by Theresa Kay
“There’s a lot of wiggle room between ‘getting hurt’ and ‘no permanent damage,’” says Reid. “Is my cousin in danger?”
Adrian shrugs, but he also chuckles. “I doubt it. The Andras name protects her to a point and”—his eyes go to me, and he smirks—“she hasn’t exactly proven herself to be any sort of competition. She’s not a threat to them, so they’ll ignore her.”
I blink. I guess there’s one good thing about my grades being not so hot. I don’t mind being part of the riffraff if it keeps everyone else off my back. But . . . I glance up at the tables in the middle again. Isobel is up there. What kind of horrible things do these people do that requires a ‘no permanent damage’ rule?
“But why?” I ask, flabbergasted by the whole thing.
“Because they already have everything money can buy, and they’re all on some stupid quest to be the best of the best?” Adrian shrugs. “Sure, a higher class rank can lead to better job placement with OSA after graduation if that’s the route you choose to take, but it’s mostly about social politics and pedigrees. Academy class rank is pretty much the only trusted metric for how powerful a witch is, and the more powerful a witch is, the more desirable the alliance their parents might arrange.”
“You’re shitting me,” says Reid.
“Nope.”
“Witches still do the whole arranged marriage thing? What century are you guys living in?” Reid’s gaze darts to me, and he does that bristly protective thing. “Selene is not on the market.”
Adrian throws back his head and laughs. “I doubt any of these old money families want her type of trouble even if they knew how powerful she is.”
“I’m not sure whether or not to be insulted by that,” I say, eyeing Adrian as my lips twitch into a smile.
“Take it as a compliment,” he says with another laugh.
We lapse into silence as servers bring around salads, dinner, and later dessert. I pick at all the food. Reid devours it. When he catches me glancing at him with raised brows, he shrugs and mouths ‘it’s really good.’ At least he makes me laugh.
Adrian eats very little, sticking mostly to his flask, and his mood gets darker and darker throughout the meal. His speech is slurred, and he’s swaying in his seat. How much has he had to drink? I scan the room for Devin. I might need his help to get Adrian out of here so he doesn’t get in trouble.
But he’s not here . . .
“Where’s Devin?” I ask.
Adrian gives me a sardonic grin. “I was wondering when you’d notice.” He takes another sip. How much can be left in that thing? “My family decided I was enjoying myself too much with my new friend. They had him transferred. I found out this afternoon.”
Enjoying himself? “Were you and Devin . . . ?”
“A couple?” He snorts. “Nothing that fun. Just friends, but I’m not supposed to have any of those, not until I ‘see the error of my ways’ and ‘act like a true Dumont’ or some crap like that. And there was also the fact that he wasn’t of our same caliber according to my father.”
“So, when you say they had him transferred . . .” Reid starts.
“They had him sent to another academy. With strict instructions that if he hoped to stay there or in any OSA academy, he would not contact me,” says Adrian bitterly.
I place a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry. I know you two were close.”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “Yeah well, it seems anyone who gets too close to me is out on their ass.” He glares at Tristan. “I’m sure it isn’t much better for golden boy. He just hides it better.” Another dry laugh. “Oh, and his parents actually approve of him.”
If the Dumonts are worse than the St. James family, I hope I never have to meet them.
Adrian tips the last of whatever is in that flask into his mouth and then jumps to his feet. “I’m done with this.” A salacious smile appears on his lips as his gaze goes to Reid. “Should you need any entertainment your cousin can’t provide, please find me.”
Reid coughs and gives him a mock salute. “I don’t think that’s going to happen since you witches seem to be quite an entertaining bunch, but I’ll keep that in mind.”
Adrian disappears through one of the side doors, and Reid looks at me with one brow quirked upward. “He’s certainly a character.”
“Yeah,” I say, biting at my lower lip. “He’s also the only person besides Isobel and Devin who goes out of his way to be nice to me. I don’t like seeing him like that.”
Sometime later, the last plates are whisked away and the volume of the music goes down. The lights dim, leaving a single bright spot over the center of the low stage. Director Burke steps up to the podium and smiles out at the crowd. He’s never been exactly warm to me, but he’s always been composed, and there’s something in his stature that screams he’s uncomfortable. It’s unnerving. And unexpected. I wish Adrian was still here so I could ask if this is normal.
Burke’s gaze roams over the crowd, stopping on Bernadette St. James. I can’t see her face, but Burke’s lips tighten and his jaw tenses, and it sends a cold feeling into my stomach. What has the St. James family used their money and influence to buy now?
Burke clears his throat and smiles thinly at the gathered crowd. “Welcome, students and parents, to the Ravencrest Fall banquet. It’s been my privilege to work with your children over the past few weeks, and I expect great things from them in the future. As you know, it is customary to release the current class rankings this evening, but we will also be announcing a new policy. First . . .” He gives the crowd another tight smile. “The lists.”
A flat screen on the wall brightens, revealing two lists of names. It’s odd seeing the tech since I’ve spent the last few weeks without even a cell phone, but I couldn’t exactly expect them to handwrite the lists and still update them every day.
“The screen on the left is the first years’ rankings, and the screen on the right is the second years’. Of course, these are not the final lists. Any one of you can rise or fall based on the merits of your academic grades and, for all second years and for those first years who choose to compete, your performance in the tournament. And this year that’s a particularly good thing.” He pauses, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Our admissions process allows for two hundred and fifty students to be admitted here each year. Beginning this school year, Ravencrest will be the pilot school for a new OSA policy which requires the bottom ten students in the first year class to be dismissed every quarter, except for the last quarter when the bottom twenty will be dismissed. Therefore, of the two hundred and fifty first year students here tonight, only two hundred will graduate.”
Fifty students will be dismissed? Based on academic performance and that stupid tournament? I do some quick math in my head. That’s twenty percent of the class.
I glance at the lists of names. The text is too small to read from here, but there’s no way I’m not at the bottom somewhere, not with my grades, not with my continued inability to properly use magic. What am I going to do? It’s been made clear that awful things will happen to my parents and to me if I’m not at this academy, if I don’t become a happy, productive member of the Order.
Burke continues. “This comes as a surprise to many of you, those who thought they could coast through your courses here and still become members of the Order, but those of you with the drive and ambition to make it this far will have ample chance to prove yourselves good enough.” His gaze darts out over the crowd, focusing on Bernadette again, and he gives a quick, sharp nod. “Please, enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He steps down, and the voices in the room grow louder as the first few people stand and walk over to the list.
My throat has gone dry, and my fingers are twisted in the tablecloth like it’s some weird sort of lifeline.
“What’s wrong?” asks Reid. “You’ve gone pale.”
“Mom and Dad . . . If I’m dismissed, there will be consequences.”
“Okay, but you’re not
in any danger of that, right? I know you said you were behind, but you’re not that far behind, right? You’ve always been good at school.”
I laugh, a sound more pained than amused. “Regular school, sure, but I’m new to all this nonsense about wards and potions and magic. I’ve barely gotten a handle on my powers, and I’m only now starting to understand the basics. Not to mention, there’s an entire area of history I missed out on learning because I went to human schools.”
“But you’re supposed to be one of the most powerful witches of this generation or something, aren’t you?”
“What? Where did you hear that?”
“That Basil guy mentioned something about it earlier.”
“Powerful, maybe, but I have no finesse, and doing anything with magic other than blasting things with energy has been near impossible.” I meet his eyes. “I’m barely passing my classes.” My gaze strays to Tristan. “I had help . . . kind of, but that’s gone now.”
Reid curls his hand over mine. “You’ve got this,” he says. “And if you don’t, you have time to fix it. You’re smart and capable, and I know you could be the most badass witch here if you put your mind to it.”
Though I appreciate the sentiment, the words don’t make me feel better. At all. He has no idea what it’s been like for me here, so his faith seems misplaced.
“Might as well go see how bad it is,” I say as I stand.
Making my way across the room feels like walking to my execution. When I reach the first year student list, I start at the middle and run my eyes down and down and down . . . all the way to the impressing number two hundred and twenty-two. Well, I’m not the last in the class, so that’s a plus, but if I don’t bring up my grades, I’ll be cut before the end of the year—something I absolutely cannot afford to happen.
I move my gaze to the top, just to see the competition . . . at least that’s what I tell myself. Adrian is at number eighty-four, Devin at fifty-three even though he’s no longer here, and Isobel? My breath stalls. Isobel is at number one, above Tristan who’s at number four with a couple names I don’t recognize in between them. What does that mean for her? Would they really . . . No. Adrian was drunk. He had to have been exaggerating. His words replay in my head: I’d truly pity the person who got between a St. James and perfection . . .
A familiar cologne tickles at my nose as Tristan steps up beside me to read the list for himself. Only a second passes before his whole body goes rigid. He inhales sharply and swallows before spinning around and returning to his parents, jaw tensed and gaze fixed firmly on the floor.
His mom grabs his arm, giving it a shake. And not an encouraging one. Or even a friendly one. Her knuckles are white, and her fingers dig into the fabric of Tristan’s suit jacket.
I can’t see his face, but he hangs his head low like a chastised dog. His whole form screams of discomfort and unease, and his mother’s mouth is twisted with anger as she hisses something into his ear.
Isobel steps up beside me and follows my line of sight. “Why don’t you just go talk to him?”
“I think he’s a little busy right now.” I watch as Bernadette and Allister herd him toward a door in the back corner.
“He’s been watching you all evening,” she says. “Except for when you’ve been casting not so subtle glances at him.”
I hold up a hand. “Nope. Not happening. We’re not having this conversation.” I tilt my head toward the lists. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Isobel flushes. “Thanks. It’s just the preliminary ranks, and there’s no way I’ll still be there by the end of the year, but as long as I’m in the top twenty or so, I’m guaranteed good job placement with OSA.”
She follows me to my table and gives Reid a wave as she seats herself in the chair Adrian vacated.
“So . . .” says Reid.
“Two hundred twenty-two.”
He lets out a whistle, and Isobel flinches. I guess she hadn’t looked at my ranking—or hadn’t gotten down that far.
“So, we’ll work out a more rigid studying schedule for you, and I can—”
“You can’t spend all your time tutoring me,” I say with a pointed look. “You already do enough. I’m not in danger of being cut this quarter, and all that research you’ve been doing will eventually pay off. We’re bound to find something out about my magic and why it’s not working correctly. Once that problem gets solved, it’ll probably come easy to me considering Basil is constantly mentioning how powerful I am.”
I lapse into silence, my head running through what I need to do to make it through this quarter, as Reid and Isobel converse around me. My eyes stray to the door Tristan went through with his parents. At least ten minutes have passed, and they haven’t come out yet. What could they possibly be doing in there?
“Selene,” says Reid in an amused tone that tells me this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get my attention. He pointedly looks from my face to the door I’ve been staring at. “I’ve never seen you moon after someone like—”
“I’m not mooning,” I snap. “I’m . . . worried.”
He holds up a hand. “Whatever it is. Your eyes follow him, and you constantly search him out in the room. St. James or not, there’s clearly something going on there. And if he didn’t have an awareness of you just as intense as yours of him, I’d be trying to talk some sense into you. Hell, I might try anyway. I mean, hello, he’s a St. James . . .” He smirks. “Still, I have a feeling you’re not going to hear another word I say until you go over there and figure out what’s going on, so go.”
I open my mouth.
“Go,” says Isobel. “You know you want to.”
She’s right. They both are. So, I go.
The door leads to some back hallway, maybe a maintenance passage. There are various fixtures that look like they have to do with the operation of a building. One might be a boiler, and there are pipes overhead and things that look like fuse boxes on the wall. The St. James family is around the corner somewhere, out of sight but not out of my hearing.
“. . . embarrass us like that? That little nobody has no business being better than you in any way,” hisses out Bernadette, the words sounding somehow colder in her crisp accent. “How could you let this happen?”
“I don’t know,” Tristan replies in a strained voice, his own accent more prominent now.
“You don’t know? How can you not know? Haven’t you been attending your classes? Doing your work?” Bernadette’s heels clack against the floor as if she’s pacing, and in my head, I imagine she’s flailing her arms about.
I know why his grades might have slipped: the binding spell. Odds are this is when he blames it all on me or on Isobel since his mother’s ire seems to already be falling her way. But he doesn’t.
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. My grades are nearly perfect,” he says.
“Nearly perfect? That’s not good enough. You can’t let that little wench beat you.”
“I’m sure you can buy my way to the top like everyone else’s parents if that truly worries you,” says Tristan with an edge of sarcasm.
But Bernadette isn’t hearing it. “We’ve already wasted enough money on you. Too much if you ask me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m trying my best. I—”
The sound of a smack echoes through the narrow space as Tristan’s words cut off.
Did she just . . .?
“Don’t you talk back to me. Your sister never would have let this happen.” The words are hissed and edged with ice.
Allister finally speaks up. “There’s no need to bring her into this, dear.”
Dear? He calls that horrible woman dear?
“I’ll bring my grades up. This is only the first—”
“You will be the top of the class, Tristan, or there will be consequences. I have put too much work into negotiating an arrangement with the Daoming family. You will not mess this up.”
Arrangement? She can’t mean . . . marriage?
; “Yes, Mother.” His voice is quiet and strained. The edge of anger has worn off, and he’s back to that robot tone.
Bernadette’s voice drops low, harsh. “As to the next matter, what, pray tell, have you done to have that Andras bitch sniffing after you so fervently?”
“I don’t know, Mother,” he snaps. There’s an edge of annoyance in his tone now. “I did what you wanted me to and tried to find out about the shifters and where they might hide, but she doesn’t know either.”
What the hell? He was spying on me and reporting back to his mom?
Tristan continues, “Do you want me to keep encouraging her? Seduce her maybe? Would that make you—”
Another smack.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that.” I can almost feel the chill in her voice. “You are to have no further contact with her, and if you expect me to continue paying your way, you will be at the top of your class. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mother,” says Tristan in a low, sad voice.
“Come, Allister. I need another drink.”
“I’ll be out in a minute, dear,” responds Allister. “I’d like to speak with Tristan for a moment.”
The clack of heels comes in my direction, and I duck behind the might-be-a-boiler thing before Bernadette rounds the corner. She straightens her dress and smooths a wayward hair behind her ear. Spots of red rest high on her cheeks, but her face is carefully blank in an expression I recognize well. It’s the one her son so often wears. As she exits the hallway and returns to the ballroom, I turn my attention back to Tristan and his dad.
“I don’t understand what more she wants from me,” says Tristan, an edge of pleading in his tone. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know you’re trying. Your mother loves you,” replies Allister. “She only wants what is best for you.”
“But not if what’s best for me isn’t best for her.” Tristan’s voice breaks a little on the last word, and he sniffles softly.
“You know that’s not true,” says Allister, his tone chastising. “Now, pull yourself together and meet us outside. There are still a few people I’d like you to speak with.”