by Lucy Auburn
Grabbing for my hair brush, I try to take out last night’s tangles by beginning at the ends and moving up. Halfway through the brush falls apart, rubber insert and pins stuck in my hair, useless handle still in my hand and covered in useless glue. Sighing, I tug the brush half out of my hair, leaving nothing but a bigger rat’s nest behind.
Some phoenix things I’ve gotten used to. This? Not so much. Now I understand why Reena, one of my fellow phoenix students, has started charging for her braiding services, and why Sasha glares daggers at anyone who tries to touch her long black hair. It takes more time and conditioning than I have patience for to turn this mane of scissor-resistant hair into something approaching normal. I’d have to get up at the break of dawn to have time for all that grooming and make it to class before Yohan explodes in fury.
Which reminds me. Eyeing the clock, I gauge how much food I can stuff in my mouth if I leave for breakfast right now, and decide my hair might as well be messy. I’ve got an inner street rat to feed.
I may sleep on fresh sheets and be used to regular meals by now, but breakfast will always be a big affair. There’s no way I can show up to Phoenix Fire class with an empty stomach and make even a candle flame ignite in my hand. Summoning, of the fire or demonic kind, takes calories. Or so I tell myself as I grab my blazer and rush down the stairs two at a time, dodging slower classmates and ignoring the grunts and curses I leave in my wake.
“I’ll get you for that!” yells Laena, one of the lion shifters I know mostly from group combat drills on the weekend. “Next Saturday, Carpenter. There aren’t enough worm demons to save you from my wrath.”
I snort and spare a moment to flip her off before I careen around the corner towards the dining hall. It’s all talk—no one is allowed to truly hurt other students during combat drills, though there are always bruises and cuts that vanish as soon as they’re made. Laena may have a big mouth and a bigger animal form, but I have tricks up my sleeve for our next drill, especially now that it’s cold out.
Frost demons. I’m going to (hopefully) summon some frost demons to liven things up. I haven’t perfected the spell yet—summonings are tricky—but I think I can pull it off if it stays below forty degrees for long enough. And what is a lion, native to the sunny parts of Africa, going to do when faced with a whirling dervish of ice and snow? Nothing, of course.
I’m nowhere near summoning upper demons, or even the middle-of-the-road demons. Sirens are beyond my power, much less something bigger and... well, familiar to me. But I’ll get there.
I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. Even if I’m an old lady in a rocking chair by the time I pull it off, I’ll figure out how to bring the boys to me one last time, just so I can see them again.
In the meantime, I’ve been practicing as hard as I can, and it’s paid off, especially with Jared Fisk. He loves having a Black Phoenix student who can summon demons and throw them at the other team during group combat drills. His favorite thing to do is have me switch sides, just to show all the students what it’s like to face a Grim on the battlefield. I think if he had his way I’d attend his classes and only his classes.
“Dani!” Olivia waves a hand towards me from the opposite end of the dining room. “You’re late. We got you a tray.”
“Thank god.”
I rush over to the table and take the seat she indicates, opposite her and Liam—who, as always these days, has an arm around her waist, hand pressed against her possessively. She loves it, you can tell, which is why he’s far better off with her than me.
I study the tray. “Five types of cereal. Do you know me or do you know me? Thanks Liv.”
“No problem. I know what it’s like when you’re hangry.” She shudders in mock fear. “We’re lucky you don’t open up the gates to Hell and let everything down there out.”
“The gates are fictional,” I correct her, as I open up my first milk and pour it into the first bowl. “They’re more of a metaphor than anything, as far as I can tell. While Grim summoning spells certainly often take the form of a gate...” I trail off as I realize they’re both staring at me in barely-hidden amusement. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“Reading late?” Liam asks. “It seems like you’re always in the library these days.”
I am, I realize guiltily, at least not when I’m trying to force myself to sleep or practicing my summoning skills and Grim abilities. “Just preparing for midterms,” I tell them, as I cram a whole spoonful of cereal into my mouth and swallow it hastily. “We only have two more days of studying after all. And then winter break, then another semester, then three more years... I’m just getting ahead of the game.”
“Still.” Olivia chews her bottom lip, eyes worried. “Just don’t forget to have a life too, Dani.”
“Yeah,” Liam echoes. “And our invitation to come with us to my parents’ lake house is open. No one should spend the winter holidays alone.”
I don’t have the heart to tell them that I’m always alone these days. Ever since that night in the woods when I let something precious slip through my grasp in exchange for my power—and my life—loneliness has nipped at my heels, persistent and impossible to ignore.
I used to think the streets were lonely.
I didn’t know how good I had it then. It’s much harder to survive in the darkness when you know what it’s like to have light in your life. Your eyes never quite adjust the same. That’s what it’s like with me, now that they’re gone. The crater Mateo left in Sara’s backyard with a grenade wasn’t as deep as the hole that lives in my chest now.
But I hide it from my friends, and paste on a friendly smile. “Thanks. I’ll think about it. I’m not really one for lake houses, but you never know.” They still look sad, so I hastily add, “Besides, I won’t be alone here over the holidays. Meyer is staying too. Maybe we’ll train together.”
Olivia perks up. “That’s right, he always sticks around for the winter.”
I frown at her, eyebrows drawing together. “What do you mean, ‘always?’ This is his first year here.”
They blink at me. Liam frowns, and Olivia cocks her head, like the hawk she is in her animal form. Absentmindedly, Liam says, “Oh, right,” but as soon as the words leave his mouth he seems to forget them. He changes subjects almost immediately. “Headed to class yet?”
I glance at the clock and shove as much food into my mouth as I can. Not wanting to spit it all over them, I give them a silent wave and jump off the bench, heading out towards the staircase on the opposite side, taking them two at a time.
It was weird that they forgot this is Meyer’s first year.
Maybe they’re just so lovey-dovey with each other that they’re forgetful these days. Or maybe it’s the fact that the coffee machine in the student dining hall is broken, and everyone is stuck with instant or no caffeine at all these days (except for me and Petra, since we begged the headmaster for access to her office to make coffee in the morning and take it to go.) People don’t function at one hundred percent when decaffeinated.
They must’ve just been confused.
I can’t think of any other explanation for it.
After my morning classes, which were mostly just filled with dire warning on how hard midterms will be, I take the opportunity to nip back to my dorm room and change. Now that the weather is cool, I find myself having to switch from combat clothes to my regular uniform to my wool tights and coat more often. Thankfully all these layers are provided for me by the academy itself, unlike in my street rat days; unfortunately a good number of them come with dark red and gold branding.
You’d think that we were all amnesiacs who would forget what school we’re going to if not for the constant reminder. And if the phoenix weren’t enough, the breast pocket of the coat comes with an extra flourish: the school’s motto, FROM THE ASHES, embroidered just beneath the gold phoenix’s outstretched wings.
One day I’ll find the Gold Phoenix whose golden touch financed all this nonsense and put a stop t
o it myself, I swear. This much branding is more than a little unnecessary. If I ever were on the verge of forgetting I’m a phoenix going to a paranormal school, I’d remember it the second I step out onto the grounds. You can barely walk out there without seeing some twenty-year-old pimply-faced student turn into an animal and leap on the back of another equally pimply-faced student with wings made of fire.
I quickly grab my branded coat and my thankfully unbranded gloves and am on my way out the door when the crinkle of paper stops me. Glancing down, I spot a Phoenix Academy gold-embossed sheet of paper beneath my shoe. Dreading what it might say, I lift my foot and snatch it up off the ground.
It’s a letter from the library.
Specifically, an angry one.
Apparently I never returned The Arcane Arts of the Living and the Dead.
My heart twists with grief and frustration. Lynx would be so pissed at me—but of course there is no more Lynx, not anymore. There’s been no-Lynx in my life longer than Lynx was in my life.
The same is true for Ezra, Sebastian, and Mateo. But time doesn’t seem to close this hole or soothe this ache. It changes, and I forget about it, but each little memory of it brings every emotion roaring back to the surface all over again. If this is the acceptance part of the stages of grief, I’ve got a word or twelve to tell the person who came up with that bullshit, and most of them are four letter words.
Skimming the letter a second time, I pick up the words like last chance, by the end of today and suspended or expelled. Apparently that owl-like lady I met between the stacks doesn’t see accidental book theft as a laughing matter. She wants the book today or else.
I eye the darkness underneath my bed, stomach churning. It’s under there somewhere, next to the dust bunnies and the muffin crumbs, where no vacuum reaches. In the back of my mind I thought someone would swoop in over winter break to deep clean the dorms, and I’d hide away in the library or the dining hall until they were done, then come back to a book-free, spotless room.
I don’t want to look at it and be reminded of what I’ve lost. The last time I held it in my hands I was here, with the four of them, trying to get rid of them before I got too attached. That didn’t work, of course, so I shoved the book under the bed and...
Well. That’s where it’s lived ever since, despite Beatrice Trout’s insistence I return it at once. There have probably been other letters—I glance guiltily to the stack on my desk—but I’ve ignored all of them. This one, though, promises dire consequences if I don’t heed its warnings.
I could return the book now.
But I have the feeling that just touching its front cover will send me spinning into memories I’ve buried, emotions brimming to the surface and spilling over. I’d better wait until after classes—which are currently calling my name.
Right after, I’ll reach under the bed, grab it, and return the book to the library.
It’s just a simple trip down the hall. How hard can that be?
Classes are over, and I feel no more prepared to say goodbye to the book than I was before. It’s silly; the binding doesn’t hold anything between its front and back covers other than spells and diagrams. There’s nothing in it about summoning demons the Grim way, just necromancy and various guidelines about the arcane arts, including severing bonds and forging soul chains.
Most of it is what Meyer scornfully calls dirty magic; he thinks Grims should stick to the old ways, instead of resorting to things like blood sacrifices and human entrails to enslave demons to their will. I have to say I agree with him, and I think the demons would to. The book isn’t something they’d see a reason for me to hold onto.
But it feels like the last part of them I still have in this plane, the mortal plane as they called it, and some superstitious part of me believes that once it’s gone they’ll be gone too.
So I find myself sitting on the edge of my bed, working up the courage to get down on the floor and reach under the bed frame to grab it. Once I’ve got it in my hands, there’ll be no turning back.
I’m going to have to admit to myself that I’m really alone in this world now. What a fucking joke the universe plays on us for believing for a moment life could be different.
With a sigh, I get down on my hands and knees. Peer under the bed into the mess accumulating there. And reach out, through the strands of shed hair, crumbs, and discarded papers, until my fingers touch the thick leather binding. Jerking it towards me, I pull it out and brush off the cover.
It’s the same bold, black leather, the same sharp letters embossed on the cover. Even the smell of it is the same; some delirious part of me is certain that I get the whiff of Lynx’s strong fingers pressed against it.
I bring it onto the bed with me, sit cross-legged in the middle of the mattress, and dare to open it up to look inside.
Same old spells. Same nonsensical diagrams. It falls open to a page near the back, about seventy percent through, and my mouth goes dry.
Here’s the spell we all cast together to free Victoria from the necromancer holding her captive. I remember what it felt to work my newfound powers through them, to have them give into my will and lend me their strength. Summoning lesser demons hasn’t been the same; they’re like feral animals in comparison, small, resentful, and angry. You can put a leash around them and drag them where you’d like to go, but it’s not the dance or partnership I had with my quartet.
Some childish part of me resents that Meyer forced me to give them up. Death might’ve been worth it if I got to have them for just a little while.
But they didn’t want to watch me die, or blame themselves for it, and I couldn’t force them to go through that with me. I cared about them too much—still do, if I’m honest with myself. At the end, when they spoke to me, I don’t know if it was really Ezra saying that they loved me or just my own self-delusion. But I want to believe, in my scarred phoenix heart, that it was real. That those were his words and not just some fantasy I cooked up.
Stupid demons. Stupid heart.
I flip idly through the pages of the book, looking for something that might interest me. I’ve had this thing for months, but it isn’t until recently that I’ve reached a point in my classes where I understand some of it. Here, on page 350, is a spell to make a ghost appear before you; here, on page 417, is a diagram of a demonic worm cut open to show its inner parts.
There’s a spell to use rabbit entrails to turn a still bowl of water into a scrying dish, and a spell to revive a dead plant. A spell to enslave a Risen human to your will, and a spell to drain another’s powers to take them as your own. One of the spells...
Wait.
I flip the pages back, heart beating a rapid tha-thump against my chest, fingers scrabbling, mind screaming.
Here it is: a drawing of a chicken foot going through some kind of transformation process. It starts normal, but curls up with each step, until it’s turned into a black opal-like substance.
Once placed against the skin of the intended target, typically fashioned into a piece of jewelry, the artifact works to drain the powers of whomever you should choose. But be wary: the more it drains, the colder the opal grows, and it may break if it comes to hold too much strength. It is best used for a short period of time, to weaken an opponent, or as part of an agreement for one to use another’s powers in a cooperative spell. Left on a bearer for too long, the opal may weaken them irrevocably—or, if its target is too strong, the opal may break completely and prove useless.
I cast my mind back to remember what exactly happened after that night in the woods. I was so weak after that Meyer carried me back to the academy, up the stairs to my dorm, and set me in my bed. I still had the opal then; its cold surface bothered me, reminded me of them, and so I took it off and...
Leaping from the bed, I grab the bottom drawer of my desk and yank it open, then dump it out onto the ground. Pens roll out. An assigned book I never read thumps to the ground. There’s a few empty granola bar wrappers, and... nothing.
> Nothing at all.
Because he took it that same night. I woke up; I remember that much. There was a figure standing over my bed, a silhouette, just like always. Another bad dream, I told myself, and after that night it never happened again.
But it wasn’t a dream it all. They never were. It was him, checking to see if his plan was working, and then taking the opal, along with my power, for himself.
Which means something worse, something that tears me in two and devastates me too deeply for me to even cry, it’s so wrong.
The demons were never draining my powers.
I didn’t have to say goodbye to them at all.
Chapter 27
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I start to doubt it. After all, I know nothing about Grim powers—or soul bonds. I haven’t even read a book in the library about them.
Because he has them all. He checked every single one of them out.
No. Yes.
Which is worse—that he did it, or he didn’t? Would it be worse to know that I was betrayed by the only Grim I’ve ever trusted, the one who gave me hope that this dark power inside me is nothing to be ashamed of, or worse to know that he was right and the demons were killing me this whole time?
Hours pass as I go back and forth between each option. Dinner comes and goes, but I’m not even hungry—just sick. I pace back and forth on the carpet; I grab the book and skim the appendix, then read every single spell I can get my hands on that might illuminate anything about what’s going on.
I wish there was someone I could go to, some other teacher who could tell me if what Meyer said about soul bonds was true. There’s something in The Arcane Arts of the Living and the Dead about the folly of bonding yourself too closely to demons, but when I look up the spell it describes, it requires an elaborate dance and the sacrifice of twenty-two chickens, something I think I would fucking remember doing. There’s nothing in here about accidentally soul bonding yourself to demons, and certainly nothing about Black Phoenix; it’s all gross occult magic with blood and guts and chicken feet.