by Lisa Plumley
From the front of the class, the instructor droned on with his lecture, probably thinking that Dayna would take her seat quickly. Like most warlocks, he possessed the face of a movie star and the body of an Adonis. Unlike them, he was lacking in the charisma usually afforded to a warlock college professor.
That didn’t seem to matter to the witches, who paid him rapt attention. After all, the notion of teacher’s pet had not been devised by humans, but by witches…witches who craved the approval of their (mostly male) instructors the way the spathiphyllum she’d researched craved fresh air and sunlight.
“It’s important,” he was telling his avid students, “to begin training at exactly the right moment. As you’ll see—”
He broke off. Pointedly, he cleared his throat.
As though the light surrounding Dayna were related somehow, it suddenly grew even brighter. Annoyed, she squinted, now unable to see the desk she’d been headed for at all.
More whispers rose around her. The cashmere witches nudged the witches near them. One pointed. A few witches giggled.
Hot with embarrassment, Dayna moved blindly. She bumped into a desk, making another witch’s purse slide off.
“Ahem.” The instructor cast her a reproachful look, his handsome face unsmiling. “Please be seated. I’d rather not waste energy on this guidance beam if you’re not going to use it.”
Aha. That explained the insanely intense light. Now that she felt slightly less frazzled, Dayna realized it was aimed at the desk she’d chosen—the only desk that was still free. Did the instructor think she was an idiot? She didn’t need a guidance beam to find the only available desk in the entire classroom.
“Turn it off then.” She jerked up her chin. “All you’re doing is blinding me with the damn thing anyway.”
A chorus of witchy gasps whooshed through the room.
The warlock instructor was silent. Then, “Fine.”
Peevishly, he released a blanket of cold darkness. It shrouded everything, including Dayna, in impenetrable, sticky-feeling black. She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face—or the purse she’d accidentally knocked off the desk.
“Very funny,” she groused, crouching to pat her free hand in the vicinity of the fallen bag. “Overkill, much?”
With a whoosh, the lighting returned to normal.
“Good. At least you’re not a total tool,” she muttered.
Even as the instructor took up his droning again, Dayna closed her shaky fingers on the purse. With a murmured apology, she set it back on the desk…and was astonished to see someone familiar behind it. It was Camille Levy, her best friend from high school, all grown up and sporting…a pastel twinset?
Back in the day, neither of them had ever worn anything pastel to school. Or anything that matched, for that matter. She and Camille had been rebels in everything, refusing to conform as a matter of principle. Now Camille, formerly of the pierced nose, hennaed hair, and ripped flannel, was wearing something that would have been right at home on Perky Suburban Barbie.
What the hell had happened around here?
An awkward moment passed, during which Dayna realized that she hadn’t seen Camille since she’d left Covenhaven. She hadn’t told anyone she was leaving, and she hadn’t been in touch with anyone besides her parents since. It had felt easier that way—easier for her, it occurred to her. Not for anyone else. There was every possibility her former best friend hated her now.
Camille leaned forward. “Still kneeing authority in the nuts, I see.” She winked. “It’s good to have you back, Dayna.”
Awash in relief, Dayna smiled. “I missed you, too.”
“AS I WAS SAYING.” The instructor’s voice boomed loudly enough to overcome the disruption Dayna had presented. “If we begin training too soon, cusping witches don’t yet possess the power that they’ll eventually need to harness. If we begin training too late, unintended consequences can result.”
His scholarly gaze swept the room again.
Dayna bit her lip. Under the instructor’s gaze, she beat a hasty retreat to the desk he’d highlighted for her. Even as she settled in, dragging a few necessities from her backpack and then dropping the whole thing to the floor beside her, she felt as though the evidence of her earlier magical incidents was imprinted on her skin—just like her failures were.
Unintended consequences could result.
He could say that again.
She hoped the people who’d been hurt during her storm were all right. She hoped everyone at DRL had unfrozen themselves and gotten back to business. She hoped her many magical screwups were known only to her—and to her hunky tracer, T.J. But it was completely possible, Dayna realized uncomfortably as she flipped open her trusty Moleskine notebook, that everyone in Covenhaven knew about her disastrous magical accidents. Along with the resurgence of The Old Ways, they might have implemented a gossipy, witchy version of Us Weekly for the locals. Who knew?
This wasn’t just any old desert resort town, after all.
Covenhaven was exclusive, exclusionary, and always aware of its special significance. No other Southwestern town was like it. Covenhaven was redolent of sage and creosote, nestled on a canyon’s edge, ringed by enchanted red rocks. It was sheltered by freakishly blue skies and endowed with special magic. The tourists who flocked here to see the rocks and creeks believed it. The witches and humans who’d been born here lived it…and they sometimes had the privileged attitudes to prove it.
“Psst.” The hissing sound came from beside her. “Psst.”
Trying to take notes, Dayna ignored it.
“Hey.” A poke to her shoulder. “Is that human made?”
Startled, Dayna looked up. One of the cashmere witches was staring at her notebook, her expression filled with curiosity.
It was a nice notebook, modified with Dayna’s most useful divider tabs and bound with a custom laser-engraved cover. It had been a gift from her friend Jill at DRL. Drawn in by the cashmere witch’s apparent friendliness, Dayna relented.
She nodded. After all, if she was going to get through this, she’d have to be a little less guarded. Otherwise, she’d slow her own progress. Everyone knew that successful witches depended on one another. Cooperation was the witchy way.
“Yes, it’s human made,” she whispered. “So is my pen.”
In demonstration, she held it up.
“Oh. That explains why they’re both so hideous.” The cashmere witch sent her gaze downward, then fluffed her hair. “At least they match your…um, outfit. Such as it is.”
A cascade of giggles greeted her comment. Too late, Dayna realized that all the witches surrounding her had been listening. Some of them had craned fully around in their seats to enjoy the spectacle; others had cast personal charms to record memory flickers. By tomorrow, images of Dayna’s first ignoble day of witch school would be all over EnchantNet.
Frowning, Dayna studied her classmates. Evidently, none of the other witches needed to take notes to master their magic. Their hands and desks were empty—except for one witch, who’d set out a bottle of Revlon Red and was magically painting her nails in between casting adoring glances at the instructor.
Defiantly, Dayna gazed back at the cashmere witch. Then she wielded her pen and made a deliberate note in her Moleskine.
Learn ugliness hexes. Starting now.
The cashmere witch blanched.
Pasting on a sweet smile, Dayna raised her hand.
The instructor paused in midsentence. Appearing exasperated, he sent a brief nod in Dayna’s direction. “Yes?”
“Will we be learning about hexes?”
“Of course. In due time. Once we’ve finished covering the basics and establishing safe boundaries, then I’ll—”
“Can we learn about them tonight?”
A minor hubbub swept through the room. A few desks ahead, Camille swiveled in her seat. A suspicious frown made her perfectly lipglossed mouth turn down at the corners.
“Tonight?” The instructo
r frowned. “There is a curriculum to be considered. More than one thousand witches are taking classes in Covenhaven right now. This training is a complex endeavor, filled with—”
“Can we learn about hexes tonight?” Dayna persisted.
“Well…” The instructor shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
Pleased, Dayna raised her brows at her cashmere rival.
“It’s not on my schedule for today, but hexology is part of my IAB syllabus,” the instructor mused. “And since you are so eager to tackle the subject, Ms. Sterling—”
With a prickle of warning, Dayna stilled.
“—you may be the first volunteer. Please come to the front of the classroom, so everyone can see, and we’ll begin.” The handsome instructor paused, clearly relishing the moment. “Is there any particular hex you had in mind?”
When T.J. had felt the initial surge of heat in his birthright tattoo, he’d reasoned the warmth was just another magical malfunction, like his fading sharpness as the sun set. Or his forgetting to consider the amplified effect of two dozen witch voices over his hearing charm. Or his unwanted bond.
But then Dayna Sterling had entered the classroom, and he’d realized the truth. This was no malfunction. This was fate screwing with him again. This was fate grabbing hold of his unbending heart and knocking it around in his chest. This was fate trying to make him face the future it wanted for him.
Well, fuck fate. T.J. didn’t like the way it played.
With his frown deepening, he kept his bare feet pressed to the window ledge for balance, then dropped to his haunches in a protective stance. His cold-stiffened muscles protested the movement. During the time he’d been perched two stories above the ground, the temperature had dropped a good fifteen degrees. The wind had risen, cutting between the redbrick buildings and rustling the dried mesquite pods on the trees below. But he hadn’t yet gathered enough information, so he’d stayed.
Now he’d had enough. The shadows he’d pulled to hide himself had thinned the air beside him, making his perch feel twice as unstable as the wind kicked up in rowdy gusts.
Spooling his left hand, T.J. gathered up impressions and images, vocalizations and gestures. They streamed from the distant classroom to his fingertips like a river of disrupted moonlight. He watched their progress with an absorbed air. It was more important to monitor the stream than to heed the insistent sting of his birthright mark. Much more important.
And yet…even as T.J. watched the information he’d collected, even as he studied its muted colors and churning shapes, he felt himself drawn elsewhere. Without his awareness, his body aligned itself with Dayna. Without his permission, his gaze lifted from the data stream to the window beyond…to the bonded witch who called to him without even knowing it.
He caught a glimpse of her standing at the front of the class. Instantly, his muscles clenched with remembrance. His chest ached with…something. His mind took in all the details of her appearance, registering the fact that her raggedy jeans showed her shape more than her khaki pants had. He liked them.
He’d like to take them off her. Thanks to their encounter on Dayna’s scratchy, poorly constructed human-made bed, he knew the curve of her backside, the yielding softness of her hips, the insistent jab of her elbows. He knew the need in her heart. He wanted to know more. Like the scent of her skin. The pulse of her heartbeat. The slick, tight feel of her body as he slid inside her and made her his own.
Hell. With unyielding effort, T.J. directed his attention back to his data stream. Deuce would have found it incredible, he told himself in a bid for distraction. As a human, Deuce was used to information being shared and stored in clumsier ways. The dozers’ wireless technologies hinted, ironically, at their true birthright and their inherent abilities to manipulate their surroundings…but ultimately were just another example of their stumbling toward enlightenment without realizing it.
Feeling his frown deepen, T.J. cut off the data stream with a practiced gesture. He processed the information with an IAB spell, simultaneously encrypting and shrinking it. He’d have liked to have more time to study the three vixens in the cusping class, but with Dayna’s unexpected appearance…
As though called to her, he glanced up again. She’d closed her eyes in an effort to conjure a spell. It was the perfect opportunity to look his fill. Prodded by yearning, he did.
Dayna’s eyes opened. She gazed directly at him.
What the hell? She shouldn’t be able to see him at all, not through the darkness he’d pulled to cover himself.
And yet she did. Her eyes widened, appearing eerily blue. Her mouth opened. A jolt of recognition passed between them.
Shaken by it, T.J. jerked backward against the window.
His whole body wobbled on the narrow ledge.
Swearing, he righted himself, then made sure his shadows still surrounded him. At his feet, the information he’d gathered fluttered down, disappearing through the thinned air and falling into the night. Now he’d have to retrieve it. But first…
He sneaked a final glance at Dayna. Her hunched shoulders and defiant chin were at odds with one another, as usual. But what caught his eye was her magic. It hovered outside her, an aurora borealis of shimmering shapes and possibilities.
He’d never seen anything like it, either witch or Patayan.
As though gathering strength, the particles surrounding her ballooned outward. They hovered. Silence fell, broadcasting like an indrawn breath through his hearing charm. Then a crack seamed its way through her magic…and the whole endeavor split apart.
Shit. That had never happened before. With all his senses on the alert, T.J. leaned dangerously far from his ledge, trying to see Dayna amid the iridescent pieces of her broken aurora.
He couldn’t. Her magic was too uneven.
He hesitated, on the verge of conjuring an airstream strong enough to sweep him to the other side. Helping her would be a risky move, impossible to perform without rearranging the darkness and revealing himself. But if Dayna needed him…
Before he could act, the reflexive movement ended.
Dayna stood in its center, no longer surrounded by magic. Her hair stuck out, snarled and broken. Her clothes drooped, newly ripped and stained. Her cheeks were scarred; her nose was adorned with a huge red zit. It seemed to grow even as T.J. gawked at it. Another popped up beside it, nearly pulsing.
“That’s disgusting!” one of the witches shrieked.
With her eyes widening, Dayna clapped her hands over her face. From above her fingertips, she stared at the assembled witches in dawning horror. Clearly, her spell had gone wrong.
With a hoarse exhalation, Dayna did what T.J. should have known she’d do—she fled. She turned her back and ran.
The classroom door slammed, punctuating the witchy laughter flowing over his hearing charm. With a savage yank, T.J. pulled it free of the window. In growing disgust, he considered what he’d seen. Running was a way of life for his bonded witch. He doubted she’d return to finish her cusping-witch classes.
She’d run before. She’d run now. She’d always run.
The realization slowed his stupid fluttering heartbeat like nothing else. Frowning, T.J. studied the wind as it eddied past his window ledge. As a Patayan, he could see the swirling currents. As a warlock, he could ride them. Not far, and not with a damned broomstick the way the human legends falsely claimed, but far enough. At the correct moment, he jumped.
He drifted. A few seconds later, his feet landed on the artificially nurtured turf. The chemically treated soil stung his soles. The sharp, nonindigenous grass razored his feet.
Surprised, T.J. levitated a few inches. He peered downward. Usually the gardeners, talented Patayan and their Native American counterparts—like his friend, Henry Obijuwa—didn’t plant species that weren’t native to the area. They didn’t thrive. They usually didn’t even survive. It was curious that someone had ignored those conventions here at the academy.
The aberration puzzled him.
Whatever the reason for it, T.J. would have to bring shoes next time. He didn’t need them while perched two stories in the air; his grip on the building’s ledge was better barefoot. And he preferred being naked whenever possible, even if only from the ankles down. But another prickly landing like this one would leave him with chemical burns for days.
Feeling dark and discontent—about his aborted mission, T.J. assured himself, not his runaway bonded witch—he sighted his bundle of magically encrypted data. He headed toward it.
At the same moment, a whoosh of emotion reached him. Impatience. Eagerness. Anger. All in multiples, and all moving with special speed, directly toward him.
“Hell,” he muttered. “Not this again.”
An instant later, he was surrounded.
Chapter Ten
In the hallway outside the classroom assigned to cusping-witch classes, Dayna glowered. She shot an impatient glance at the light emitting from under the door, then tapped her foot.
She was lucky her toes didn’t fall off. The epic case of magical athlete’s foot she’d accidentally hexed herself into hadn’t been pretty. Maybe that was why running away from class had felt so excruciating. Usually, running felt liberating.
At least to her.
Wanting to run even farther, Dayna contented herself with pacing down the hall. Floor tiles pinged upward at her approach; strips of fluorescent lights flickered overhead with an audible buzz of malcontent. If the classroom door didn’t open soon, she’d wear a freaking groove in the academy’s ancient flooring.
A part of her liked the idea, she realized as she yanked off her ruined corduroy jacket and slung it over her arm. Tearing up the academy was destructive enough to suit her mood.
Why had she believed she could actually do this?