Wicked Hot Magic: A Paranormal Academy Romance (Salem Academy Book 1)

by Riley London

  The relief of it is stunning.

  The path is a climb, going up what I assume is the backside of the hill that leads to Salem Academy. Eventually we are high enough that the trees part and there’s a striking view. Part Salem, part river land, and part conservation property.

  Here above the world it’s easy to forget its problems for a minute.

  I climb onto a big boulder that seems custom-made for contemplation.

  Tristan comes to sit next to me.

  “Do you know anything about the different regions of Hell?” I realize that it’s an abrupt conversation starter.

  But Serena’s words have been echoing through my mind. If the skin message destroyed itself to prevent a detection spell that could lead us to a certain region of hell, then maybe there’s a way to find out where Father Gabriel is being kept.

  And if we can do that, we can find the road that leads us there.

  Tristan’s dark eyes have taken on a property they get when he’s thinking hard or feeling a lot of emotion. He says it’s a common Fae trait. The colors of his irises shift, almost in an aurora borealis like dance.

  It’s distracting.

  It’s mesmerizing.

  It’s also good information that something is going on in his head.

  When he speaks, his voice is tight. “Everything I know about Hell is secondhand or academic Max. What I can tell you is that Hell is divided into nine levels. Dante got that part right.”

  He gives me one of those smiles.

  I can empathize. I was homeschooled by an exorcist. Dante’s Inferno was definitely on the reading list.

  “Beyond that, I think he took a more artistic license with the differences. As far as I can discern, each of the levels is much the same – they’re all hot and they’re all miserable. The biggest region varies by who’s in charge, and some have reputations for crueler punishers than others. But beyond that, each region is just a different gradation of suffering.”

  As he says suffering, he apologetically reaches out and squeezes my hand. Turning to him, I am almost immediately caught up in the slow, mesmerizing spin of his eyes.

  Thought or feeling? Who can say?

  Actively, I throw up a late defense shield because I don’t want his natural aura corrupting my ability to think. But as I look into those unusual eyes, I get the feeling that this attraction I feel to him isn’t strictly a result of influence magic.

  His eyes are dark, narrow, intense. In the shadowed light of the forest, they seem almost black. He is holding back. I can feel it.

  And for one hungry minute, I don’t want him to hold back.

  I’m living in one of the tensest situations I’ve ever experienced.

  I’m trusting my life, the only man that I call family, and maybe even my future to these strangers.

  I’m learning to navigate around new edges in my life, from my understanding of how the world works to who I am as a person.

  Sitting here, I realize that I just like Tristan.

  I like his intelligence and insights. They make it seem easier to navigate the world.

  I like his power and positivity. They give me hope for a somewhat happy ending.

  And I like him.

  I lean closer than I intend to as my brain catalogs all of this man’s desirable assets. From the tall dark and mysterious vibe to the promise of what an expert at Fae sex magic could offer, there’s plenty to dwell on.

  I lean up, intending to try a second kiss. Lips brush lips, featherlight, chaste but with the promise of more if it’s reciprocated.

  This one an assessment. An exploration. A discernment.

  But of a whole different type.

  Not of magical ability, but of natural chemistry.

  That’s when I feel it, his own defensive shields slamming into place. Locking down his charisma, his natural light, himself. One part of my brain wonders how difficult it must be never knowing if an attraction is to you or is a byproduct of something you can’t control.

  Where he dimmed the lights in the diner, now he completely turns them off.

  When he speaks, his voice sounds a little shaky. His eyes are full of worry. “Max, I want you to know that I wasn’t using influence magic of any kind, seduction magic of any kind.”

  I know that.

  Maybe it would be as simple as saying that I like him as a human being or a Fae or whatever it is that you’re supposed to say.

  But my temper dances on a razor’s edge. It hits me with the impact of a far greater sin. He could have stopped me. Asked me what I wanted.

  Just talked to me like a person.

  But instead, he found a way to use his power to try to kill my desire. He acted so fast out of fear that I didn’t know what I was doing, that I couldn’t handle myself.

  That I couldn’t handle him.

  I stand fast off the rock, reveling in the feeling of the hard, solid ground beneath my feet.

  Tristan rises too, reaching out a hand to me.

  “If you are experiencing any kind of spillover from my natural aura, there are things that I can show you that could help you resist it,” he starts to say.” I can teach you how to identify unintentional influence and even actually to use that to your own advantage.”

  Unfortunately, my patience runs out.

  I’m tired of all these conversations about influence magic. Tired of people invading my mind, influencing me, trying to show me ever doing complex ways to force my will on others. Or believing that a response could be just that – an organic response between a demon hunter and the Dark and Sexy guy she managed to enjoy a little alone time with.

  Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.

  But my anger seems to have unleashed something, and just as I sense that it’s rising fast to the surface like a train speeding five-hundred miles an hour at a brick wall, the force of it whooshes out of me and hits Tristan square in the chest.

  Horror fills me as he’s lifted at least twenty feet into the air and hurled backwards at blinding speed into the trunk of an old thick tree. He lands with a sickening sound, and then takes long seconds to slide down to a place among its roots.

  What happened?

  What have I done?

  Why Tristan?

  But when I reach him and kneel down, I see that he is completely fine. Smart eyes meet my own and they dazzle.

  “Yes, Max yes!” He says, sounding excited and keeping the wincing to a minimum.

  He gives me a soft smile. “Don’t you think for one second that I wouldn’t have enjoyed that kiss. But if there’s a chance, any chance, that this is even an inadvertent compulsion between us that I can’t let that stand.”

  The fear I’d felt when he rocketed into that tree.

  The way my heart stuttered when he looked up at me with a smile.

  The relief flooding through me as he takes my hand and pulls himself to his feet.

  Whatever attraction it is that I’m feeling for this strange Fae man is rooted in something more primal, more pure, and more Max than any kind of seduction magic.

  I need to let this go, reclaim some space.

  I take off walking and once again he catches up.

  “You know a lot about the levels of Hell,” I observe. “Do you have any idea where they might keep a prisoner like Father Gabriel?”

  The loose contours of a plan are beginning to take shape in my mind.

  The silence that follows is so long that I’m actually not sure he even heard the question. But then he answers, in a distant voice. “I am afraid that I do not personally know the answers your question, Max. But I have sources that may be able to give us some information. Let me see what I can find out.”

  Sources are good. Information is good. And as the trail head widens into the field behind Salem Academy, I am struck by another inescapable truth: spending time with Tristan Seelie is also good.

  11

  Honing a successful demon hunter into a lethal demon slaughtering machine that’s adept at using demon si
ght, a far wider range of weapons and combat techniques, and wielding magic has turned out to be a time-intensive endeavor.

  For the last two weeks, I have spent at least 12 hours per day, seven days a week training.

  Sparring with Erik, and occasionally hunting demons with him in the night. He is coming to trust me as someone that has his back when we’re fighting.

  I’m reaching the same conclusions.

  He is not answering the questions that I want necessarily, but he’s begun to open up a bit about himself. Serena, overhearing one of our conversations looked at me quizzically and then later said she had never heard him talk so openly about himself before.

  And then there is Ari, with his defensive magic lessons. He too crafted an aggressive training schedule that demands practice on busy Salem streets and other interesting locales.

  He is relentless.

  Pushing hard with an urgency that only underscores that he sees something the rest of us are missing.

  I expect he’ll tell us in time.

  But for now, I focus on learning everything I can from him. Occasionally I ask a question that on the surface would give him an out. Let him slide away with an easy answer.

  He never takes the bait. He is a paradox: intensely private and eager to open up under the right circumstances. We talk about Angels and Demons, about the universal forces that are the predecessors to the magic that we know, about the threats we face, and even occasionally about himself.

  I don’t look forward to spending time with him in the same way that I do with Erik. With Erik, I know that I have someone who understands me, who shares my way of interacting with the world, and someone with whom I seem to share a simple and uncomplicated DNA-level attraction.

  Ari is a very complicated man. He is my teacher. I would say he is my friend. He is someone I trust to tell me the truth.

  But anything more than that? Only the future will say.

  And then there’s Tristan, who meets me cheerfully at every lesson ready to engage in a seemingly unending push and pull.

  Push and pull magic. Push and pull intentions. Push and pull influence.

  After getting my consent and the budget, he took me to the brink of my control and I walked out of a local department store with a full human adult size black cat costume. I am not talking sexy cat. I am talking whimsical nightwear that you invest in when you’ve given up all hope of finding a partner that will join you for the night.

  You take a look at my wardrobe and tell me that’s not the epitome of influence magic.

  That joy and lightness – compounded by the smolder in his eyes when he said he didn’t think I was in danger of an empty bed anytime soon – turn those times together into ones I will remember as filled with laughter.

  And laughter had been even more in critically short supply than hope.

  The newest instructor that Salem Academy offered is Noah. Every class is tense. It quickly becomes clear that while Noah and I both possess which abilities, that his particular style of magic isn’t the same as my own. Through his bloodline, Noah is connected to elemental magic. He uses that in combination with a startling ability to transform an item into something completely different with his unique blend of on the go magic.

  A stick into a living tree.

  A penny into an entire statue.

  A spark of fire into a blazing inferno.

  My own approach is, in his words, a mass.

  He did me the kindness of explaining that I seem to work with an ancient, wilder and harder to control type of magic.

  Sounds right.

  With his help, I began to understand the hierarchy and organization of the witch world. To get the slightest sense of how my family fits in. He even answered a few questions about what my role would have been if I’d stayed on in Salem.

  Noah and I would have been educated, trained and brought together through social conventions.

  In short, we probably would have grown up being friends, with more in common that we find ourselves having today. He is distant, but he’s trying to be helpful. And I can feel in some of our lessons that some piece of me awakens, sparks, responds in a way that it doesn’t to anyone else.

  Witch magic meets witch magic. Like meets like. And it comes alive in a whole new way.

  So late one morning, I am sitting in Serena’s beautiful office. Today she looks relaxed, and red and black striped high-waisted trousers and a silk redshirt. Someday I’ll ask about the red thing.

  Just not now.

  Serena’s dark eyes scan pages upon pages of reports. Finally she looks up and summarizes: “Your instructors are extremely pleased at the progress that you’ve made. Really Max, you have done far better than we thought possible in such a short period of time. Later tonight, there is a meeting scheduled to decide on the final phase of training and the concrete timeline in place to execute the mission to get Father Gabriel back.”

  Part of me wants to be mad they still don’t think I’m ready.

  I’m pretty sure if I brought everything together I could kick all of their asses.

  Well, maybe one of their asses. As long as it wasn’t Serena.

  But the forward focus and momentum are good news, so I just say, “I’m so glad to hear that. I will continue to train as hard as I can and be ready for the second you think it’s time for us to go to Hell.” She nods, and then starts getting slightly distracted look that tells me it’s time to leave.

  I’m thinking about taking a run, just a leisurely jog through the streets of Salem. I’m trying to understand the layout better and explore in a low-pressure way that allows old memories to pop up. But much to my surprise, Noah waits in a chair outside Serena’s office.

  “All clear,” I say, starting to head off. I assume he’s waiting to meet with the headmistress.

  Noah clears his throat, looks awkward, and then finally stands up. Jamming a frustrated hand through his hair, what he says next is more of a demand than a question. “Come to lunch with me now.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Look, Noah. You’re talking to a homeschooled kid that was raised by an exorcist. I am accustomed to guys without much game, but even with that background? Seriously lame.”

  He looks frustrated, a thousand snappy comebacks flashing through his eyes.

  As things chill a bit between us, some of the weird anger and unfounded prejudice eroding, I find myself enjoying spending time with him. Or more specifically, getting him riled up and watching the reaction.

  “Are you going to change for our date?” I ask sweetly.

  He bristles at the word date. “This is definitely not a date, Max. It’s a professional courtesy call.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, Noah. Let me get changed and I’d be happy to join you on a lunch date.”

  I’m chuckling to myself as I head up the stairs. It’s been a long day of training already, and what I really want is a shower, a nap, and the biggest sandwich I can find on the catered lunch table.

  But Noah is distant.

  Still hostile to me being here.

  If he is asking me to lunch, it’s one of two reasons.

  Either he wants to make amends, which is dubious.

  Or he’s setting me up for an ambush, which is at least interesting.

  I change from workout clothes into a dress – all-black, long sleeves, plunging neckline – that make it a reasonable choice for daywear. I slide on boots made for running and a leather jacket.

  The get up does more than make me look good. It makes it easy to bring a lot of weapons in case this really is an ambush. When I come down the stairs, Noah is waiting and his eyes widened perceptively when he sees me. He looks at me, looks away and squirms.

  Someone has an LBD Boner.

  It’s a quiet and slightly tense walk to the tavern that Noah has picked out for lunch. It’s in the heart of old Salem, in a neighborhood that looks slightly familiar. From the outside the place looks like a historical Society’s wet dream. It’s all
stone, with the plaque declaring it’s been in operation for a few hundred years.

  Inside, a mixed clientele sits at a bar, high top tables, and in booths along the back. Noah is heading for a table that he knows will be waiting, and I stop short when I see Tristan. He’s shuffling a deck of cards, doing quick little layouts with them on the table. He shifts his body, sweeps them up and then starts shuffling again hard.

  His eyes find us. Me. Appreciatively, they make a long slow progression from the voluminous curls I’m wearing down today to the body-hugging dress.

  Yeah, if I’d known Dark and Sexy was on the menu, I’d definitely have gone for a slightly shorter dress.

  “Max, you look stunning,” says Tristan without even a touch of self-consciousness. This is one of the things that I like about him. The easy compliments earned for something as simple as putting on a cute dress and wearing it well.

  He turns to Noah, “I’m not sure what you told her about the dress code though. Thank you for bringing her. Will you join us?”

  Noah looks reluctant for a minute, but then sits down. The three of us sit around a table with a good privacy buffer. “Max, you may remember the question you asked me during our walk.”

  He waits. The only question I remember asking is whether he could pinpoint the location of where Father Gabriel might be being held. I say as much and he gives me a nod.

  “I asked Noah to bring you to the tavern. I told you I have sources. The source who may be able to help us is my cousin Callan. However, because of etiquette I can’t invite you here myself. It’s critical that I maintain the appearance of neutrality and take every step possible to avoid getting my cousin in trouble.”

  I’m fine with all that as long as we can get some information about Father Gabriel.

  I half expect a weird ruse about ordering lunch but Tristan nods at Noah and I, and we follow him down the long hallway with signs that say the bathroom. However, we continue and finally end at a small door. It’s very out of sight and I am not entirely sure I would’ve noticed it at all had Tristan not headed straight for it.