I get shakily to my feet. I know Octavia never really wanted to be an Earth Mage. Wednesday might not be able to see it, but I can. Two weeks is not going to be enough time for me to show her that being an Earth Mage is more than making plants and flowers grow.
There is no use waiting around for a janitor to clean up this mess. But even as I stumble out past the two statues and into the cool air filling the space between the two buildings, I can’t get her out of my head.
I have to tell her what’s about to happen, right? She is going to have to choose. But if I tell her, certainly she will devote her time to figuring out what magic she wants...not who she wants. And where the hell is that going to leave me?
I know it is wrong, but I decide to keep this to myself for now. No reason to ruin a good thing before it even has a chance. If I have my way, Octavia will see Earth Magic for what it is. It is powerful and versatile. It can be subtle, like me, or it can be stubborn like her. Like Octavia. Like the girl I want to spend the rest of my life with.
Crap. What am I going to do if she doesn’t choose me?
6
Octavia
A strange odor lingers in the entrance hall when we leave, and the two statues who I can now confirm definitely are breathing and are very much alive, seem to be the source of it. I see recognition flash across their faces when they see me, and we have to hurry out before they can strike up a conversation I really don’t want to have. Even the statues already know about me? Great. Just great.
Fortunately for the both of us, Wednesday already knows where our rooms are in the dorms across the way. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.
I can’t help but glance over my shoulder as we cross the street. For a second, I imagine I see Cedric looking down at me from his father’s office with those piercing blue eyes of his. But then, just as quickly, he is gone, and I am sure I must be imagining things.
We discover Kendall waiting for the elevator on the first floor. He immediately turns bright red when he spots us, and I see why. He’s not wearing a shirt, and from the smell and look of him—he’s drunk.
“What the heck Kendall!” Wednesday says. She swats his shoulder and then tries to press a hand to his head as if he has a fever. He steps back and crosses his arms, albeit a little unsteadily. He’s filled out since the boy I last remember. He can’t be called a boy anymore.
His chest is smooth and broad, a few spattered freckles here and there. The tops of his shoulders are touched with sun and rounded from time spent working in his father’s garden. He always wrestled for our old high school, but I swore he was in a low weight class the last time we really saw each other. He, like us, was busy all summer getting ready to attend the academy. He must have spent the entire time bulking up because he’s nearly twice the size I remember. I feel my throat tighten and suddenly I am completely lost for words. God. Kendall is...well he is something else.
And right now, I think that something is trying not to be sick.
The elevator doors open and it is one of those tiny ones that barely fit three normal sized people. Wednesday seems completely oblivious to the fact that her brother turned into a splendid specimen of a man over the summer and shoves him unceremoniously inside.
“We’ve got to get you to bed before someone sees you,” she says in a harsh whisper.
“The banquet was serving it,” he says, as if that will make it better. Wednesday ignores him, and I don’t want to get in the way of her temper, so I only shoot him an apologetic look as I try to figure out how I’m supposed to fit in there as well. There is barely enough room for the two of them.
Wednesday looks at me like I am stupid so I quickly squeeze into the only remaining space—directly in front of Kendall. The metal gate won’t close until I shrug my bag down to the floor and press my back up against his chest.
I stand as still as possible as the elevator creaks and groans upward. I can feel the muscles tense in Kendall’s body, and I swear he is purposefully moving his hips against me. We get a brief flash of the second floor—a common area lined with comfy couches and game tables like foosball—before we once again move away into darkness. The elevator shudders again and throws me hard against Kendall. He takes a sharp breath and finally stands perfectly still, his arms instinctively wrapped around me. For a second, I think the elevator is going to be stuck, but then it jerks to life once again and I’m able to disentangle myself from him.
Not that I particularly want to. Something about the way his arms feel around me, it feels natural. I’m not one for touching, but somehow, I don’t mind it when he’s the one doing it. But then we are at the first year girl’s floor and Wednesday practically shoves me out of the elevator.
“I’m going to go make sure this one doesn’t choke on his own vomit.” She slams the metal grate shut and jabs the button to take it back down to the boy’s floors. “Can’t survive one day here without having to watch out for the both of you,” she snaps. But when she sees my face, she softens just a little. “You,” she says, “at least have an excuse. But you do not.” She pinches Kendall on the shoulder hard as the elevator finally creaks and moves downward at an alarming speed.
I find my name displayed on a plaque at the end of the hall, and I hear the door unlock as I approach. I pause for a second and look down at the window to the principal’s office. It is quite far down now, but I can still see a small sliver of floor where the moonlight illuminates it. It is still empty, and I am a little disappointed.
The first thing I note when I open the door is that I am not the first person to enter this room today.
I drop my backpack on the bed and cross over to a small desk in front of the window. Someone has left a book here, and from the look of it, it can only be meant for me. I glance over my shoulder. The door is still open, but I can’t decide if that is a good thing or not.
A slip of paper falls to the floor when I lift the book from the desk, and I bend over to retrieve it. A single word has been written on it. Octavia. Yep. Definitely left for me.
I suddenly hear footsteps heading towards me in the hall. I don’t know why I feel compelled to, but I stuff the book under my mattress and barely have time to straighten up before Wednesday appears in the doorway.
“You know what,” she says, her voice coming out as more of a sigh. “After what I just saw, I don’t think I have the stomach to eat after all. See you in the morning for breakfast?”
I nod and feel way too grateful when she turns away and goes to her own room across the hall. It isn’t exactly like her to turn down dinner, but if she feels anything similar to the roil of emotions turning over in my stomach—I understand.
When she is gone, I pull my jacket and t-shirt off. I glance back at the door to the hall. I really should take a shower. The grime and sweat of walking around New York City all day has left me more than a little worse for wear. But as soon as I plop down on the bed to untie my boots, I am overwhelmed with exhaustion once again.
I lay back for a second and stare up at the ceiling. And before I know it, I’m asleep.
7
Octavia
I wake up to the sound of a car honking its horn so loud it penetrates my dreams. I sit up and immediately wish I hadn’t done it so quickly. I press a hand to my forehead. It isn’t even light out yet. Every part of me aches from falling asleep only half-on the bed, and the continued pounding at my temples reminds me that I haven’t really eaten or had anything to drink since yesterday afternoon.
I reach down to finish undressing so I can at least get a couple hours of decent sleep, but as I do so, I catch a glimpse at a wall-mounted clock.
Crap. I fell asleep without setting an alarm.
I tug the boot I was unlacing back on. I don’t have time to shower, let alone brush my teeth, so I grab a stick of gum out of my backpack and shove my dead, shattered phone in my back pocket before putting on the same shirt as yesterday.
By the time I run the six blocks between the dormitories and the hostel caf
é where I am supposed to be starting my first day of work as a barista, I am completely out of breath. There is just enough moisture in the air to make sure that any parts of my hair that didn’t already look like I don’t know how to use shampoo definitely look that way now.
A little bell over the door tinkles as I open it, breathless, and prepare to plead my case. I know I can’t barge in and tell random people that my magic got messed up and now everything is ruined and complicated because of it, but I know I have to tell them something.
The inside of the hostel is surprisingly nice. I can see the check-in desk at the far end of the hall and the café open to my right.
A musician in the corner looks up when I scuffle in. He’s adjusting an amplifier in the corner, but he isn’t very good at it, and a dull static hum fills the air like nails scratching ever-so-slowly down the face of a chalkboard. I really hope he doesn’t plan on setting up for long.
“You’re late,” someone else says from behind the counter. I pause mid-step. A barista is standing with his back to me while he polishes a glass. He repeats himself, this time so harshly that I almost spin around and leave when I stop myself. I know him.
“Draven?”
The Ritual Mage is almost unrecognizable without his leather jacket and ne’er-do-well attitude. He wears a chambray button-down with the sleeves pushed up and a freshly-ironed burgundy apron. That same copper-toned hair is pulled back in a messy bun that somehow makes him look even, well, hotter.
He sees me staring and cracks an uneven smile that lets me know that he’s only changed on the outside.
“I should tell you not to bother, you know,” he says. “Most people would if you’re late to your first day.”
“Well,” I say, slipping up to the unoccupied coffee bar. I grimace once more at a screech of the amplifier. “You aren’t just any people, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” He grabs a plastic wrapped apron from under the counter and throws it at me with a wink. “And you,” he turns to the musician, “Finish that up before you deafen all three of us.”
He retreats into the back with a wave for me to follow.
I hastily unpack the apron and slip the straps over my head. I spot a charger under the counter and set my phone beside it, reminding myself to plug it in when I get the chance.
We almost collide at the entrance to the back storeroom.
“You coming or not?” he asks, with a raise of one eyebrow. Before I can respond with a snarky remark of my own, he reaches up and brushes away some of the stray hairs at the sides of my face. “Unfortunately, you’re going to need to pull that pretty hair back.”
I don’t have a hair tie on me so I grab a rubber band from around a stack of cardboard cup holders and use it to pull my hair up into a ponytail. Now I’m sure I look even more like a potato than I usually do, but Draven gives me an odd lingering look that makes the back of my neck tingle.
He starts pointing out where to find the emergency burn kit and I am suddenly reminded that I’m supposed to be working. All I’ve been doing is thinking about how his shirt is so tight that the seams have to strain against his broad shoulders.
“For now, I just want you to get familiarized with everything. If you handle the wash station and keep everything stocked, I should be able to make drinks.”
I hate busywork, but a job’s a job. I pick up a long-handled brush that I am pretty sure is used to clean the toilets. I wrinkle up my nose. “If I’d known this is what you would have me doing, I might have stayed home with that ritual book someone left on my desk.”
Draven looks at me funny. “Someone left you a book on rituals?”
The bell tinkles over the door again and Draven tells me to unpack a box of individually wrapped straws while he goes out to take care of the customer. I watch his back as he goes. Maybe this job isn’t going to be so bad after all. I go back to the task I’ve been given, but I can’t help but overhear when the conversation Draven is having turns far from friendly.
I stand as still as I can and try to hear it over the hiss of the espresso machine. After another second, I hear the door open and the bell tinkle again. When I poke my head out, the guy is gone. So is the musician and his terrible static noise. It’s a shame I didn’t get a better look at him.
“What was that?” I ask.
Draven looks up at me sharply. He must have forgotten I was here.
“Oh, just some jerk,” he says. “Comes in here every week and complains that his coffee was bad last time and demands a new one for free.”
“Hmm.” I don’t believe him for a second, but I decide it really isn’t any of my business. Not yet, anyway. I glance down at the glowing brand on my arm. It could be, eventually.
Draven pauses where he is wiping down the counter, and then glances down the hall to the check-in desk. The girl from the night shift is passed out and sprawling across her computer.
“Here,” Draven throws the towel in the sink and clears a spot on the counter. “I promise this place won’t always be so boring.”
He grabs a handful of small glass espresso cups and sets them down in the cleared space. Apparently, I don’t step close enough, because he reaches over and grabs one of my apron straps and uses it to draw me closer. So close I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck.
His voice drops so low, it is barely a rumble in my ear. “You want to see what you can do?”
My stomach flutters. I don’t know exactly what he means, but I nod anyway. He picks up one of the glasses and presses it into my left hand. Our skin touches, and he lets it linger there a moment longer than necessary. I can see the brand on his hand glowing brightly next to mine. It casts a soft blue reflection in the glass.
“Arrange them in a circle,” he says, and I do.
Next, he takes out a small pot of used coffee grounds from under the sink and holds it out to me. He instructs me to draw lines between some of the cups until, after a few hesitating moments where I have no idea what he is having me do, I see that has made me draw a pentagram between them.
“Oh, come on!” I say, and then checking to make sure I haven’t woken the desk clerk, lean in closer. “Really, a coffee ritual?”
“Have a little faith in me,” he says. He guides my hands to either side of the circle.
“Now,” he says. “Repeat this after me.” He stares down at the cups carefully aligned on the countertop. He says something in another language, Latin maybe, but I struggle to repeat it the first time. I have a hard-enough time with English. He says it again, and this time I think I say it passably. He squints at me a second, then grabs another cup and slams it down in the middle of the circle. The pentagram scatters as coffee grounds go flying all over.
“Now spit in it,” he says.
“In the cup?”
“Just do it.”
I do as he says, but nothing happens. Maybe I don’t have enough spit. Draven scoops up the rest of the grounds, packs them into the espresso pod, and then brews me a shot straight into the same cup. It smells sour and weak, but he offers it to me as if it is something special.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I say. I look at him hard, trying to figure out what he means by it. Something odd flickers across his face, and then, for some reason I believe him.
I snatch the cup away and throw it back like a shot of liquor. It doesn’t taste as bad as I thought it would, but I still gag. I duck into the back when another customer comes in because I’m covered in coffee grounds and I’m pretty sure I spilled espresso on my shirt. Whoever it is orders an annoyingly complicated latte that leaves me waiting forever to slip back out.
“That better be the damned elixir of life,” I say, finally getting a good look at my ruined shirt. Draven sees me pulling the damp fabric away from my skin and grabs a fresh towel to pat it dry. I try to avoid looking straight into those big, green eyes the entire time he’s doing it. “How do you know how to do these rituals if you only just now got paired?” I ask.
He gla
nces up at me, and I’m unable to look away.
“We each have our own store of power,” he says. “Everyone only ever talks about how your paired is supposed to balance you out or whatever, but they also increase your abilities since you can draw from their store as well. At least, when you are getting along. It also can have some rather…unfortunate…side effects if you aren’t careful.”
“Like what?”
“Developing feelings that get in the way.”
I swallow hard. Rather than closing the space between us, Draven backs a step away.
“So that’s it,” I say, “You aren’t going to tell me anything else?”
“You’ll figure it out as you go along, like the rest of us.”
“But what about the ritual?” I say. The sun has finally risen outside, and I don’t think we are going to have much time left with just the two of us.
Draven leans in closer as the door opens again and a small group of twenty-somethings steps inside, all talking far too loudly in a language I don’t understand. “Tonight, you dream of the future,” he says. A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and somehow, I know there’s more to it than that. But there’s only one way to find out.
8
Octavia
There is a secret to the ritual.
I totally forgot to tell Wednesday I wasn’t going to be able to make it to breakfast, and she is already gone by the time I get back. Draven’s ritual was so distracting that I forgot to charge my phone too, so the first thing I do is hunt through my bag for a charger and hastily plug it in. I know she’s got to be pissed at me for blowing her off, and I prepare myself to deal with it as soon as my phone turns on.
But I make the mistake of closing my eyes, just for a minute.
I wake in a sweat with my thighs clenched achingly together. It takes me a second to remember what I had been dreaming about, and even though I am alone in my room, my face burns hot with embarrassment.
Absorb: Book One of the Forgotten Affinities Series Page 4