Viola finally caught the eye of the bartender, who came over to mix her a new drink. “I hate to break it to you, precious, but I don’t think he’s a friend any more.”
Jules Nightshade had always been a little shit.
They were put together at parties, Viola and Jules. They were only a grade apart at school (she was the same age as him, and therefore four times smarter, and didn’t she let him know it); their parents were on the same committees, went to the same events, and basically lived inside each other’s pockets. There were other kids that belonged to the group, but Viola couldn’t stand the Asteria twins, and Jules was far too old to be bothered with Hyperion Locksley and his baby brothers.
When Nicolas Chauvelin joined the Basilisk Board at Belladonna University, he and his glamorous wife Maheen were welcomed into the group with open arms. They brought their children along to the parties, including Sadie, who was in Viola’s grade at school but clicked instantly with the hated Asteria twins, Tristan (who was an anklebiter, best locked in the cupboard under the stairs with the Locksley brats), and Ferdinand, who was tailor-made to be Jules’ best friend.
Jules despised him instantly.
Parties were more fun after that. Ferdinand Chauvelin made an excellent nemesis. Jules and Viola set the most outlandish magical pranks and traps for him, and he retaliated with creative ingenuity. Best of all, he never told on them to their parents.
Chauv’s pranks were devastating. He invented whole new forms of magic just to turn Jules’ hair green, and transform Viola’s favourite shoes into kittens (which she kept because, kittens).
By the time Viola was twelve (she had skipped another grade by then, because she was more brilliant than even she had imagined), making war on Ferdinand had lost its charms. Coincidentally, that was the year that their parents suggested that the three of them really needed to widen their social circle.
Out of sheer rebellion, they united as a trio of eternal friendship, solid and unbreakable.
Chauvelin’s magic tasted like electricity, like chaos and power and gold-threaded silk. Viola could still taste his presence in a room, hours after he had left.
This time last year, Viola had known exactly what their future held. She was going to be a dazzlingly brilliant theorist, a professor by 25, tenured and published by 28. Jules was going into hex design, harnessing his destructive powers to their maximum capability. He had already been head-hunted by several companies to work for them after he graduated in November; he wouldn’t be bothering with postgrad yet, though he promised Viola faithfully he would come back at 30 to get his doctorate, so as not to fully waste his talents.
Chauvelin was their shadowmancer. Grey Ops had already staked a claim on him, though Professor Hekate and Viola had been working on him to stay a little longer at the university after graduation, because his laboratory work provided such exciting results. He had been published twice already. For most of last year, he had practically designed his own curriculum.
If only they had got to him earlier — if only he had skipped a few grades as Viola had, he might have got so much further in his work, before…
Well. Perhaps the accident would have only happened earlier.
“Hey,” said Jules. “The band’s starting.”
“Curse me now,” groaned Viola. But she collected her drink and returned to the table with him.
She had loved Ferdinand Chauvelin more than nearly anyone else in the whole world. He was her friend, and she wasn’t going to lose him just because he wasn’t magical anymore.
Even if he had lost himself.
Chapter 4
9pm, I Hate That Song So Much Right Now
Belladonna University has always had The Band.
It’s like this: Belladonna U has always had a student band that somehow achieved ‘The’ status, thanks to an unholy combination of local in-jokes, hometown support, and indefinable charisma. Some of The Bands go on to national success (Harpy Riot, Owl By Night, Siren), some of them vanish without trace (Second Hand Cauldron, Circe’s Sons, Mephistopheles).
When Viola Vale was a firstie, The Band was Kraken, and they were off the hook. Their sound was edgy hard rock, but the lyrics were smart and sassy, full of intellectual wit and old school magical credibility. Viola loved them.
Then they all graduated, a couple of years back, and it wasn’t Kraken at Medea’s Cauldron on a Friday night any more, it was this lot. Fake Geek Girl, a cluster of nobodies singing about Unreal culture and mixing it up with witch tradition as if that was somehow a normal thing to do.
Viola had no interest in the message they were selling, and that was before they stole her friend.
“Ugh, I hate this song,” said Hebe Hallow, which was the first time all night that Viola liked her a little. “I swear Holly only includes it to wind me up.”
“It’s a classic,” Chauvelin teased her.
“It’s depressing.”
“I think it’s supposed to be funny.”
Viola frowned, paying attention to the lyrics instead of the conversation. Ten Steps to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? Ugh. They couldn’t pay her to listen to this kind of rubbish.
Everyone knows that if the world is going to end, it will be with ice and trolls. Or possibly dragons.
That gave her an idea for her Hesiod paper, and she slid a pen out of her pocket to jot a few notes on the back of the nearest beer coaster. Unreal technology was mostly an annoyance, but Viola did appreciate the invention of the biro. Imagine if they were all still juggling quills and ink!
When she finally stopped scrawling, she had a neat stack of five annotated coasters, and the only other person left at the table was Hebe Hallow. Viola glanced around for the boys, realising as she did so that Hebe must have been the one handing her fresh coasters.
Usually it was Jules who did that, since the one time she wrote half an essay plan across the back of his designer shirt.
“They’re dancing,” Hebe said with a soft smile, nodding to where Jules and Chauv were making a disgrace of themselves to a song about dice (had she misheard that?) and ‘bitches’.
“Best not to let them know we’ve noticed,” Viola said, capping her pen. “If they think we’re watching, they’ll grind harder.”
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” noted Hebe as if it was a passing thought, and not the theme of the evening.
“Don’t take it personally. I don’t like people.” Viola shoved the coasters in her handbag for later. “I have a paper I should be working on,” she admitted. “I would be just as rude if I didn’t have something better to do, but…” There was no but.
“I’m sure Ferd would understand if you need to head back to the halls.”
Viola narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Wow.” Hebe let out a shocked laugh. “You really don’t like people.”
“You were right the first time.” Viola kicked her bag under the table. “It’s just you.”
She stood up, marched across the pub to where the worst band in the world was playing what had to be one of the top ten worst songs of all time, and hurled herself hip-first at Jules Nightshade.
He caught hold of her, dragged her in between himself and Chauvelin, and they began to dance like they used to, the three of them, before everything went to hell.
“See,” growled Chauv in her ear. “Not so bad, is it?”
Viola danced harder, and faster.
She was in bed with an artist when she heard the news. D (she never bothered to learn more than an initial, it saved time) was tall and broad in all the right places, he knew how to keep his mouth shut, and he was excellent with his hands. He had approached her in the library, requesting to sketch her for a series of sculptures he was building of terrifying mythological women.
After witnessing the savaging Viola gave a first-year librarian about the correct regulations on inter-library loans, D thought she would make an excellent gorgon.
It was the best chat up
line Viola had heard all year. She allowed him an hour or so with the pencil before she gave him an arch look and started removing items of clothing.
It had been a very good weekend.
She was on the verge of kicking him out of her bed and back to whatever corner of Belladonna U was reserved for finger-painters when the message came in over every mirror in her room.
URGENT
CALL ME
Viola kicked out the slayer of gorgons and connected a mirror call while trying to locate a fresh pair of knickers. “What is it, Nightshade?”
His face flickered before her, taking in her crumpled lingerie and sex hair before he covered his eyes. “Bloody hell, Vale, give me some warning next time.”
“Talk faster.”
“There’s been an accident in the thaumaturgy labs. They’ve been evacuated.”
Huh. “What’s the gossip? Chauv should know.”
“Vale.” Jules sounded deadly serious. “He wasn’t evacuated with the others, and he won’t pick up my calls.”
Heat flickered inside Viola’s ribs, where she kept her feelings. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Will you call his mother for me? They might have told her something.”
“Call her yourself.”
“She hates me.”
The flames in her chest were subsiding. “She hates everyone, it’s one of the things I respect most about her.”
“Vale.”
Viola took a deep breath. “Stand by.”
And she called Chauv’s mother.
Chapter 5
10pm, The Band Takes A Break
Finally, Fake Geek Girl stopped playing their inane songs for an intermission. Viola took the opportunity to escape the stifling pub for a few minutes without looking like a bad sport.
There was an autumn chill in the air and surprisingly few smokers gathered on the back steps. Viola sat down and breathed, letting all the tension from being Polite To Idiots flow out of her fingers and into the cool concrete step.
The pub door opened again, a wash of warmth and noise swirling out before it clanged shut, and a large slab of magical tornado moved past Viola’s bubble of personal space.
She called him That Drummer when Jules was around (Jules with a crush was always hilarious) but the truth was, she had a lot of reasons to know who Sage McClaren was.
Sage was a third year student at the College of the Real. A nobody from nowheresville who had more natural magic in his little finger than most of the students put together.
He didn’t know anyone. He hadn’t taken part in any of the right clubs or camps — his resume was a mess, and he sure as hell would never be invited to join the Basilisk Club. But he was a genius when it came to magical interrogative practice, he had a devious mind for hex design, his last mythology essay had been flawless, and his practical exams often ended with a window exploding.
How could some random country hick in ripped jeans and flannel have so much power when Chauvelin had lost everything? Even if Sage McClaren wasn’t the drummer in her least favourite band, even if he wasn’t Chauv’s new flatmate in that precious little indie commune of theirs, even if he knew how to wear a suit under his academic robes (which he didn’t), Viola would have hated this boy with everything she had.
There was no way he wasn’t going on to postgrad. They would be colleagues next year, competing for grants and making nice over wine and cheese. She’d have to learn to be polite to him, or die trying.
As long as he and Jules didn’t end up screwing, she could cope with his presence. Sucking it up and seething was something she had got good at, over the years.
Sage McClaren lowered himself to the step beside her, shoulders and legs sprawled wide like he deserved all the space. Magic sparked off him, as well as another, less definable energy — from the music, perhaps? He held a full latte glass and cupped his large hands around it, though he didn’t take a sip. “Hey,” he said. “Vale, right? Ferd wants us to hang out later.”
Viola gave him a filthy look.
Sage recoiled. “Whoa, that’s familiar. Have you glared at me recently?”
“We’re in the same department. I gave a guest lecture to your study group two weeks ago. There may have been glaring.”
“Nah, that’s not it,” Sage said easily. “Something — huh. Why am I thinking about snakes? It will come to me.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
The door slammed open again, and a couple of blank-faced bros clutching stubbies leaned over the railing above them.
“Oi, mate, got any Troll to sell?” one of them demanded.
Sage laughed. Apparently being mistaken for a drug dealer was not something that offended him. “That shit’ll kill you,” he warned.
“Worth it, mate.”
“Can’t help you.”
“Whatever.” They wandered away.
“You make no sense,” Viola said crossly. His coffee smelled amazing. Why wasn’t he drinking it?
“Oh sorry,” Sage mocked her. “Did you have some Troll to sell him?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you and your friends being so nice to Chauvelin? What do you expect to get out of this takeover bid of yours? If it’s money or influence, he had a lot more of both those things before you got your hooks into him.”
Sage sputtered at her, his freckled face hanging open. “Wow,” he said finally. “You’re a piece of work.”
“I’m a realist,” she said haughtily. “Sooner or later he’ll wake up and realise who his actual friends are.”
“Uh huh,” said Sage, unimpressed. “If that’s true, where have you been for the last few months?”
Flames ran across the backs of Viola’s hands. She slapped them away, angry at herself. She didn’t usually lose control like this. “We didn’t go anywhere,” she snapped. “We’re not the ones that changed.”
“Wow,” said Sage again.
“I don’t mean him losing — gah,” she said furiously. She hated being this close to him. So much magic in one place - his and hers, shoving against each other, burning away inside their skin. In another century, they would have been duelling by now. If he was even slightly into girls, she would have her bra off already. “Aren’t you going to drink that?”
“Nope,” said Sage, inhaling the scent from his latte glass. “Can’t consume caffeine right now, or I’ll lose my spark for the second set. I bought it for the smell.”
“You need magic to hit a few drums with sticks?” Viola mocked. “That seems like overkill.” If he wasn’t going to drink the damned coffee, maybe she should — at least then only one of them would be brimming over with unchanneled magical energy, and they might not blow this alley to kingdom come.
Sage said “Huh,” and tensed up beside her. He wasn’t paying attention to her, that was for sure. “Looks like they scored some Troll,” he added.
The losers from earlier shambled back into Viola’s field of vision. They had that familiar glazed look in their eyes, and frost-blue veins pulsing in their necks. Their movements were slow and heavy, every bit as if their limbs were made of stone.
Troll made you strong, and it made you stupid.
“Why does anyone do that to themselves?” Viola groaned. Their world was full of miracle and wonder — so of course her fellow idiot humans had figured out a way to turn majestic magical creatures into a recreational high.
Sage got to his feet, flexing and stretching his hands out, like he could still feel the drumsticks between his fingers. “You’re crazy smart. What do you do to silence the fizzing in your brain, when you need to relax?”
“Cheap men and expensive vodka,” she snapped at him. “How about you?”
Sage laughed like they were friends. The two troll-heads caught the sound and shifted directions, stumbling across the alley towards the steps. “Hot yoga.”
Viola refused to believe that. “Not really.”
“Nah, coffee and x-box, mostly. Can’t have one without the other. I blew up
a ton of gaming systems before I learned that trick.” Sage was calm, his eyes on the troll-heads as they meandered closer and closer. “We should get inside.”
“Why?” Viola drawled. “Do you think they can out-strategise us?”
“I think,” said Sage, sounding worried. “I think maybe those dickheads scored their high by licking a genuine troll.”
She hadn’t noticed, because her magic was already sizzling and sparking at the proximity of another powerful witch, but it was colder in the alley than it should be. The troll-heads had frost patterns spreading from their skin to their t-shirt collars.
“Oh, hell,” said Viola, and got to her feet too.
“Matter of interest,” said Sage, flexing his hands again. “Did you ever take the elective on Ethics in Magical Street Combat?”
“I went for Latin Elegaic Poetry As Behaviour Charms,” Viola sighed. “But I can throw a hex if I need to.”
“Good to know,” said Sage, three seconds before the actual, real life ten foot stone troll thundered around the corner, with a howl that made the bricks rattle.
Chapter 6
11pm, Second Set Contains New Material
Viola often wondered what sort of person she might be if her mother had lived. Sweeter, perhaps? Softer, certainly.
Her mother loved butterflies. Viola’s strongest childhood memory is the taste of her mother’s magic, and the colour of butterflies dancing around them in the garden. When Lifen Vale died, all the colour went out of the world.
She wasn’t all about beauty and brightness. Lifen taught her daughter to defend herself in combat both magical and unmagical. She taught her how to cook dishes from China even though neither of them were likely to ever live in a house without a live-in chef and housekeeper. She taught her never to expect love or attention or pride from her father, or to blame herself for that.
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