy hats, and boots. Dollar bills rained down on the stage. Everyone was smiling ear-to-ear. Good. It kept money in the bank.
A familiar scent caught my attention, and I swiveled my head, looking for Donovan. It smelled like him, and yet, not like him. Instead of finding my brother, I caught sight of the man sitting at the stage to my left, a middle-aged guy in a business suit that fit a little too snugly over his beer gut. Lots of those guys came to the shows, asked for private dances, and propositioned us, offering top dollar for secrecy so they didn’t lose their jobs and their wives.
But this guy didn’t tip, and he didn’t smile. A shiver of cold familiarity went through me when our eyes met. He had a smoothly shaved head gleaming under the stage lights and small, mean eyes. I didn’t know him, and yet, I knew that somehow I had. His glared stayed fixed on me as I engaged with the crowd, taking off my hat and bowing, holding the hat over my crotch, winking and blowing kisses like the showman I would never be.
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