Magic Bound

by Theresa Kay

  He means the words as a joke, but I can’t help a flare of anger. “Actually, yes,” I say. “I was supposed to be a Blank, so my witch parents deserted me, and I was raised by shifters.”

  He blinks and gives me a curious stare then chuckles as his face breaks into a warm smile. “Well, that’s certainly going to shake some things up. I can’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces.” His expression shifts to intrigued as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door. “And what is your name, Ms. Raised by Shifters?”

  “Selene,” I say, holding out a hand as relief washes over me. Maybe not everyone here will be a complete jerk.

  “Adrian Dumont.” He straightens and takes my hand in his then presses a light kiss to my knuckles. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Selene, but it appears we’re now both late.” He places his fingers on the pad again and then holds the door open for me, gesturing for me to step in ahead of him. Once inside, he starts off down a hallway.

  “Excuse me . . . ?” I call out.

  He turns, amusement sparking in his eyes. “Yes?”

  “Where’s the director’s office?”

  “Fourth floor, Room 419,” he says with a wave. “Good luck.”

  Good luck? What do I need luck for? I shrug off the worry and start toward the stairs.

  Four floors later, I tick off each room number as I go past until I reach the end of the hallway where I find 419. I knock softly.

  “Come in,” a chirpy voice says from inside.

  I enter a small office with a man sitting behind a desk. He grins at me, and a wave of relief washes over me. He looks nice enough with that open expression and friendly smile. Being late might not be quite the disaster I thought it was if he’s not glaring or yelling.

  “Director Burke? I’m Selene. I’m so sorry I’m late. I must’ve—”

  The intercom on the desk clicks on. “Is that her?” asks a voice in a clipped British accent.

  “Yes, sir,” replies the man at the desk who I’m now realizing must be a secretary or assistant or something.

  “Send her back.” The director does not sound happy.

  The guy at the desk shoots me a sympathetic look before tilting his head in the direction of the door to his right. “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”

  No kidding. I pull my shoulders back, plaster a smile on my face, and walk through the door into the director’s actual office.

  The man behind this desk is somewhere in his fifties, with gray sprinkled throughout his dark hair. He has on a pair of thin-framed glasses that he peers over as I enter. His mouth pulls into a tight smile, and he rises to his feet. “Director Desmond Burke. I’m pleased you could make it this morning.” He holds out a slim-fingered hand, and I shake it hesitantly. He gestures to the chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”

  I do, offering up the best smile I can muster. “I apologize for being late.”

  He sits back down and waves away my apology. “You have the admission forms?”

  “Yes.” I hand him the somewhat messy stack of papers over the desk. “I wasn’t sure if—”

  He holds up a hand, and I clamp my mouth shut. His gray eyes skim across the paper as he flips through the admission forms with no expression. He reaches the end, places the stack on his desk, and leans back in his chair. “Basil tells me you’re an Andras witch. Is that correct?”

  “Um . . . If that was my birth mother’s last name, then yes?”

  He sighs. “Is that a question or a statement? Because if you’re planning to stay at my school, you must own your identity as a witch of the Andras line or you have no chance of success.”

  My brows pull together in confusion. “Why? What’s so special—”

  “Your presence here, starting late, all of it”—he gestures to my somewhat disheveled appearance—“you will have enough problems without having a high-powered name to protect you. The admission criteria is very strict. With your lack of knowledge, I can’t pass you off as a scholarship student, therefore you need to be presented as a member of an elite family. The Andras line is well thought of, and we can spin you as a long-lost distant cousin or something.”

  Lost? Spin? What the hell is going on here?

  “But I wasn’t lost. I was left.” The last word is sharp, and I narrow my eyes.

  He gives me a hard look, one eyebrow rising. “Semantics,” he says. “What you don’t seem to understand, Miss Andras, is that you’re in a very precarious position here. As am I. As are your adoptive parents, the Blue Ridge alpha, and perhaps the entire pack. The only reason the Coven Council hasn’t already carted you away for ‘questioning’ is because I pulled the strings that got you enrolled at Ravencrest. As a student here, you’re under the jurisdiction of OSA, and that offers you some protections. As an Andras, you have even more protections. But if you continue acting like you don’t belong here, eventually someone will decide that you’re correct. You do not want that.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that I don’t belong here and I do want that, but not at the expense of something bad happening to my family. I’m here to stay—whether I like it or not. And I better make the best of it.

  I hold his gaze for a beat before looking away. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. Tell me what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “Besides showing up to appointments on time and going to class?” He raises a brow. “You need to fit in, find a place you can belong, because even if it’s not said outright, I’m sure the Coven Council will be less inclined to press charges if you’re able to become a productive member of society despite your less than ideal upbringing.”

  “Who do you think—”

  He holds up a hand. “Save your vitriol for someone else. I have nothing against shifters, and I am not your enemy. I’m sure you’re quite capable of finding some of those on your own. What I am is responsible for this academy and its students. Disrespect and disobedience will not be tolerated, not by me and not by your instructors.”

  I glare at him but hold my tongue.

  “Your class schedule,” he says as he slides a piece of paper across the desk. As I’m skimming over the list, he continues. “Now that you’re considered fully registered, the school wards will be keyed to you, allowing you access to your dorm, your classrooms, and any other areas you are permitted to be in. You’ll be issued five sets of uniforms, but due to the lateness of the day and the fact that classes have already started, your current outfit will have to do for today. After today, though, we expect you to present yourself in a more . . . proper manner.” A pause. “I’m going to be frank with you here: You’re behind, and it will be a struggle for you to catch up. And I’m not only talking about the fact that classes started last week. I’m sure the shifters do things very differently, and you know very little about witch culture or society.”

  “I know enough,” I bite out even though he’s technically correct.

  He doesn’t look convinced. “Be that as it may, I can only do so much. I placed you in the basic classes and scheduled you tutoring sessions with Basil every morning as he can hopefully get you up to speed. Most of it will be up to you, however. The competition for grades and class ranking is stiff, and you’ll be battling it out with witches who have been involved in this world their entire lives. At least their first three years of high school were spent preparing to attend this academy. Granted, much of their prior studies have been on only the theory of magic, but you don’t even know that much.”

  “I’m a fast learner.” I jut my chin out.

  “And you’ll need to be.” He leans back in his chair. “As you know, this is a two-year program meant to prepare you to use your powers for the benefit of the Order. The classes are semester based, and you will have, at minimum, a Wards and Sigils class, a Potions class, and a Physical Education class every semester. For the moment, your morning tutoring session with Basil will take the place of two other required classes, Government and Spells. The dining hall is the larg
e building behind this one. Breakfast hours are from eight to nine, lunch from twelve to one, and dinner from six to seven. If you miss a meal, you’re on your own. Off campus privileges are granted on a per student basis, and for the time being, you don’t have any. Work hard, Ms. Andras, and you have no reason to worry for yourself or your adoptive family.”

  Before I have a chance to ask any questions—and boy do I have a lot of them—the office door swings open and the blond boy I ran into earlier comes striding in, his face set in an irritated expression. I don’t see much more of him beyond a set of broad shoulders, a trim waist, and a very nice ass in those fitted uniform slacks, because he pays me absolutely no attention as he saunters into the office like he owns the place and throws a piece of paper down on the desk.

  “Desmond, what is the meaning of this?” he asks with the barest hint of a British accent.

  Director Burke sets his jaw and raises an eyebrow. “Contrary to what you might think, Mr. St. James, my friendship with your family does not entitle you to storm into my office and make demands of me as if I am your servant.”

  “Des—” The guys huffs. “Director Burke, I am not in a position to act as a student guide. I have too much on my plate already with—”

  “Too bad,” says the director, shaking his head.

  The guy slams a hand onto the sheet of paper. “It’s unacceptable. My parents would never—”

  Director Burke rises to his feet. “You will not speak to me as if you are above me. This is my school, and I set the rules. If you aren’t happy with it, go somewhere else.” He leans over his desk. “Now, since you have barged into my office and interrupted my meeting with the very student whom you are going to be guiding, I believe some introductions are in order.”

  Shocked golden-brown eyes finally turn on me, noticing me for the first time. Those same eyes travel from the tips of my purple toenails to the messy bun on top my head. Again. The look he gives me this time isn’t quite as harsh as the one earlier, but it’s not much better. It’s slightly hidden disdain instead of open disdain.

  “What is a new student doing here after the term has already started anyway? And who is she? Certainly no witch I’ve ever met.”

  The level of arrogance dripping off this guy is ridiculous. And I’ve dealt with moody alpha level shifters. It makes me want to punch him. Hard.

  I wiggle my fingers in his direction. “Selene”—a glance at the director—“Andras.”

  Now Mr. St. James looks at me like I’m dirt under his shoe and lets out a huff. “Descended from some by blow a couple generations back then? The Andras line has no academy-aged heirs and hasn’t for at least two decades.”

  “I’m thinking it’s more around eighteen years to be exact,” I say, gesturing at myself. “I’m a direct descendant of Helen—”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” He turns back to Director Burke.

  Director Burke sighs and stares as the ceiling. “This is not up for debate.” His gaze moves back down, going from my face to the boy’s, and the director’s lips ghost into a smile so small I almost miss it. “Selene, meet your student guide, Tristan St. James.”

  The final repetition of his last name makes something finally click together in my mind. St. James. The super-rich, old money witch family who heads the Coven Council and is leading the charge on the proposed anti-shifter legislation that would strip the protections of the shifters’ pack lands and require reginal alphas to subordinate themselves to the laws of OSA.

  In other words, this guy is probably the absolute last person in the world I’d want to associate with, and now I’m stuck with him. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

  Tristan no longer bothers to hide his disdain. It’s written on his face for anyone to see, and I’m sure my expression isn’t much different. I’m all for having a guide—there’s no way I’ll find my way around on my own—but pairing me up with Mr. Uppity Asshole is not what I had in mind. I open my mouth, prepared to argue against this insane idea, but Director Burke holds up a hand.

  “It’s not optional.” He directs his next words more toward Tristan than me. “It will do you both some good to broaden your horizons a little.”

  Broaden my horizons? I’m not so sure pairing me with a witch who more likely than not hates shifters is going to improve my opinion of the Order or witches in general. But saying so at this point won’t do me any good.

  “Fine,” I say.

  Tristan narrows his eyes, and his lips press into a thin line. “Fine,” he repeats without looking at me.

  I rise to my feet and shoot him the best smile I can manage before gesturing to the doorway. “Lead the way.”

  He glances in my direction, sends another scathing look at Burke, and then spins around and quickly exits into the outer office and then the hallway, not so much as looking back to see if I’m keeping up. I grit my teeth and speed up. The last thing I’m going to do is ask him to wait for me.

  I follow Tristan through the maze of hallways. He still hasn’t so much as looked at me since leaving the director’s office, but I can hear him muttering something that doesn’t sound complimentary. I’m pretty sure the mumbled curses are directed toward Burke and not me, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear my name in there somewhere if the jerk even remembers what it is.

  We go down to the second floor, and he stops in front of a closed door and shoves my schedule into my hands.

  “You have lunch hour after this, and then your next class will be on the bottom floor in room 142. I assume you can find it?”

  My answer should be no because I’m not entirely sure I can navigate on my own, but getting him out of my hair now is worth maybe having to beg someone else to help me later. “Sure. I’ve got it from here.”

  “Great.” He shuffles his feet a little. “Have a nice day or whatever.” With a dismissive wave, he heads off in the opposite direction. He certainly won’t be getting any awards for congeniality or hospitality. Not that I’d expect either of those things from a St. James.

  I wait for him to disappear around the corner before turning to the door in front of me. It is, I assume, locked, so I need to use the ward thingy to open it. Director Burke did say they were all keyed to my magical energy now, so that shouldn’t be an issue, but he didn’t exactly explain how to use it, and I damn sure wasn’t going to ask Tristan. Could opening a door really be that hard?

  I place my fingers against the pad in a similar position as that guy Adrian did when he let me in the building earlier. Nothing happens. I press down and whisper, “open sesame,” under my breath. Still nothing. I sense the ward beneath my touch, kind of like a little spark of magic. A switch maybe? Hmm . . . I close my eyes and concentrate on that feeling of a switch.

  It’s definitely there.

  I poke at that place in my chest where my magic resides, willing it to do something. Again, nothing. I lean my forehead against the door. This is so, so stupid. I don’t belong here. I can’t even open the stupid door.

  But I don’t have a choice now, do I? I have to figure out how to do this. If I don’t, my family might suffer the consequences. I straighten and study the pad again. Maybe the ward isn’t so much a switch as a reaction and magic is the catalyst? What if I just . . .

  I pull up some magic, dragging it from my center and down my arm to send at the ward. The door still refuses to open. Am I unconsciously holding on too tightly? I take a deep breath and try to relax. Nothing.

  Anger surges through me. Dammit to hell! I slam my palm down on the pad, and a burst of magic flows into the ward. The door clicks open—finally—but there’s also a sizzling sound, and a thin stream of smoke rises from the pad. Oops. I guess I used a little too much. I bite at my lower lip and look into the classroom. Every single eye of the maybe thirty students is on me, a few openly hostile and the rest completely disinterested.

  I wiggle my fingers in an awkward wave. “Hi, um, I’m Selene. I’m new.”

  A ripple of quiet laughter passes over the
room, and they all look to the front. I follow their gazes to find a slim, dark-skinned woman with glasses giving me a disapproving stare.

  “I’m Ms. Anderson. If you’re quite done being a disruption, class has already started. Please find yourself a seat,” she says.

  Forcing my lips into a smile, I nod and walk inside to find the room is set up like a lecture hall, with five rows of seats rising toward the back. I scan over the seated students, hoping to find one friendly face. No luck.

  Well, I’m definitely not sitting in the first or second rows which are filled with what I assume to be the preppy elite. Perfect hair. Tailored uniforms. A general aura of money. There are some empty seats near the back, though, so I head in that direction. The sound of my flip-flops is like mini explosions in the silence, and another wave of laughter passes over the room.

  I take a seat in the second to the last row near the middle of the room. As soon as my butt hits the chair, the teacher starts speaking again.

  There are a few diagrams on the board, and she seems to be explaining one of them, but half of what she says makes no sense. I pull my schedule out. The class is called Geometry of Wards and Sigils, so some of it makes sense now. This is a math class. But one that apparently talks not just about angles and degrees but ley lines and power levels. Math isn’t my best subject, but it’s not my worst either.

  I focus on what the teacher is saying. I have no way to take notes, and I don’t have any books yet, so I’m not sure how much of this lesson I’ll actually retain, but paying attention is better than doing nothing.

  “Last week, we went over the basics of wards and what they are; I’ll spare the rest of you the refresher and suggest our new student get up to speed on this information as soon as possible.” She draws another diagram on the board, a circle with three intersecting lines inside. “This is a locking ward. Easy to draw, easy to implement, and easy to use.” She gives me a hard stare. “A ward like this and like the one on the doorway to our classroom requires only a slight touch of magic. As they grow more complicated, a stronger touch is needed and sometimes a specific touch or a specific sequence. There are blood wards that can only be opened by witches with a certain blood type or of a certain bloodline, but they’re much more difficult to create and not often used.”