by Theresa Kay
“Huh?” I stare at him in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“About this tall”—he holds up one hand about an inch over his head—“face of an angel, personality of a rock . . .” He twirls his hand as if waiting for me to fill in the blanks. “Currently, he has the attitude of a rabid honey badger . . .”
Who . . .? When the answer hits, I can’t help but snort. “Tristan?”
Adrian chuckles. “That’s the one. I figured you’d already know since you two are so close.”
“According to him, we’re not even friends,” I say.
Adrian jerks backward, the smile falling from his face. He cocks his head to the side. “What the hell happened?”
That’s right. Adrian wasn’t here for any of the drama. I kind of wish he had been so I didn’t have to explain everything. I blow out a breath then give him a brief overview of Isobel’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue. “And now Isobel can’t remember anything from the past two weeks and Tristan pretty much hates me.”
“I suppose that explains his rather antagonistic behavior,” says Adrian. “That and the fact his mother apparently went through with cutting him off. The big private room, the fancy car, probably the generous allowance . . . gone. If Burke would let her, Bernadette would probably try to take away T’s spot here as well.”
And cue even more guilt.
Isobel scowls at me. “It’s not your fault, you know. He made his own choices.”
Adrian nods. “Your roomie has a point. Plus, his parents are assholes. Maybe being cut off will be good for him, give the guy a little humility.”
“And Director Burke won’t kick him out,” adds Isobel.
“She’s right. As long as his rank makes the cut, he’s not going anywhere. The worst thing he has to put up with is, well, me.” Adrian grins.
At the mention of rank, Isobel’s face falls and she fidgets with her hands. My expression must be similar because Adrian glances back and forth between us, his brows pulling together. “What am I missing? You guys are fine, right?”
“Two hundred thirty-nine,” whispers Isobel. “I missed two midterms.”
“But . . .” he stutters.
“There’s nothing Burke could do,” I say. “And she’s lost two weeks’ worth of information, so catching up might be a problem, too.” I sigh. “I’m not doing too badly, but I’ll probably enter the tournament to give my rank a boost just in case.”
Adrian winces. “I don’t know if the tournament is going to help as much as you think it is.”
“Why?” I ask, my brows drawing together. “It’s optional for first-year students, right? Wouldn’t entering set me apart?”
“Yeah, the tournament is optional for first-year students, but because of the new dismissal policy almost all of them plan to enter. The school is expecting so many first-year entrants that only the top fifty students are automatically allowed in and for anyone else there’s an entry test.”
“An entry test? Seriously?”
“Yeah. It’s about three weeks from now,” says Adrian. “There will be a portion focusing on each subject to determine eligibility for the tournament. The test isn’t supposed to be difficult or anything, but you’re required to have recommendations from all your instructors in order to take it.”
All of my instructors? One or two won’t be a problem. Basil will give me a recommendation in a heartbeat, and most of my other teachers would too. But Ms. Anderson, my Wards teacher, not so much.
Letting out a long breath, I rest my forehead on the table. I survived being the new girl. I made it through first quarter and midterms. But just when I think I might be able to get ahead, yet another obstacle pops up.
Wonderful.
Monday morning brings the beginning of the second quarter and a return to classes. My schedule won’t change until after the end of the semester, so the only real difference between this quarter and last quarter is the weirdness of the three OSA agents patrolling the quad and stopping students to ask questions.
Three agents aren’t very many, but they’re more than enough to make me nervous. After the scene in Burke’s office, I want to stay as far away from OSA as possible. Tristan was right when he said I have no idea how to navigate this situation without help, and I don’t want my ignorance to come back and bite me in the ass, especially considering I have a lot of things to hide. And I’m not the only one who might be affected by my secrets coming out.
Sticking to the edges of the quad and losing myself in another group of students, I avoid the agents and slowly make my way to the dining hall. Isobel already ran off to the library before I woke up, so I’m on my own this morning. A stack of pancakes and two cups of coffee later, I’m heading toward Basil’s office for my morning tutoring session, which is mostly a weird mashup of history, spells, and whatever random bits of information Basil likes to impart.
I tap on the door and, when there’s a mumbled response from inside, I enter and make my way toward the couch at the back of the room.
Basil pops his head up over a pile of papers and waves at me. “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he says. “I’m trying to locate something for Desmond.”
I nod and sit on the couch, curling my legs underneath me.
A couple minutes later, Basil walks a stack of papers over to his desk, sets them down, and then moves in my direction. He makes a pit stop at another of his many shelves and pulls out a book which he hands to me when he reaches the couch.
I glance at the title: Shifter Myths and Legends.
Interesting.
Basil has a habit of showering me with books on random subjects to read in my—mostly non-existent—spare time. Last quarter he gave me a whole stack of them that are currently collecting dust under my bed somewhere, but this is the first one he’s ever given me about shifters.
“I thought you might find the subject matter particularly interesting,” he explains. “How much do you know about shifter history?”
I shrug. “Not a whole lot.”
“You remember how I said shifters inherited their ability to change shape from the fae? Well, like the shifters you know, fae can only take one other form besides their own. The difference being that fae can choose the form of the animal they take.” His eyes brighten, and he waggles his eyebrows. “But the really fascinating thing is that the first shifters were actually true shapeshifters, and they were the strongest of all the supernatural races because they had the ability to take any form they wished. They were powerful and magical enough that if there were any still alive today, they’d be considered lesser fae. It wasn’t until the Iron Age when King Lycaon insulted one of the fae kings that shifters became restricted to only the form of a wolf, greatly lessening their strength and turning them into what they are today.”
I blink at him, stunned into silence. True shapeshifters? How had I never heard about this before?
Basil grins at me. “I see I’ve piqued your interest.” He tilts his chin toward the book. “Give it a read, and let me know what you think.”
I return the smile then glance down at my hands as I pick at the corner of the cover. “Since we’re on the subject of shifters . . . I think I need to tell you something. I knew about Penny. What she was. I’ve known. This whole thing with OSA, what will happen to me if they find that out?”
He sits down beside me and pats my hand. “The odds of you getting in trouble for not reporting her in such a short time period—”
“Penny has been Bitten since at least August.”
His brows pull together, and he tilts his head to the side. “I assumed the bite was a recent thing.”
“No,” I say. “She was there the night I manifested. Hell, she’s half the reason for it. I stepped into an argument she was having with a few witches, thinking I was defending a lone shifter, and that’s how I got zapped.”
“I see . . .” He taps one finger on his chin. “I know the basics of what happened that night, but I don’t be
lieve I’ve heard the whole story. If Penny was alone, how did you know she was Bitten?”
“I sensed her.”
“You sensed her?”
“Even when I thought I was a magicless Blank, I had that one tiny bit of power,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I can tell if someone’s a shifter or a witch just by being near them, probably vamps too, but I’ve never had an opportunity to test that out.” I pause. “I figured this was a common thing.”
“I’ve never heard of a witch having an ability like that,” he says, studying me. “Have you always had it?”
“As far back as I can remember. It didn’t matter while living with Mom and Dad since pretty much everyone around was a shifter. I didn’t really notice anything different until I went to school and encountered a witch for the first time,” I reply.
“Who else knows about this?”
“Mom, Dad, Connor, Reid . . . umm probably a couple other shifters.”
He leans forward. “No one here at Ravencrest?”
“No.”
“Yes, yes, that’s good then.” He nods and releases a long breath. “Provided you don’t tell anyone else, OSA has no way of proving when you knew about Penny. You don’t have anything to worry about on that front.”
He moves to one of his shelves and runs a finger along the spines before grabbing another book, this one small and slim with a well-worn cover, and handing it over to me. Advanced Spellbreaking Techniques.
“Um . . .” I glance from the cover up to Basil. He has his brows raised as if daring me to argue. “Advanced?”
“You broke Bernadette’s paralyzing spell. With barely any training.” He gestures at the book. “Hence, advanced.”
“The spell Bernadette threw? I don’t know that I broke it so much as I endured it.” I pause. “But there was something else. When we were fighting, she spelled Tristan. I’m not sure what kind of spell it was, but he couldn’t breathe. I did break that spell, but I’m not sure how.”
He purses his lips and nods for me to continue.
“And that’s not the only weird thing. Since Bernadette hit me with that spell, my magic has been . . . different. Stronger, but also stranger. It kind of worries me, to be honest.”
“That is rather odd,” he says, cocking his head to the side as he stares at my face. Not even two breaths later, he breaks into one of his signature beaming grins. “But I think you’re simply learning how to operate based on instinct. I think your magic is finally starting to catch up with the rest of you after being locked away for so long.” He rests a hand on mine. “You’re one of the most powerful witches I have ever met, but you shy away from it. Once you own it, you’ll have no problem mastering it.”
His explanation sounds great, but I’m not convinced things are that simple.
“You’ll see. It will all turn out right in the end,” he says when I don’t respond.
“If you say so . . .”
We spend the next hour or so going over the spellbreaking techniques in the book, but none of them seem to be what I used to break the spell on Tristan. Basil shrugs when I tell him that but says he’ll look into it.
When the period ends, I wave as I head out the door, so lost in my own head that I don’t notice the person in front of me until I smack right into them and bounce backward. Tristan.
Of course. Isn’t this how we always meet?
He’s still as unkempt as he was on Saturday, and he’s dressed in athletic clothes instead of his school uniform. Did he skip first period, or is he running late? There’s no way he’d go to class without changing. Well, except for the day I kind of made him with the help of the binding spell.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I have to speak to Basil.”
“Don’t you have class? I mean—”
“I don’t have time to chat.” He moves around me and mumbles something I can’t understand before stepping inside Basil’s office and closing the door in my face.
What was that? I stare after Tristan for a beat, fighting the urge to barge in and ask what the hell is going on with him. But what purpose would it serve except to set the two of us arguing again? It seems like we do that a little too much as it is. I’m better off heading to my next class, even if it is the dreaded Wards.
Ms. Anderson has never forgiven me for that first disaster of a day, no matter that I’ve worked my ass off, I’ve slightly improved since the beginning of the term, and I am always on time. I suppose my first day of Wards class is a good example of what happens when you make a bad first impression: it sticks.
Still, I offer her a greeting as I walk through the door, and she offers up a bland smile in return. I go on to my seat, ignoring everyone else in class, then pull out my textbook. The tone signaling the beginning of the period sounds as Ms. Anderson begins writing on the whiteboard at the front of the room. When she turns to face the class, there’s only one word on the board: Sigils.
I puzzle over that before the realization finally hits me. The full name of this class is Geometry of Wards and Sigils. Just my luck . . . It looks like we’re shifting to a new subject today. I sigh. Maybe I’ll be a little better at sigils than I am at wards?
Yeah. Right.
“Typically, I would not start on sigils until the latter half of the quarter, but as many of you plan to enter the tournament, I decided a general overview was in order. You will need to demonstrate a basic proficiency in sigils for the entry test as well as have a general working knowledge of sigils for the tournament itself.” She underlines the word on the board. “Now, who can tell me the biggest difference between a sigil and a ward?”
Every hand in the class goes up. Except mine because I have no clue. So much for my hopes of being better at sigils.
Ms. Anderson points at someone in the first row. “Andrew?”
“A ward is placed on inanimate objects, a sigil on animate ones,” the guy answers.
“That’s correct,” says Ms. Anderson. “The most common use of sigils is on yourself or another witch. Unlike wards, sigils have set forms. There are no alterations, no variations in the shape, and it is the location of the sigil, the witch’s intention, and the way that the sigil is drawn that forms its purpose. In that aspect, sigils are more easily learned. However, by nature, sigils must be more concise. There’s no room for error. A ward gone wrong may blast open a door . . .” She sends a look in my direction. “A poorly done sigil could blast your arm off.”
Wonderful. I drag a hand over my face.
“You are not, under any circumstances, to attempt to place a sigil on yourself, another witch, or another living thing without supervision and approval from me.” She smiles. “Luckily, you will not be expected to do anything but draw a sigil on paper for the entry test, and by the time the tournament comes around, I expect those of you participating will have at least a basic understanding of how to use them safely.” She draws a figure on the board. “This is the most commonly used sigil. It can be used to keep yourself more alert, to make you more aware of your surroundings, to enhance your senses, or many other purposes. Its name is ‘Awareness.’”
Awaken, something deep in my mind counters, and somehow that name, unlike the one Ms. Anderson said, feels . . . right. I study the sigil. The form itself isn’t overly complicated and, as Ms. Anderson continues to drone on in the background, I trace out the sigil on my notebook, half unconsciously, the tip of my finger tingling with the movement.
Ms. Anderson continues, drawing a line of sigils across the board and announcing the name of each one as she does so. And for every single one, the name she gives is completely different than the one my mind calls out. Once she identifies all the sigils, she returns to the first one and goes through them again, this time describing the different ways they might be used.
I’m so absorbed in the lesson that I don’t notice most of the class time has passed until Ms. Anderson tells everyone to get out thei
r textbooks.
“Please open to page 234 and complete the exercises there. Once you have drawn each sigil five times, bring your paper up to me and you may be dismissed. Remember: They may look simple, but every line needs to be precise.”
I tug a sheet of paper out and open my textbook. There are nine sigils in total with at least five different ways for each of them to be used. The number of possibilities is mind-boggling. But that doesn’t matter right now. All I need to do is draw the damn things.
I start with Awareness—Awaken—my fingertips tingling as the crisp lines form beneath my pen effortlessly. With each repetition, I grow faster and faster until my hand is practically flying over the page.
Quiet—Silence
Fire—Inferno
Earth—Growth
Air—Breath
Endurance—Power
Water—Flood
Darken—Death
Hide—Conceal
I’m not sure how long it takes me to complete the exercise, but my classmates are still writing when I’ve finished. I cast a glance around the room, unsure of what to do. Am I the first one done? Maybe I missed something?
I turn to the next page in my textbook to see if there’s anything else, but I’ve completed all the exercises.
“Is there a problem, Selene?”
I jolt in my seat at Ms. Anderson’s sudden appearance at my side. “No, no problem,” I squeak out. “I think I’m done.”
“You think?”
“Well . . .” I gesture at my paper. “I drew them each five times.”
She lets out a huff of disbelief. “So, you rushed through the exercise and now you want to be excused?” She grabs the paper off my desk. “Weren’t you listening when I said these had to be perfect? You can’t simply . . .” Her voice trails off, and her brow furrows as she glances at me from the corner of her eye. “You drew these? All of them? Right now?”
“Yes?” Oh crap. What have I done wrong now?
Ms. Anderson clears her throat. “Your lines are well-formed with no hesitations. You did well.” She looks at me again. “Very well.” She taps her fingers against my desk. “There aren’t many witches with a natural aptitude for sigils. You, apparently, are one.”