Good Witches Don't Cheat (Academy of Shadowed Magic Book 2)

by S. W. Clarke

  As I said it, the doors opened.

  In came Liara Youngblood, alone and steel-eyed. I’d never seen blacker hair, never seen darker eyes. Not together, at least.

  Her eyes met mine for a moment, and in that single instant, I recognized it all still there between us. All the animosity. All the distrust.

  A witch had killed her family. She would never forgive me for what another woman had once done.

  “I can’t believe she got to the third round of qualifiers last May,” Eva whispered to me as Liara passed by. “That’s nearly unheard of for a first-year.”

  My eyes stayed on her back as she served herself. “I’m not surprised.” She was a masterful mage for her age. She could summon lightning like the headmistress, and after our combat class together, I knew how agile she was.

  Someday she would be an absolute tectonic force. I just hoped she wouldn’t turn her power on me.

  I returned my attention to Eva. “So, when’s the nerd getting here?”

  She admonished me with a half-smile, her eyes lidded. “He texted me he’s arriving this evening.”

  “This evening? That’s not like Mr. Laced-Up North. He’s going to miss class assignments.”

  “I know, right? Maybe you ought to let him know.” She paused, eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t have a phone, do you?”

  I’d already demolished half my plate, and now I twirled my fork in the air as I stabbed a rasher of ham. “Nope. Haven’t had one since the night I left my old life.”

  “I could get you one, Clem.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t want it. After I got over the withdrawal, I never looked back.” I inclined my glass of OJ toward her phone as I lifted it. “Life has gotten way more interesting than selfies and group texts.”

  “Speaking of which”—Eva leaned toward me like a conspirator—“wait until I tell you about what Torsten texted me last week…”

  My eyebrow went up. “My former combat instructor?” I was always down for some good old-fashioned loving, even if vicarious. “Oh, please do tell.”

  After breakfast and a rundown of Eva’s blossoming love life, we parted ways for a while. I had work to do in the stables, and then we had our class assignments to receive in our common rooms.

  I spent only an hour in the stables that morning; there wasn’t nearly as much to take care of without lessons going on. And, too, the academy’s guardians had the summer off. Guardianship, I’d learned, wasn’t a full-time job until you were out of the academy.

  After I’d seen to the horses and Noir, I showered in my dorm and put on my uniform. Loki was awake by then, and together we headed to Spark’s common room.

  By now, emerging from my dorm, the grounds had grown lively with students. A fae blew past me as I stepped onto the landing, the smell of pine wafting after him. And down below, students had gathered in small groups, their talking and laughter a thread through the natural sounds of the forest.

  “Ugh,” Loki said as we started down the stairs, “why are people so cheerful?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “why can’t they all be curmudgeons who hate anything joyful?”

  “That was redundant. Also, it takes premium effort to achieve full curmudgeon status.”

  I smiled as we came to the ground, passing through the clearing toward the common room. I felt eyes on me, but I ignored them.

  They didn’t see me, I knew. They saw the witch.

  The fire witch.

  The two weren’t the same. I was Clementine Cole, and I was also a witch. The fire witch they saw wasn’t a real human being. She was an approximation of one who contained a dark heart.

  At least, that was what Farrow and I had decided over the summer. We’d had many long chats over dinner and spiced cider.

  And so I ignored their eyes as I tried not to limp too much toward House Spark’s common room. This was my school as much as theirs. And this common room was as much my claim as anyone’s.

  So it was with shoulders back I ascended the tree and came through the enchanted doorway into the common room. As I did, the fireplace shot up to a roar, as it had done every time I’d entered.

  A circle of students stood together, and all heads turned. At the center of that circle stood Callum Rathmore. Midnight-black hair brushing his shoulders, a jaw set like marble, his eyes stormy and scrutinizing.

  “Hello, Clementine Cole.” He leaned against the back of a sofa with folded arms. “You’re late.”

  Chapter Four

  “I’m not.” I set my satchel down with a graceless thud. “I’m exactly on time. Turn and look for yourself.”

  Over the mantel, a massive clock showed the time as exactly nine-thirty, the two slender hands positioned at exact angles. Beneath it, the fire went on roaring in the hearth as though reflecting my feelings.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d had a teacher call me out in front of a group. And I suspected with Callum Rathmore, it wouldn’t be the last.

  My impression of him was quickly souring. Second strike against you, Rathmore. The first strike was when he’d picked me up in the meadow in some strange display of machismo.

  Every other chest in the room inflated with a nervous insuck of air. All eyes shifted to the mantel. Well, except for mine and Mr. You’re-Late Rathmore’s. Except I wasn’t doing anything but stating a direct truth: I wasn’t late. The clock was my testament.

  And so I stood where I was without the slightest inclination to say more.

  He didn’t turn around. His arms remained folded, and his expression hadn’t changed—he wore a persistent, semi-smug knowingness beneath sharp, dark eyes.

  And I got it.

  I got why Eva and Farrow got all twisted up like taffy over him.

  Those eyes promised deep inroads of intrigue, if they’d just stay on you long enough. Oh, the places you could go in those eyes.

  Finally, a throat cleared. Out of the crowd I recognized Jericho, the guardian who had helped me after my fall off Noir last year. He came to my side, whispering, “Actually, we were all here at nine. A text went out yesterday about the change in plans.”

  “A text?” I said, my voice unmasked. “Oh, come on—we’re at a magic academy sending group texts? Can’t we have messenger hawks? Carrier pigeons?”

  A pause. Then, “What’s a carrier pigeon?” one student asked.

  “It’s a pigeon that carries things.”

  The student’s mouth turned down. “I think I prefer texting.”

  That was a good point. Really, an unassailable point. The only argument I had against phones was that, when I’d had one, I spent all my time staring at it. And now that I didn’t have one, the world had come back into color.

  But we weren’t here for that.

  And Rathmore knew it. He finally rose, arms unfolding as he started a circuit through the group. “Someone please send Clementine Cole a carrier pigeon to keep her abreast of House Spark communications.” Then, as he reached me, “Stay after. I’d like to speak to you.”

  It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

  I couldn’t stop my lip from twitching up, a swirl of retorts rising toward my throat. Before any one of them could surface, he brought out a sheaf of papers from behind his back.

  “Now that the house is assembled, I’d like to welcome you back to the academy as your newest professor.” He returned to the couch, where he turned, eyes slicing through the group—and me. “Maeve Umbra has brought me on for the year to train you in fire magic.”

  My mouth formed a straight line, even as I could feel the giddy anticipation almost palpable around me. Beside me, Jericho leaned toward me to say, “Crazy. Some say that guy’s the best fire mage in the world.”

  I stared on. Even as I looked at Callum Rathmore, a part of me still saw the demon from that night. I still saw his hand wrapped around that massive sword. “Who says?” I whispered back.

  “Haven’t you seen his profile in Witches & Wizards? It just came out last month.”

  I fli
cked a glance up at Jericho. “Is that a magazine?”

  He gave me an almost pitying look. “It’s the most popular newspaper in the magical world.”

  “And they call it Witches & Wizards?” I said. “There’s only one witch left in the world to read it.”

  “The newspaper’s two hundred years old, Clem,” Jericho said. “Besides—”

  “Guardian Jericho Masters,” Callum’s voice cut in, as ruthless and effective as sharpened metal. “When you’ve finished your conversation, perhaps you’d like to join us.”

  As Jericho and I both returned our attention to the group, I realized we’d completely missed the proceedings. Everyone had moved to a side, as though an invisible line had been drawn down the center of the common room. And at either end of it stood Rathmore and me and Jericho.

  He’d called us out in front of the class, and not in a nice way.

  Third strike, Rathmore, I thought with grim resolve. That was the moment my opinion of Callum Rathmore took root. My seed of dislike had germinated.

  “Sorry about that, Professor,” Jericho said like an absolute diplomat. “Which side should we move to?”

  Callum lowered his chin, full lips folding. “Would someone like to explain?”

  Blond-haired Gabriel said in his French accent, “He is sorting us into levels—beginner or advanced. We must separate to sides for duels.”

  Duels. Magic.

  All the fire on my tongue evaporated, and my hands retreated into my skirt pockets. There, I found the cold weight of the key, my tie to magic.

  I hadn’t been able to tap into my magic since that night outside Hell. Back then, it had come so simply. So easily. It had come with the Spitfire just when I’d needed her.

  But since then?

  Not a wisp of smoke.

  Fits and starts, Umbra had told me. The magic would come in fits and starts. And yet I had spent the whole summer in a drought, and the vague concern that maybe I wasn’t qualified to continue on in the academy now surfaced with a thunderous beating in my chest.

  Callum’s hands separated, urging us to either side of the room. “Please.”

  And so Jericho and I went to opposite ends, and stood facing one another.

  “The two of you closest to me,” Callum said, indicating a student at each side of the room, “please step forward and begin.”

  As they did, I realized immediately who my opponent would be.

  Jericho Masters, the fifth-year guardian.

  The first duelists were Gabriel and a brown-haired third-year I’d only seen in the dining hall. She was stocky and short-haired and full of the kind of wildness in the way she moved forward that I could only ever hope to replicate.

  I liked her immediately.

  “Come on, Frenchie,” she said with a Kiwi accent, one hand going out in a Matrix gesture. “Let’s see it.”

  They circled one another in the center of the room, and it was in this moment I realized I hadn’t ever seen two fire mages duel. My first surprise was that they hadn’t immediately spouted flames at one another.

  Apparently there was more to this than pointing and shooting.

  “Down him, Maise,” one of the students called out.

  Rathmore raised a hand. “No distractions, please.”

  I rolled my eyes from him to the two fighters. I preferred Torsten’s combat class from last year, when we’d gotten down and dirty and he only applied two rules to the whole affair—neither of which were to eliminate distractions. Because that was part of fighting, after all.

  Then again, this duel was for Rathmore’s evaluation. Which was why, as soon as I’d processed that thought, my mouth opened. “Give him what for, Maise,” I said, both hands cupped at my face.

  The girl’s eyes found me, and they shrank as a tight-lipped smile appeared. Behind her, Rathmore cast me the kind of look that let me know I’d had the intended effect.

  Good.

  But I knew I’d screwed up when Gabe, seeing Maise’s attention drifting, swept an arm out, an arc of flame appearing up the length of his forearm and driving out toward her.

  My hands went down, sitting penitently at my sides.

  She had to leap away; I could have sworn her shoes hissed with the heat. And where I’d expected the flame to have some effect on the oaken floor, it had none at all. Not even a black mark remained.

  Of course; this whole room must be enchanted. Impervious to fire.

  Gabe pursued as Maise evaded, stepping forward with a second blast of flame.

  This time her hand went out, her fire meeting his and repelling it. The two of them crashed off one another in orange waves.

  I stood there, my face sweltering, and finally understood one crucial fact.

  This would not go well for me. These people were like black belts of fire magic, and I wasn’t even wearing a belt. That was the size of the gap.

  Plus—my eyes found Jericho on the other side of the room—my opponent was a fifth-year. A guardian. He was the crème de la crème of the academy. He was the best this place had to offer.

  And what if I got hit by flame? We had healing magic, sure, but third-degree burns were still pure agony until they weren’t. Which made me wish I was in House Whisper with Eva, where we’d be shooting flumes of air at one another.

  Once the first blast of fire had been unleashed, Maise and Gabriel went at each other in a storm of flames. Many times I lost sight of them amidst the orange, but every time they came back into view, neither had any scorch marks on their bodies.

  They wore sweat on their faces and necks, their hair sopping with the heat, and their chests moved like a hummingbird’s, but I saw no indication of burns.

  And I didn’t know why that was.

  Which I added to the list of reasons why Jericho would stomp me. But it also emboldened me. Maybe we couldn’t get burned in here.

  And as Maise finally blasted him with enough fire to get Gabriel to throw his hands up, and then emerged through the flames in a roar of momentum, I understood that it wasn’t just about fire.

  It was about technique.

  She’d gotten the upper hand with her flames, which was why she got the takedown. As she leveraged herself around him, her whole body swinging with her thighs clamped at Gabriel’s neck, I recognized a little bit of my world.

  She’d gotten there with the fire magic, but she’d ended it with good old grit and cunning.

  The two of them hit the floor, both red-faced and perspiring through their uniforms. Gabriel’s hand slapped the tassels of the nearby rug with a dull thump. “I’m done.”

  Maise stood to Callum’s eyes on her, one thumb rubbing under his jawbone in a thoughtful way. “Maise,” he said after a long and almost palpable pause, “advanced.”

  Then, his eyes flicking down, “Gabriel—novice.”

  Gabriel groaned, rolling onto his side and up to one knee while Maise returned to her side of the room to the pleased face of the student who had rooted for her.

  So that’s how it is. We were sorted in front of everyone in a trial by fire.

  As the next duel started, my eyes met Jericho’s across the room. His bore a semi-pitying look, as though he wanted to tell me he was sorry we had to be paired.

  And me? I just smirked at him.

  Sure, my odds were terrible. And sure, I would probably end up with the novices.

  But I was no fledgling fighter, and this was my chance to take on a skillful fire mage. I was ready for some pain, and if he wasn’t careful, I was likely to give some back.

  The next duel ended with both students sorted into the beginner class; the fight had only been about ten seconds long; they’d knocked each other out with a single blast. On it went down the line, until only Jericho and I remained surrounded by a common room full of exhausted, sweaty mages and one Callum Rathmore, still sitting as sharp-eyed and scrutinizing as ever against the back of the couch.

  I slipped off my blazer, setting it neatly overtop an ornate silver vase. When I un
buttoned my sleeves and began rolling them up, faint laughter started.

  Jericho just stepped forward, blazer still on. He wasn’t smiling.

  “All right, Masters,” I said, taking an identical step forward. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The laughter wasn’t faint anymore. But I didn’t care; I had a plan.

  Chapter Five

  Jericho’s hands rose to place as he took a wide stance. I knew from my experiences in Torsten’s class that he could just as easily defend himself, land a blow, or strike out with flame in that stance.

  It was martial artistry combined with fire magic.

  My hands went out the same way, my fingers finding the same position. “You coming, Jericho?”

  “Cole,” Rathmore said in a low admonition.

  “What?” I didn’t take my eyes off Jericho. “We can’t talk during our own duel?”

  A low exhale issued from Rathmore’s mouth, which I knew meant he’d given his begrudging consent.

  Across the room, Jericho hadn’t moved. He rose a foot higher than me, his shoulders almost twice as wide as mine. He was what the dictionary would use as a visual example of a brick house.

  So I had to take every edge I could get.

  I sidestepped left and forward, and Jericho stepped right and away. I had begun an approach and he’d chosen to circle, which meant he was waiting for the hothead to make her first move.

  “Hey, Masters,” I said as I took another step left and forward, “what are you, a fifth-year guardian?”

  His only response was a quick exhale, a little, “Hn.”

  “And yet”—I took another step toward him, and he another to continue the circling—“you’re moving away from me like I’m not just a little old second-year witch who can’t harness her inner fire.”

  The challenge rippled through the students, who made exactly the noises I wanted to hear.

  “Jericho Masters,” I pressed, “are you afraid of the fire witch?”

  The pity Jericho had worn since the moment he’d found out he was my opponent disappeared. Hardness replaced it. “I know what you’re doing.”