by Theresa Kay
“Seriously?” I can’t help the exclamation of disbelief.
The corners of Ms. Anderson’s mouth twitch. An actual smile. For me. “Yes. You may be excused. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I can’t believe I actually did something right.
“Before I go, is it okay if I ask a question?” She gives me the barest nod. “How did the sigils get their names? Like, how did they come up with the names in the textbook?”
She raises a brow. “They didn’t get their names. The names are a loose translation of each sigil. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I say quickly. I’m finally doing something right in this class, and I’m not about to mess that up by contradicting the teacher. Especially when I have zero idea where those other names came from.
After lunch and a quick dash to my room to switch textbooks, Potions class is up next. Besides my time with Basil in the mornings, Potions is probably my favorite class. I’m not half bad at the subject matter, the teacher, Dr. Nikiforov, is the nicest one I have, and I have Adrian as a lab partner, making it the only class besides PE I have a friend in.
I must have taken longer than I thought at my dorm room because Adrian’s already waiting when I arrive, and he waves me over to our lab table.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?” he asks.
I glance around the room and then down at my empty wrist. “I don’t know. Am I?”
“I’m kidding.” He gestures at the unoccupied tables surrounding us. “You’ve got like five minutes to spare, obviously.”
My gaze finds the fancy watch on his wrist, and I reach over and tap the face. “I need to get one of these. Having Isobel wake me in the mornings is fine, but having to ask people for the time if I want to know during the day is a bit annoying.”
“I don’t think one of these is what you need,” says Adrian as he also taps a finger against the timepiece. “Or rather, you need a watch. This is a talisman.”
“Really?” I wrinkle my nose. The thing looks normal enough, if a bit expensive, but I suppose the magic dampening talisman necklace my birth mother left with me does too. “What does it do?”
“Uh . . .” He averts his eyes. “It’s a focus talisman.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It’s kind of embarrassing, to be honest.” He eyes me for a beat before chuckling and shaking his head ruefully. “When a witch has their powers awakened early, they need a talisman to help focus their control. I guess you could call it magical training wheels.”
“But . . .”
He rubs at the back of his neck. “The earlier a witch’s powers are awakened, the longer they need to wear one. You don’t see many students our age who still have one.”
“Why?”
He gives me a sardonic smile. “Having your powers awakened early hurts like a bitch because your body isn’t meant to handle magic before your powers manifest naturally. It creates weird pathways or something. I don’t know the technical bits, just that the earlier in your life it is, the weirder the pathways get and a focus talisman helps straighten them out.” He inhales through his nose and closes his eyes, his next words spoken barely above a whisper. “I didn’t leave my bed for a week. I didn’t leave the house for a month.”
“That’s . . . I don’t know. Horrible seems too tame a word.”
He shrugs, refusing to meet my eyes. “It is what it is. If you hadn’t figured it out yet, magic is currency in this world, and the stronger you are, the more time you’re forced to build upon and expand that power, the better off you are. Except for the scholarship students and you, I bet there isn’t a single student here whose powers weren’t forced to manifest. It’s a sign of status after all. The spells and potions required are highly expensive, more so the younger a witch is when awakened.”
I recall what Penny told me at the St. James estate about her powers being awakened early, and the bitterness in her voice makes a new kind of sense now. Maybe her animosity toward witches was well earned.
“How old were you?” I ask in a soft voice, already dreading the answer.
His gaze goes down to the watch as he twists it back and forth on his wrist. “The youngest I’ve ever heard of was ten, but it wouldn’t be ‘socially acceptable’ for people to think the Dumont family tortures children. They do it at thirteen in my family.”
Penny was convinced Tristan’s powers had been awakened at six, maybe seven based on the level of skill he showed when he was taking down the wards at the St. James estate. If Adrian didn’t leave his bed for a week at thirteen, what might Tristan have gone through at half that age? The thought makes my stomach turn.
Adrian huffs out a breath and drops his hand to his lap. “How about a subject change? I am not drunk enough to have this kind of deep conversation.”
I have plenty more questions, but Adrian is practically vibrating with tension, and pushing him about this would be a crappy thing to do to a friend.
“Okay then . . . How’s life with your new roommate going?” I’ve seriously gotta have a talk with my brain about having Tristan be a topic it likes to spit out all the time.
Adrian chuckles and glances at me sideways. “About as well as you’d expect.”
“How is he? Really.” I stare down at my hands as I ask the question, my desire for Tristan to be okay warring with my desire to throttle him.
“I don’t see much of him, and when I do, we don’t really interact. I don’t know that he’s talking to anyone right now, not even his regular group of frenemies.” He sighs, probably at whatever expression my face is making. “I don’t know what to tell you. Tristan and I aren’t friends. We’re barely acquaintances. I can’t exactly say, hey man, you want to have a heart to heart about your dad getting bitten by a shifter.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Adrian gives me a lopsided smile. “He’ll come around. The guy spent just as much of last quarter mooning over you as you did over him.”
My cheeks heat. “I—He did not. Most of the time we can’t stand each other.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying there’s a thin line between love and hate? Well . . . believe me, it’s obvious to everyone except the two of you.”
“Hush, you.” I elbow him in the side, and he laughs.
Seconds later, Dr. Nikiforov enters. We turn our attention to the front of the room where he sits on his desk and faces the class. He spends ten minutes going over the cleaning potion we’re going to be brewing today and then claps his hands and tells us to get to it. Adrian and I organize all our ingredients and start mixing as Nikiforov makes the rounds to each table. We’ve just put our mixture in a beaker to heat when he reaches us.
“That color is perfect.” Nikiforov leans over my shoulder to take a closer look. His nostrils flare, and he jolts as if in surprise before turning a narrow-eyed look at me. “What magic have you been playing with?”
“Uh . . . we were working on sigils in my other class,” I say hesitantly. What an odd question.
“Interesting.” He pauses, studying me, then moves closer. “And tell me, are you good with them? A natural as they say?”
“I guess so?”
He nods, then his blank expression shifts into a wide smile as he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You have been working so hard. I’m glad that you’re seeing some success. I assume you are planning to compete in the tournament, correct?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, I’m happy to provide the required recommendation.”
“Really? Just like that?” I’m not bad at potions, but I’m far from the best student in the class, and he’s offering a recommendation to me without me so much as asking?
“Of course.” He pats my shoulder as he steps away, warmth spreading from the touch, and a peculiar smell tickles at my nose. I shake my head to clear the scent away. That was weird. “You’re a hard worker, and I suspect you could be rather powerful.”
&n
bsp; Nikiforov walks on to the next table, and I start combining the ingredients that will be added after our mixture is done heating.
I can feel Adrian staring at me. “What?”
“Dr. N is being oddly ‘touchy-feely’ today. What’s up with that?”
I glance over at Nikiforov where he’s smiling at another student, his hand on the back of their chair.
“No clue.” I shrug.
He smirks. “You know he’s the hottest teacher here, right? How do you think I can get him to get all ‘touchy feely’ with me?”
I roll my eyes. “Get back to work, Dumont.”
“Fine,” he huffs. But he’s smiling.
Our potion turns out perfectly, and once class wraps up, I make a quick dash to my room to change into my PE uniform. The weather is a little too chilly to have class outside, so I head over to the large gym near the athletic fields.
The PE teacher, Mr. Davis, has us all sit on the long benches by the wall as he paces back and forth in front of us. “As I’m sure you’re all aware by now, the tournament is coming up at the end of this quarter, and this year, more than ever, first-year students will need the rankings boost the tournament gives you.” He pauses to look over each of our faces. “You may have also heard by now that to even have the opportunity to take the entry test for the tournament, you need recommendations from all of your instructors. If you’re here and you can throw an energy ball, I’m more than happy to provide a recommendation. You don’t have to ask.”
Well, that was easy.
“Keep in mind, though, that there’s a reason for the entry test. The tournament can be dangerous, and if you don’t have basic proficiency in every one of the four disciplines, you have no business competing, no matter how much of a ranking boost it could give you.”
Dangerous? That doesn’t sound good.
Mr. Davis claps his hands. “But we can discuss all that another time. Today we have a special guest.” He motions to a stocky, dark-haired man dressed in jogging pants and a black t-shirt. “This is Agent Wright. He’s an OSA specialist in offensive spellcasting. He’ll be directing our exercises today, observing your skills, and maybe choosing to work with some of you one on one. We’ll be skipping laps today, so why don’t you guys line up?”
We break into two parallel lines facing each other. I learned my lesson the first day when I got stuck with Tristan as a partner—and kind of punched him in the face—so I make sure Adrian is across from me, making him my partner for whatever exercise we’re about to do. He grins and waves.
Agent Wright walks between the two lines until he’s standing near the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back. “As Davis said, I am a specialist in offensive spellcasting. In my time with OSA, I have trained some of the best agents we have to offer.” He paces toward the other end of the room, passing in front of the assembled students. “That means my time is very valuable, as is the opportunity to work with me. Do not waste either of those things.”
Across from me, Adrian scrunches up his face and then rolls his eyes, sticking his nose in the air as if imitating Wright’s self-important attitude. I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my mouth, and Wright’s gaze jerks toward me. He glares at me for a good five seconds before continuing. “Like your instructors, OSA wants to make sure those of you who do plan to participate in the tournament will be prepared not only for the entry test, but for the tournament itself, so we’ll be jumping ahead in the curriculum a bit. Today, instead of target practice or simple light spell games, you’ll be practicing a few basic combat spells with the person across from you.”
Combat spells? I can barely pull off a decent light spell, and this guy wants me to use magic to fight?
“Today you will take turns using any spell that can physically push your opponent, and the goal is to push your opponent past the line behind them. You should have already covered multiple spells of these types in your Spellcasting classes and—”
“I don’t have a Spellcasting class,” I blurt out.
Wright turns his attention on me, narrowing his eyes, and snaps out a question. “What makes you think it’s appropriate for you to interrupt me?”
“Umm . . . nothing?”
His gaze goes from my head to my feet, and he scoffs. “Then do be quiet.”
Mr. Davis clears his throat and sends me a look that’s almost sympathetic. “You’ve been working with Mr. Kostis, correct? And have covered the basics?”
“Yes, but we’ve only gone into detail on light spells and—”
“Then use what you know,” Wright says in a flat voice. “I won’t allow the rest of the students to be held back by you.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I grit my teeth and stare down at my feet, tuning out until he claps his hands and tells us to get started.
Across from me, Adrian smiles. His side is going first, so he pulls magic into his hands and whispers a few words before tossing his spell in my direction. Instinctively, I dodge out of the way, and the spell flies past and hits the wall behind me.
Wright walks over to me. “This is not a class on dodging. If you cannot counter your opponent’s spell, you’re supposed to—”
“Stand there and let it hit me? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why can’t I use any skills I have to my advantage? In a real fight—”
“This isn’t a real fight,” snaps Wright. He twists his hand through the air, mutters something that sounds vaguely like German, and tosses whatever spell he cast at my feet. Locking them in place. “You’ve missed your turn since you decided to spend it arguing with me.” He tilts his chin toward Adrian. “Go ahead, Mr. Dumont.”
Adrian calls up another spell and throws it at me. This time I can’t dodge and am so busy seething about Wright’s attitude that I don’t bother trying to counter the attack in any way. The spell hits my shoulder and knocks me sideways. At least the spell doesn’t hurt. Though, if I had any other partner besides Adrian, I’m sure it would have. My friend has enough sympathy for me to pull his punches.
“Your turn,” says Wright.
I call up a light spell, the only kind I can reproduce with any accuracy and not anything close to a combat spell, or even an offensive one. Who knows if I can even throw the damn thing . . .? I give it a shot, and the light blinks out before it’s more than two feet away.
The brown-haired girl next to me snickers as another one of Adrian’s spells hits me in the shoulder five seconds later. “How in the world did you make it past the first quarter if you’re this pathetic?”
“I’m not pathetic,” I snap. “I’m just new to all this, and it’s all the people like you who won’t even try to help me that make everything more difficult.”
She shrugs, unaffected by my harsh words. “Here’s a tip. You remember that first day when you got all pissed at St. James?”
“Yeah.”
“Until you can get a real handle on spells, putting that kind of emotion and intention behind a spell helps to make your casting stronger.” She narrows her eyes in concentration as she tosses a spell at her partner.
“Thanks,” I say, glancing at her from the corner of my eye and trying to place her face with a name.
“No problem.”
Adrian’s next spell flicks me on the nose, and I glare at him. I appreciate him pulling his punches, but now he’s just being an ass.
So, I take the girl’s advice and use my irritation, weaving it together with my magic as I say the words of the spell and then shove it toward Adrian. This time my ball of light makes it to him, barreling into his abdomen. He winces, and I mouth an apology.
We go on like this for another few rounds, tossing simple spells back and forth. I get into the rhythm of it, the draw and weave, the push and pull, until the point where my hands are moving as if on auto-pilot and I feel almost like I’m in a trance. My motions grow faster and sharper, and my little light spell grows brighter and brighter each time I cast.
On my next turn, the light appears wit
h only the barest twitch of my fingers, and something inside me unlocks, each strand of the spell becoming visible to my mind’s eye. And I see where I can strengthen it, what I can change to make it more. So, I do. With only a thought, barely a conscious one at that, I turn the little light spell into something that buzzes with power.
And I throw it at Adrian, feeling the force of it as it pulls away from my hands. In that split second as the magic breaks away from me, my trance-like state disappears and all I feel is terror. The same emotion is mirrored in my friend’s eyes as my spell hits him dead center in the chest, lifts him two feet off the ground, and sends him slamming into the wall at the far end of the gym.
Sometime later—anywhere from twenty minutes to what feels like two hours—I’m sitting in Burke’s office. My hands are still shaking. Burke is . . . I don’t know. Not here. And I have no idea what’s going to happen to me now. Or if Adrian is okay.
Over and over, I replay the sight of my friend slamming into the wall and falling boneless to the floor. In the aftermath of whatever the hell I did, the girl next to me grabbed my arm—brave that one—and kept me from going to him. Everyone else swarmed Adrian’s limp form, but the girl pulled me away, brought me here, and left again.
I don’t even know her name.
Burke finally enters the office then shuts the door behind him and is in front of me in a few brisk steps. He stares down at me, studying me in silence, before moving to sit behind his desk and steepling his fingers in front of his chest. “What in the world possessed you to attempt a spell of that caliber? Was this another spat like you had with Tristan your first day? I was under the impression Dumont was your friend.”
All his questions run together in my foggy brain, so I concentrate on the last one. “He is my friend,” I say. “What happened was an accident. I don’t even know what exactly I did.”
He purses his lips. “I could murder Davis for allowing this. First-year students shouldn’t be messing around with combat spells.”