by Theresa Kay
“These things have time limits,” says Tristan. “And I talked to Desmond. He promised me if the spell isn’t resolved by parents’ weekend, he’ll take care of it.”
Take care of it? If it’s so easy, why doesn’t Burke take care of it now? But I don’t ask.
“Fine. Whatever.” I cross my arms over my chest.
Tristan says nothing else, and after a few seconds, I return to my table and open my book.. At most I have another two weeks stuck in this spell. I can make do until then.
Right?
For the next three days, Tristan barely says two words to me. If he thinks the silent treatment is going to solve the spell, he’s totally wrong. Though the spell hasn’t tightened, it also hasn’t loosened, and I’m not sure what to do about it.
Isobel does her best to help me after she gets to our room at night, but she doesn’t understand my difficulties, and her explanations aren’t half as good as Tristan’s, so I’m floundering in most of my classes.
Potions is currently my best academic subject, though that isn’t saying a whole hell of a lot. I’m still struggling as the work gets more and more difficult, but my level of understanding doesn’t increase. The science, I get. The magic? Not so much.
On Thursday, Dr. Nikiforov returns our recently graded tests to us at the end of class, leaving them face down on our lab tables. Tristan’s sitting in the back of the room somewhere, so I don’t see his grade or reaction. Adrian flips his over and shrugs, and Devin looks quite happy with his. Me? I leave it sit, the blank back of the test taunting me as I stare down at it.
My score could be okay, but it could also be awful. Do I really want to know? No. Not really. This unit test is a large part of my grade, and based on how very long it took me to complete and the fact that at least half of the questions didn’t make any sense . . . I don’t think I did very well.
Anxiety twists in my stomach, and I pick at one corner of the paper. I lift the edge and set it down again, trying to convince myself the longer I wait the better off I’ll be. Not that that makes any sense.
Adrian and Devin shoot me sympathetic looks as they head out to their next class along with the rest of the students, but I stay at my lab table, warring with my internal desire to toss the damn paper in the trash and forget about it. What if—
Someone snatches the paper off my desk and waves it around.
“Oh look here,” says one of Tristan’s preppy frenemies. “A sixty-one percent.”
Well, I passed. So there’s that at least.
I slam my hands on my desk and jump to my feet. “Give it back.”
“Why? You want your parents to hang it on their fridge or something? I bet it’ll be the best grade any of those dumb—”
“Drew, give it back.” Tristan is suddenly beside me, glowering at the guy.
What the hell? The ass has barely spoken to me in days, and now he’s trying to be all knight in shining armor coming to my defense?
“Why should I, Tris?” Drew glances between the two of us. “You yourself said she was no better than dirt and didn’t belong here. I think this test proves it. Not only can she not hack it at being a witch, she can’t hack it passing any of her courses. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft on me.”
Tristan said that? His gaze darts to me, and he gives a slight shake of his head. But not slight enough that Drew misses it.
“You have!” He laughs and crumples my test into a ball before tossing it across the room. The paper goes flying, hitting the rear wall and bouncing to the floor. “Find me when you’ve rethought your stance and want to come back to where you belong. Until then . . .” He leers at me. “I suppose you could find some way to enjoy yourself.”
Is he suggesting what I think he is? Heat gathers in my chest, a ball of magic just itching to knock Drew to the other side of campus. My fingers curl around the edges of my desk as I fight to hold the magic back.
Calling up magic has never been a problem for me. The raging inferno of what Basil calls ‘raw power’ is always waiting in my chest. But controlling the magic is a different story, and I haven’t felt this out of control since the night I manifested. I grit my teeth.
A few moments later, Tristan’s hand lands on my arm. “He’s gone.”
“Yeah, I know,” I bite out. “But my magic isn’t, and it’s pissed and looking for a target.”
The room is empty; even the teacher is long gone. It’s just the two of us, and the situation is quickly getting uncomfortable—for me at least. Keeping my magic from finding a new target in the boy leaning next to me is an effort.
And he’s still staring at me.
He studies me and rubs at his chin. “The way you talk about magic . . . it’s not like how other witches describe it. Maybe you’ve been going about this all wrong. I wonder . . .” He grabs the geometry textbook from my bag and opens to a random page, tapping his finger on one of the wards. “Pull a little bit of magic, and use it to look at the ward. Try to . . . let the magic guide you.”
I want to roll my eyes. Like it’s that easy? But I listen to him and stare down at the ward. The magic in my chest jitters, and I let a tiny strand out to trace each line and angle carefully, a new understanding of the purpose and the power of each position gradually seeping into me. Because my magic understands the ward, I do too.
My eyes go wide. I scan over the example on the next page and let my magic study that ward too. It’s like all this time I’ve had the pieces but no way to put the puzzle together, and now, ever so slowly, I’m building the edges and filling it in until I can finally see the full picture.
I flip a couple pages back, to the most recent chapter we went over in class. The exercises that seemed completely unsolvable before now make a bit of sense. If only I had my last assignment with me to see if this new understanding worked on figuring out what I was doing wrong before.
“I understand it,” I say. “I can’t explain it, but I can see how it all kind of works together now.”
Tristan smiles, a real, warm, open smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling and everything. It’s like a physical hit to the chest. Sure, I’ve known him for a couple weeks now, but I never really looked at him. Or maybe he never looked at me like that?
“Everyone else has been raised with magic, known about it and been able to trust their instincts. But your instincts don’t default to using magic. You haven’t learned how to work with it. That’s why you’ve been doing so poorly.” He glances at the textbook. “Well, so poorly with wards anyway. It doesn’t work the same way with potions or spell casting, but I think if you find a way to . . . connect with magic more, the others might start to come easier as well.”
I rest my elbows on top of the textbook and lean my forehead on my palms. “But will it do any good at this point? I’m not so sure I’m going to be able to pass for the semester. I don’t think I’m at the bottom of the ranks, but I’m definitely close.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “You still have midterms coming up as well as the whole second quarter. Granted, your grades might not be top of the Order material, but you’ll be fine. Plus, there’s still the tournament next quarter, which could definitely help with your class rank.”
“Tournament?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Were you not aware of it? There’s an obstacle course competition around the end of each semester. The participants get points for speed and skill and a good score can boost your class rank. It’s optional for first year students, but it’s certainly something you should look into. As long as you can gain a little bit of control, I think you could do very well in it.”
As long as I can gain control . . .
“I can’t fail at this,” I say, my voice lower. “My parents are depending on me.”
He averts his eyes. “I know.”
My stomach rumbles, and I glance at the clock. A little after 4:00, almost two hours until the cafeteria opens for dinner. I don’t know where the words come from—I blame it on my stomach—but my m
outh blurts out, “What would you say about skipping PE and getting out of here for a bit?”
He blinks, and there’s a long pause before he, very slowly and with a strange look on his face, says, “I’d say you’re only inviting me because I have a car and you don’t.”
I shrug and focus on my desk as heat flares in my cheeks. “Well, that’s not the only reason. I think I owe you for that little breakthrough. The town’s not too far off, right? I think Isobel mentioned a pizza place.”
“Okay,” he says.
Even though I wanted him to agree and was hoping he would, the ease of convincing him is a bit of a shock. He doesn’t even question the fact that I don’t have off-campus privileges. I can’t decide whether or not to ask if he’s sure or just go with it.
“Grab your books,” says Tristan. “We should still get some studying done.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him an exaggerated salute and shove my books into my backpack, a big grin on my face for the first time in days, one I’m not going to think too hard about the reason for.
Penny’s standing outside the classroom as we exit, and I shoot her a wave.
“Did I hear you say you two are going off campus?” she asks, her mild tone a contradiction to the strangely calculating gleam in her eyes.
“Yup,” I say, and it dawns on me that what we’re doing sounds an awful lot like a date, and I need to change that perception ASAP. Because no. “Do you want to come with us?”
Her face shifts from surprised to something that’s almost derision before she plasters on a pleasant smile and slowly shakes her head. “I’ve got some homework to do,” she says. “Maybe next time.”
“Sure thing!” What is wrong with me? Why am I being so awkward?
By the way Penny widens her eyes, she must wonder the same thing, but she goes without comment and waves us off.
Tristan and I make our way to the garage for students just outside the back gate, someplace I’ve never actually been before, and he unlocks a dark-gray BMW with the click of a button. I toss my bag in the back and get into the leather passenger seat.
Like everything I’ve seen of Tristan’s, his car is immaculate. There isn’t a speck of dust on the dash and not a single piece of dirt on the floor mat.
After sliding into the driver’s seat, he pulls out of the garage, headed on the road to town. The air between us is heavier now, making the twenty-minute drive seem much longer. This—skipping class and leaving campus—feels bigger than anything else we’ve done together. Have we officially crossed the line into an actual friendship?
Even on a Thursday and fairly early in the evening, the small downtown area is a little busy, and it takes a few minutes to find a parking space. Tristan smoothly parallel parks and then hops out. By the time I grab my backpack, Tristan is opening my door.
My brows rise.
A blush tints his cheeks with pink. “Sorry. Habit.”
Habit? That’s certainly something to digest. Does he date often? Clearly he hasn’t been lately, but—
Stop it, Selene.
I do not care about his dating life. Not one little bit.
I let him lead the way to the pizza place, a small space tucked into the lower floor of a larger building. The restaurant is packed, with nearly every table taken, even the outdoor ones. The second we enter, the most delicious scent assaults my nose, and my stomach lets out an even louder rumble than before.
Heat gathers in my cheeks, and I send a quick glance at Tristan to see if he noticed. He did. Of course. And is grinning like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“Hungry?”
“Always,” I say with an exaggerated sigh. “I swear my stomach is like a bottomless pit sometimes.”
Tristan laughs and flashes two fingers at the hostess. She leads us to a small table in the front corner. Calling it a table is generous. It’s more like one of those super tiny things at weddings people are meant to stand around and put drinks on, but shorter.
I pull my chair out before Tristan can do it for me and then sit with my back to the wall. He slides in across from me, our knees bumping underneath.
“Where are we going to put plates?” I ask, pretending to measure the tabletop with my hands. “I think we’re going to have to eat directly from the pizza pan.”
“I have no problem with that,” he says with a shrug.
“Here’s the true test, what toppings do you want on this pizza?” I ask.
We agree on the simplicity of pepperoni with extra cheese and sit back to wait for it to be delivered.
Our conversation peters out, and things grow awkward rather quickly. Tristan and I have been forced to spend quite a bit of time together, but it hasn’t exactly been quality time, and I’m beginning to realize how very little I actually know about him.
I know his parents are assholes.
I know he’s a stellar student.
I know he’s rich.
But the stuff that really makes him tick? I have no clue.
This suddenly feels like a bad first date where we’ve run out of things to talk about.
The arrival of our pizza—a delicious-looking masterpiece—saves me from trying to make conversation, and I spend the next few minutes inhaling half the pizza and then eyeballing the last piece.
“Take it,” says Tristan, nudging the plate in my direction.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I—”
Two hands land on Tristan’s shoulders, and my eyes follow the hands up to their owner: a large, dark-haired man flanked by two others. All three of them are shifters.
“Didn’t anybody warn you not to leave campus? Leaving the safety of those wards isn’t healthy for a St. James,” drawls the first man.
The three shifters pay me no attention, the first man leaning down to speak directly into Tristan’s ear. Whatever the man is saying is too low for me to make out, but given his opening line, I can’t imagine he’s saying anything good. The color drains from Tristan’s face, and his whole body goes tense. Under the table, he grabs my knee and squeezes. Holding me in place? Asking for help?
The shifter’s knuckles go white as he digs his fingers deeper into Tristan’s shoulder. A low grunt makes its way past Tristan’s lips but no words. I’ve been at the other end of shifter strength before, and that grip has to hurt like hell.
“Why don’t you come outside so we can discuss your mommy’s proposed legislation?” For the first time, the shifter’s gaze roams over to me. “We wouldn’t want to upset your pretty lady friend, yeah?”
Proposed legislation? This is about the new shifter laws they’re trying to pass? How in the hell did they know to find Tristan here?
Tristan nods stiffly. He gives my knee another squeeze and rises to his feet.
The shifter leads him to the doorway, one hand still tightly gripping Tristan’s shoulder, and the other two men follow behind.
For a second, I’m not quite sure what to do. Tristan likely doesn’t want me to follow, but I’ll be damned if I’m just going to sit here. There’s a good chance those shifters could be part of the group rumored to be behind the recent attacks on witches. I can’t let Tristan face them alone, not when this could be a genuine threat to his safety. We might not be friends exactly, but I don’t hate the guy, and I don’t want to see him hurt.
I fumble for my wallet, throw some money on the table (hopefully enough to cover the pizza), and then run out after them.
By the time I get outside, they’ve disappeared from sight. I glance up and down the sidewalk. Where to? Where would—
There. An alleyway off to the left.
I dash toward it, and as I turn the corner, there’s the very definite sound of a punch being thrown.
“Hey!” I call out.
Tristan’s back is against the brick, and he’s half doubled over—probably because he’s the one who was punched—and the three shifters are standing in front of him, blocking him in.
“I’ll deal with this,
” says Tristan, slightly out of breath. “Just go back to the car. They won’t kill me. It won’t look good for their cause.”
He’s right. If these shifters are truly worried about the new legislation, they aren’t planning anything permanent. But am I willing to bet his life on that?
One of the shifters flashes me a sharp-toothed grin. His eyes hold a feral glint I don’t like. Sure, the renegade shifters haven’t killed anyone so far, but who knows if these guys are part of that group? Even if they are, will they be able to pass up a shot at hitting the St. James family where it really hurts? Not to mention Tristan has a tendency to rub people the wrong way.
I wrack my brain, trying to come up with ideas. Shifters have so many traditions and rules. There has to be one I can use. Can I challenge one of them? No, that definitely wouldn’t work out in my favor. So, what? Do I claim him or something? Can I do that?
He isn’t pack. Technically, neither am I but . . .
“I name him a friend to the Donovan pack of the Blue Ridge region,” I blurt out.
“What did you say, little girl?” asks the leader of the three shifters.
“I said I name him as—”
One of the others, a guy with stringy brown hair, grabs my neck, holding it tight enough to show force but not tight enough to cut off my air. He bares his teeth at me and snarls. I hold his gaze but tilt my neck to the side. I’m not trying to get into a dominance thing with him, but I’m not going to back down either. The leader makes a gesture with one hand, and his minion releases me.
I swallow, waiting.
The leader narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side, not in submission, but in inquisitiveness. “Who are you to speak for the Donovan pack, witch?”
I pull my hair away from the right side of my head and tilt to show the small mark behind my ear. “I am kin to the alpha.”
The minion moves closer to examine the mark, and inhales deeply. Scenting me.