by Theresa Kay
Actually, I am a morning person, but in the past forty-eight hours or so I’ve barely gotten any sleep, and that’s on top of all the other exhausting crap that’s been going on. My head is spinning with all the questions I still have—about how I ended up with my parents, about my birth mother, about magic, about pretty much everything—but I don’t have time to deal with any of that now.
I remove the covers from my head and glare at him. “Don’t talk to me before coffee.”
“That might be difficult unless you have a coffee maker somewhere in this closet of a room,” he says. He ruffles his hair with one hand. His damp and messy hair that curls up slightly at the ends.
My gaze moves from the uncharacteristically untidy hair to his face, his cheeks slightly pink, and down to his clothes—a t-shirt and a pair of gray running shorts that show off his lean, muscular legs. He raises his eyebrows.
“Were you . . . running?” I ask in a voice that makes it sound like the activity is a foreign concept to me. It’s not. But my tired brain has gotten stuck on this slightly rumpled version of the prissy perfect guy from yesterday and refuses to supply words that make sense.
“I do the three-mile trail around the lake every morning.” Tristan lifts a water bottle to his mouth and takes a few gulps. The struggle to not watch his throat as he swallows is a losing one. My stupid brain is having trouble getting the message that the hot guy in front of me is not for us. “Now, as fun as this is, would you mind getting out of bed so I can shower, change, and prepare for the day?”
And just like that, my brain gets the message: Pompous asshole.
I huff out a laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?” I, again, swing my legs out of bed and get up, this time to stand directly in front of Tristan, one finger pointing at his face. “You dragged me around all evening in my sweaty gym clothes. Why the hell shouldn’t I return the favor?”
He rolls his eyes. “Look, I apologize if I upset you yesterday. It—”
“That is not an apology.” I jam my finger into his surprisingly hard chest.
“Whatever. I need to change into my uniform. I’d like to shower as well. If we don’t get going, we’ll miss breakfast, and then where will you get your coffee?”
He has a point, but I’m not going to admit that. “Get out.”
“What?” He seems legitimately baffled, his brows drawing together at the command.
“I said get out. I need to get dressed.”
“Yes, you do.” His gaze darts down to my bare legs. Oh crap. All I’m wearing is an over-sized t-shirt. There’s a brief flicker of interest in his eyes before he shuts down all expression on his face. “I’ll be outside.” He turns and walks from the room, slamming the door behind him.
I take my time getting ready. I wash my face and then put on a few simple touches of makeup: a little mascara, eyeliner, and lip gloss. Next, I put my hair up in a ponytail and pull on one of the uniforms that were delivered yesterday. Mine aren’t as tailored as everyone else’s, but at least the new clothes fit and I won’t stick out quite as much. I don’t exactly have any proper shoes, so I pull my boots on. They make me look a little rocker chic, but they’re certainly better than flip-flops.
At close to 8:30, I swing open the door and give Tristan a wide grin as he leans against the wall. “Sorry I took so long. I guess we don’t have time to go back to your room or we’ll miss breakfast.”
He scowls at me, but the expression is quickly replaced with a placid smile. “I suppose I’ll live.”
Huh. I expected more of an argument. I eye him skeptically, but his face remains neutral, and he gestures for me to precede him down the hallway.
The walk to the dining hall is, like dinner last night, silent. After the initial irritation with me, he hasn’t appeared so much as ruffled. Is this a kill them with kindness type thing, or is he actually trying to get along with me? Maybe he’s just resigned himself to dealing with me.
Once at the dining hall, we both get our food—a stack of pancakes and some berries for me, fruit and yogurt for him—and take our trays to a table where, of course, we have to sit together. But then he gets up and offers to get coffee for me. It’s odd, but being as I haven’t caffeinated yet, I don’t have to think much before agreeing.
I sniff at the cup suspiciously when it arrives, but the steamy warmth of it is too tempting to resist for long. I take a large sip, eying Tristan over the edge of the cup. His face has moved very little since the scowl.
“I didn’t poison it if that’s why you’re giving me that look,” he says in a bland voice, those honey-colored eyes darting up from his food to meet mine.
I take another sip and savor the yumminess. “Okay.”
Silence falls between us. Tristan finishes the last of his food then sits in the chair, chin up, back straight, shoulders set as he waits for me to finish my coffee. I’m a little impressed with his commitment to the role of silent stick up his ass. He acts almost like a robot, as if he can’t bear to show any weakness, not even emotion.
I tilt my head to the side and study him from the corner of my eye. If this is his normal behavior, then what the hell was yesterday? Was it just my presence that set him off so badly or the fact that he was hit by a girl or . . . what? I’m curious enough to ask, but I doubt he’d answer.
“I don’t like this situation any more than you do, so if we want to go our separate ways, we need to try to appease the spell as much as possible.” When I don’t respond, he sighs and motions toward the coffee station, which is at least twenty feet away, something I hadn’t noticed when he walked over there.
So that’s why he offered, to suck up to the spell. “Does that mean you won’t be forcing me to follow you around anymore?”
“As long as you’re not honestly planning on insisting we don’t have time for me to change before class.”
“Well, I—”
“And good morning to you, my favorite witch,” says Adrian as he slides into the chair beside me and puts an arm over my shoulder.
“Your favorite witch? You met me yesterday,” I say in a dry voice. I pause a moment and then crack a smile. “I suppose I can count you among one of my favorites too.”
Adrian grabs his chest and winces as if in pain. “One of? That’s the best I get?”
“Yup. Isobel gets the top spot because she’s my roomie and she brought me coffee yesterday. You still have a lot to prove before you get into the inner circle,” I say with a chuckle. Adrian is, if nothing else, very entertaining.
His gaze moves to Tristan, and that mischievous glint returns. This is going to be interesting . . . “And what about St. James here? Is he one of your favorites?”
Tristan hasn’t looked up, hasn’t so much as acknowledged Adrian. Hell, the guy has barely acknowledged me for the past ten minutes.
“Unequivocally not,” I say.
“Harsh,” says Adrian. He kicks out under the table, and Tristan grunts. “How does that feel, St. James, having a girl blatantly not want you?”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the feeling,” says Tristan. “How do you deal with it?”
Adrian laughs, full out, his head tilting backward and his mouth open. “I never realized you had a sense of humor.”
Tristan rolls his eyes and goes back to ignoring us.
“So, what’s your first class?” Adrian asks me.
“Tutoring with Basil.”
Adrian chuckles. “That’s sure to be interesting. Definitely better than sitting through Advanced Spellcasting with Mrs. Feng.” His attention turns back to Tristan. “How are you going to keep up with your classes if you have to follow her around?”
“I’ll manage,” Tristan bites out.
“Really?” Adrian grabs a strawberry off my plate and sticks the fruit in his mouth. “It’s going to be awfully hard to maintain your class rank without a full roster of advanced classes.”
Tristan is silent, but his jaw tenses as if he’s biting back words.
That’s
the second time someone mentioned class rank, and I still have no idea what they’re going on about. I mean, I know what class rank is in theory. My high school had a ranking system too, but the one here sounds a lot more serious.
“What’s so important about class rank?” I ask after a moment of debate.
“You sweet little newbie.” Adrian pinches my cheek. “Your class rank here at Ravencrest determines so many things, like eligibility for the best job placements after graduation, and even more important, whether or not you’re allowed off-campus privileges and other perks. St. James here is expected to be at the tippy top.”
There’s not a word from Tristan, but he grows even tenser, his fingers curling around the edge of the table.
“Of course, for the right amount of money, you can buy your way up.” Adrian rubs at his chin for a second before breaking into a sardonic smile. “It will be interesting to see what your boy’s rank might be without a schedule packed with advanced classes. If he manages to stay up there . . .”
“I will,” snaps Tristan. “And my parents don’t buy my achievements. Not like yours.”
Adrian leans across the table until he’s right in Tristan’s face. “I can’t wait to see you knocked down a peg or two this semester.”
“Whatever,” says Tristan. He turns hard eyes on me. “Can we go now?”
I hold up my half full coffee. “Soon. This is quite informative. And entertaining.”
Tristan closes his eyes and visibly swallows. All expression leaves his face, and just like that, he’s back to a blank-faced robot. The quick change would be impressive if it wasn’t so . . . sad?
Adrian raises a hand, and Devin walks over to our table.
“You ready to head to class?” asks Devin.
“Unfortunately.” Adrian hops to his feet. “I’ll catch you later, Selene. Maybe I can show you that you’re definitely my favorite witch.” He winks and blows me a kiss.
Devin pulls on his arm. “Come on, lover boy, we’re going to be late.”
The two of them leave the dining hall, and I turn to Tristan.
“You know he’s not serious, right?” asks Tristan in a bland voice. “Dumont flirts with everyone, so don’t get your hopes up that you might marry your way into the Dumont family fortune.”
I gape at him. “Did you just imply I’m a gold digger?”
He shrugs.
“First of all, I’m seventeen. I have no plans to get married anytime soon, and I could give a crap about the Dumont family fortune. Second of all, I can take care of myself, and even if I couldn’t, the last person I’d ask for advice is you.” I take a sip of coffee. “Despite what you may think of me, I’m not an idiot. Adrian’s a friend. Unlike some people, he’s actually been nice to me.”
Tristan shrugs and stares at the table. “Whatever.”
I drain the last of my coffee and stand up. “You ready?”
“Do I have a choice?” he asks with a forced smile.
“I suppose not.” I shrug and pull my backpack over my shoulder.
He rises to his feet, brushing the front of his shorts like he’s trying to make them look decent.
There is a tiny, tiny piece of me that feels a little bad for making him go to class in his running clothes and without a shower, but it’s not like he didn’t do worse to me yesterday. Plus, it’s almost sickening how perfect he still looks. No one should be allowed to look this good after an early morning run. I smile to myself. Maybe I’ll be nice enough to let him change at lunchtime.
Tutoring with Basil is the class Tristan seems the most irritated about having to take and the class I’m hoping will give me the most insight into how the hell I’m going to make it at this school. Basil seems invested enough in my future, considering my birth mother chose him as her contingency plan, and he clearly knows his stuff if Isobel calls him a master spellcaster. If anyone can help me, he can. After yesterday . . . I have no idea if any of this will ever make sense. Magic is not as intuitive as everyone here makes it out to be, not for me anyway, and I have no clue why.
Basil also has answers about my birth mother. Answers I think I want, but I don’t think I want them while Tristan is around. He’s already an unwelcome intruder in my life and a constant witness to my screw ups. The idea of having such a deeply personal conversation with Basil in Tristan’s presence feels . . . not right. It’s something that will have to wait until after the spell is resolved.
Or until I decide Tristan is trustworthy, something that isn’t very likely to happen.
My gaze strays to the boy beside me as I knock gently on Basil’s office door. Tristan didn’t say much on the walk up here, not even to complain that he didn’t get to change. That carefully bland expression of his gives absolutely nothing away, but I know he must be more ruffled than he appears.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” says Basil as the door swings open pulling my attention away from Tristan. “I’m so glad you two could make it.”
As if we had a choice.
He gestures for us to enter and waves at the now empty couch in the back corner. “I cleared us some workspace.”
The stacks of books on the floor are like a maze, except instead of hitting a dead end, one wrong step will get us buried in an avalanche of knowledge. I maneuver my way to the couch to take a seat. Tristan sits beside me, his thigh pressing against mine for a brief second before he scoots as close to his armrest—and as far away from me—as he can get.
Basil drags his desk chair over to the area in front of the couch. How he manages to maneuver through all the junk without knocking over so much as a single piece of paper is a mystery. He plops down and clasps his hands. “We’re going to have so much fun!”
Fun? Okay then . . .
Tristan coughs into his hand and stares at the wall.
Basil jumps up and runs a finger down one of the stacks of books. “No,” he mutters. “Not that one. Nor that one. Hmm . . .” He glances around the room. “Ah! Over there.” He scurries to another stack to pull a book from near the bottom—once again miraculously not knocking anything over. How does he do that? He catches me watching and winks before returning to our ‘classroom’ area and handing me the book. Origins: The History of the Fae.
“Sounds . . . interesting?” I say. “Director Burke didn’t mention anything about you tutoring me in history, just government and spells.”
Tristan glances at the book, raises an eyebrow, and then goes back to staring at the wall. I guess he’s not planning to participate.
“You wouldn’t have gotten a full history of the supernatural in your human schools, and you should know some of the basics. For example, the basis of all magic is with the Fae, so I thought that a little bit of their history would be a great starting point,” says Basil. “Most of our history courses don’t bother with it, but I think it’s important to learn as much as you can. You too, Tristan, so pay attention please.”
“I’ve already taken all the required history courses. Fae history is not on the exam, and this is a non-credit course—at least for me. I’m only here because of this stupid spell.” Tristan’s voice is flat and dry, his face bored.
Basil shakes his head, his mouth downturned and his brow creased. “Ah, but what’s on the exams isn’t always the most important information.”
Tristan scowls. “Basil—”
“Hush,” says Basil in the harshest tone I’ve ever heard from him, which honestly isn’t saying much.
Tristan sighs and rolls his eyes before leaning back on the couch and crossing his arms over his chest.
Basil turns to me. “Now, Selene, how much do you know about the origins of magic?”
“Not a whole lot. It has something to do with the Fae that came to our world thousands of years ago.”
“Correct,” says Basil. “The Fae arrived here some three thousand years ago, bringing their magic with them. All three supernatural races are their descendants, with each race getting a specific piece of Fae magic. Vampires get immo
rtality. Shifters the ability to change forms. And witches the ability to connect with and manipulate magic itself.”
“Witches are the most direct descendants,” says Tristan. “That’s why our connection to magic is the strongest.”
“Not true,” says Basil. “Although there are rumors of actual Fae blood being introduced into various witch family lines, those . . . influxes happened at least three centuries ago and have never been proven to be fact. Some witches have, however, used that type of misinformation in an attempt to place themselves above the other supernatural races. It’s one of the reasons the highest positions in the Order are currently held only by witches and why the number of shifters joining the Order or even attending OSA academies grows smaller every year. A witch’s connection to magic is no stronger than a shifter’s or a vampire’s. The other supernatural races simply have connections to different aspects of the Fae magic. The magic of the witches is merely the most active connection which is what allows us to pull magic from the world around us to fuel spells and such.”
Tristan scoffs, clearly uninterested in Basil’s explanation. Of course the jerk thinks witches are above everyone else. That kind of arrogance probably comes with being a St. James. “This is ancient history of a dead race. It doesn’t matter to our current world, and I doubt this is what Desmond requested you tutor Selene in.” He stands. “If I have to sit here—”
“Sit down, Tristan.” Basil’s voice has gone cold, and the smile drops off his face. “You have no idea what does and does not matter. History is important, and the history of our origins is even more so. I understand you have been taught differently, but you are ignorant of more than you think. These lessons are not just for Selene’s benefit, but as the heir to the St. James family, they are for yours as well. If you are to follow in either of your parents’ footsteps, it would behoove you to think beyond their narrow views.”
Whoa. Go Basil!
“I don’t have to listen to this.” Tristan storms toward the door, but the spell tightens well before he reaches the exit and brings him backward, half-stumbling and falling onto the couch beside me. He shoots me a dirty look.