by Tarah Scott
I halt abruptly. I shouldn’t want the man who is forcing me over a threshold I swore never to cross. What do he and Raith have to do with the Illumina’s decree against my grandmother? How did she really die? Not for an instant do I believe the police report of suicide. Grams wasn’t capable of killing herself.
Was she?
My heart twists. Grams was sixty-five when I last saw her—middle-aged in these modern times—seventy-two when she died—barely across the threshold of elderly. I expected her to live at least another twenty years. I told myself I would eventually return and demand to know why she’d kicked out a kid whose worst problem had been figuring out how to not get caught sneaking home after curfew. Hell, I hadn’t even reached the really tough teenage years when she exiled me. What did I do that made her hate me so?
I go cold. She hadn’t wanted me. Neither had my parents, who left me on Gram’s doorstep and then disappeared.
I stalk across the sidewalk and hail an approaching cab. The cab stops at the curb as I arrive. I slide inside and give the driver Jax’s address in Yonkers. It’s late. I’m tired. But I have no intention of trotting over to The Academy first thing in the morning just because Ethan Bordeau branded me like livestock.
As the cab pulls away from the curb, I squint at the sigil. It’s delicate yet strong. Real dragon magic. Jax should be able to handle a little dragon magic. I met Jax in Chicago three years ago. He’s the only contact I have here in New York.
Half an hour later, I knock on the dingy wooden door of Jax’s apartment. His mother is a harpy and his father a demon, making him a devious mix, if there ever was one. Right now, deviousness is exactly what I need. A TV abruptly blares in the apartment next door and some guy yells something I can’t make out. On the fourth knock, the door opens beneath my upraised knuckles and Jax beckons me inside with a hurried wave of his hand.
“I’m not being followed,” I say as I enter his tiny apartment.
I know he’ll crane his thin neck and look in the hall anyway. He does. Then closes the door, faces me, and leans against the wood. He’s tall and wiry and his round eyeglasses give him even more of an owlish look than he inherited from his mother.
“What’s that on your hand?” he asks, zeroing in on the sigil before I can speak.
“Ran into a bit of trouble.” I brandish the mark.
He squints at my hand for less than two seconds. “Yeah, that’s not coming off.”
“You didn’t even really look,” I carp.
Jax shuffles into the dingy realm of his living room, an area littered with video game paraphernalia and empty pizza boxes.
“Don’t have to look,” he grunts. “That’s high-grade persuasion, right there. You’re going to do exactly what that spell wants.” He pauses, then faces me as he folds his arms across his thin chest. “That’s a real Illumina spell. Can’t fake those, you know.”
I scowl. “I thought you could hack anything.”
He dashes any remaining hope with a final, “You’re not getting out of that.”
The air leaves my lungs with an audible hiss.
“Looks like an Academy summons.” A quirk of his lip announces he’s impressed.
“Well, they might force me to show up, but I won’t stay,” I say.
“This is the Illumina you’re talking about, Leilah.” There’s genuine awe in his voice, and precious few things evoke that kind of reaction from Jax.
“I’m not playing their game. Not after what they did to Grams. They can’t just drag her name through the mud and expect me to heel when they wave a fucking carrot.”
Jax shakes his head. “That can’t happen. Acceptances come from the school itself.”
Again, I wonder if my name actually appeared on the Stone. The same shiver that zipped down my back when Ethan informed me that I was to attend The Academy returns. Who writes the names on the Stone? How powerful was the mage who created the Stone to have knowledge centuries into the future? The Zidruhin preach that the identity of the Stone’s creator is a dark mystery we aren’t supposed to question or understand, but what do priests know?
I scowl. Stone or no Stone, the Illumina won’t win—won’t control me—not after they ruined Grams’ reputation and stole my home.
“I’m with Grams,” I say. “And that means I’m against—”
“Stop being a baby,” Jax cuts in as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The Illumina sealed the house and initiated court proceedings. You’re not getting the house.”
“It’s mine,” I blurt.
Jax’s intense gaze spears me. “You can’t go home again.” Embarrassment warms my cheeks, but he saves me from a stupid denial by adding, “You want the truth about your grandmother’s death?” He motions with his chin at my hand. “This is your chance.”
He’s right, which I hate.
“That’ll be fifty.” Jax holds out his hand.
I can’t really spare the money, but Jax isn’t much better off than I am. I reach into my bra and withdraw the cash I got from the shifter, count out two fifties, and slap them into Jax’s waiting palm. “Thanks,” I say as I head for the door.
“Be careful,” he calls. “That dragon protection is good stuff, but you never know.”
I halt at the far end of the living room and turn. “Dragon protection?”
He rolls his eyes. “The sigil binds your magic, right?”
Jax really is too smart for his own good. “Yeah,” I say slowly.
“Without protection, you would be left at the mercy of some demon or asshole Margiddian who wants to take advantage of you. Dragon protection is serious shit. Still…” He shrugs.
“There’s a protection spell in the sigil?” Why hadn’t I sensed that? “Thanks.” I say, then hurry from his building and step into the cold for the last time this night.
I keep my head down, but keep an eye on my surroundings. My place is a quick jog five blocks down and two over from Jax’s place. Just far enough to enter an even worse part of town. What would it be like to stroll home instead of walking fast while pretending to appear nonchalant? I picture Stony and I eating breakfast in Gram’s sizeable kitchen. I’d always wanted to learn how to really cook. That kitchen is the perfect place to learn. My fingers itch to leaf through Grams’ potion books. She wrote everything down. I could easily take over the potionary business and be a true and respectable witch. God, what would that even look like?
Ten minutes later, I climb my building’s rickety stairs to the second floor. The wards I put in place almost hum like a live wire at my approach. My keys jingle loudly in the darkness as I unlock my apartment door. I open the door a few inches and wait until Stony’s snout appears in the crack.
“All clear?” I whisper.
She snuffles and turns back into the apartment.
Stony, a white micro pig with one black ear, is on the small side as micro pigs go, maybe forty pounds. She’s not one for English. She’s an equal-rights familiar who expects me to interpret her range of grunts, squeaks, and squeals as often as she has to deal with my words. When she was a piglet, we were fairly well balanced—an equal fifty-fifty—although, with the passage of time, communication is downright ridiculous. The last time she spoke English was nearly a month ago, and only because she wanted Chinese takeout. We’ve been together only three years, but I trust Stony with my life. Having to deal with grunts and squeaks in lieu of words is a small price to pay for safety and loyalty.
I flip on the light and survey my studio apartment. Furniture consists of a futon, a plastic lawn chair I found in a dumpster and a tiny, plastic table I got at a yard sale. The table is wonky. As I toss my keys down, even that sleight weight makes it wobble.
I spin left, drop onto the futon, and fall back. Something sharp digs into my thigh. I shift my leg and lift a fork. On the floor to the left is an empty carton of Chinese fried rice I’d left in the fridge. I give Stony a glare. She doesn’t care. She’s already comfortably sprawled under the window, snor
ing.
“Clean up after yourself,” I mutter.
She snores louder.
I stare at the sigil glittering on the back of my hand. If Jax is right, I can twist this to my advantage.
I roll onto my stomach. “Stony, wake up.”
She flicks an ear.
“You’ll have to get up early,” I warn.
She’s going with me. I don’t want her locked in the apartment in case I can’t get back. More than one rumor claims The Academy is a one-way trip.
Stony lifts her head. I read her look. She doesn’t do ‘early.’
“Got an appointment at the Illumina Academy in the morning,” I say. “Summons, rather.”
This time, she grunts, “Illumina?” in her cute piggy snort.
Stony’s not a fan of The Academy, but for entirely different reasons than mine. Several months ago, we passed a couple of Academy students sitting outside a Starbucks. One of them called her a ‘porker’ and said she’d make a tasty side of bacon. He hadn’t known what thin ice he’d treaded.
I squirm onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Exhaustion washes over me. I’d been stressed before Ethan introduced himself and made things worse.
“Trouble follows me like shadows,” I groan.
It’s a phrase Grams used to say, but not one most witches would make a habit of using. Grams thought that fearing a word like ‘shadows’ was just plain silly. She’d garnered criticism for that stance. Still, how could anyone think she would stray to the dark side? She was nothing but light. She’d surrounded her shop with crystals to encourage the light to remain long after nightfall. We positioned herbs throughout the house to encourage harmony and peace—and, generally, we had peace.
Memory jumps to a fuzzy view of Grams leaning over me, chanting powerful words, her face drawn with fear. A prickle creeps up my spine. Behind her, candles flicker in the nooks and crannies of a cave wall. When was I ever underground with Grams? As a jumble of images follow, I sit up abruptly, unwilling to remember more. Tonight, I’ve had enough of the past.
It’s tomorrow that worries me, now.
Chapter Five
ETHAN
Of Mages and Students
I stand at the window in Raith’s office and watch the sun’s early rays dapple the gray Mercedes that glides up the school’s drive. Olympia, the Grand Witch, Head of the Illumina Council that controls all Illumina Academies and ensures the Hell Gates remain sealed, has come to set up the first virtual world created since virtual worlds were outlawed during the Shadow War.
I release a breath. I’m not looking forward to our war games this year. A virtual Shadow world is a space that swallows light. Without light, love cannot grow. Hate and fear are sure to slither like brackish water in this created void. That reminds me too much of the myriad of nights Raith, Blade, and I prowled the streets of New York stopping crimes the NYPD had no idea were taking place while we searched for the source of The Shadows. Little had we known they were waiting in our dreams.
The virtual Shadow world is a huge undertaking, even for the Grand Witch. But I wonder if there’s more to her visit, even more than her concern over Miriam having killed herself while practicing Shadow magic: she’s unearthed news of Damien.
My fire warms. We kill Damien, The Shadows cease to exist. At least, that’s the theory. I’ve lived long enough to heed caution when dealing with demigods. The last time someone other than a god tried to kill a demigod, Yissa, son of Erra, the god of plague, sent the Black Death in retribution for the attempt on his life. I doubt Damien will go as quietly.
The Mercedes stops in front of the building. If we do manage to kill Damien, that will lead to the next big crisis: do we open the Hell Gates? Olympia has kept the gates closed, despite efforts by demons and religious zealots to break the spell. Even some among the Zidruhin want the gates opened. One would think that the followers of the ancient god of angels—the god responsible for hell’s creation—would accept that if their god wanted the gates open, he would open them himself. Interestingly enough, Elohim has remained silent on the matter.
I grimace as Olympia’s driver opens her car door and she steps out. Even Elohim might think twice about tangling with the Grand Witch of the North. She has no intention of relinquishing her power.
Five minutes later, Raith’s assistant, shows Olympia into Raith’s study. I nod thanks to Madeline and she closes the door on her way out of the room.
Despite her great age, Olympia’s skin is virtually wrinkle-free and, while the sparkle in her eyes lends a light-hearted, youthful appearance, she’s anything but a dust-sprinkling fairy.
The Grand Witch settles into the Spanish leather chair in front of Raith’s desk. Head held high, she surveys the room as if she’s seated on a throne and holding court. But then, I suppose she is.
“Ethan.” Her smoky voice is deep for a woman.
Even though we both protect Margidda, Olympia’s a schemer, yet her voice fascinates, slides under your skin. Somewhere in her veins, Fae blood must flow.
“Grand Witch.” I angle my head, then sit to her left, and we wait.
Two minutes later, Raith enters followed by Blade. So, the Fae got Raith’s message last night. I send him a look that says we’ll talk about Ciarah after this meeting. Blade gives a barely perceptible nod and, ever the charmer, approaches Olympia. His smile melts her like butter. She extends a hand. He grasps her fingers and brushes his lips across her knuckles.
“Blade.” A coquettish gleam lights her eyes.
“An honor, Mistress Olympia,” Blade murmurs.
She watches him saunter to the window as Raith settles behind his desk. Raith and Blade are polar opposites. Blade enchants women. Raith…well, Raith demands loyalty.
“I’ve found him,” Olympia says without preamble.
My heart picks up speed. Am I right? Has she found Damien?
“The perfect man to fill the position as Headmaster of Illumina Academy New York,” she says. “Mage Edd Domini, Master Extraordinaire of potions, brews and concoctions.”
“Never heard of him,” Raith says.
I haven’t heard of him, either, which is odd. Still, there must be something extraordinary about the man if Olympia chose him.
“Impeccable credentials,” she says. “He is Italian. You will love him.”
“I’ll consider him,” Raith replies.
“Ah, but he’s already hired, my dear,” she says. “He’s waiting in the library.”
Raith arches a brow.
She waves dismissively in my direction. “You’ll see him settled.”
“I thought we were going to discuss candidates,” Raith says coolly, but I note hesitation in his eyes.
Leave it to Raith to be blunt.
The subtle compression of Olympia’s lips reveals her irritation. “There is nothing to discuss. As you know, Leilah Crowe being named a High Potential has caused a disturbance in the houses. House Maywen is demanding we deny her entrance into The Academy.”
I tense.
“Perhaps they’re right,” Raith says.
“Are we going to allow the Houses to dictate who attends The Academy?” Blade asks.
Olympia grimaces. “No. But that doesn’t mean I can ignore their concerns.”
Blade laughs. “Forgive me, Grand Witch, but I’ve known you to ignore concerns far more serious than this.”
Her eyes glow. “More serious than a White Witch—a White Witch powerful enough to have replaced me—who has crossed over to The Shadows?”
Blade half smiles. “Miriam Crowe hasn’t been drafted into The Academy.”
The glow vanishes and Olympia’s eyes darken. “No, she hasn’t. But I want to inspect Miriam’s shop.”
“We are still investigating,” Raith says. “As is Zadkeil.”
She bestows an indulgent smile. “We cannot count on Zedkeil to share every detail. I knew Miriam. I may be better qualified to detect the source of The Shadows she used. Meanwhile, you and Ethan can welco
me Domini and see him settled in.”
I smile, but only because it’s expected.
“Blade, you will take me to Miriam’s home,” she says.
We’re on edge with Leilah’s impending arrival. I’m betting Blade is in no mood to deal with Olympia’s machinations. Yet, with her power and position, we cannot refuse.
“Will two this afternoon suffice?” Blade asks.
Her mouth thins and I can tell she’s preparing to insist they leave right away, but her assistant arrives, a slim male with a self-important swagger. He whispers in her ear and Olympia stands abruptly.
“If you’ll excuse me, Gentlemen?” Without another word, she leaves.
I look at Raith and Blade. “What was that all about?”
Blade glances at the door. “Can’t be good,” he says.
I hate it when he’s right.
Chapter Six
LEILAH
Back to School
With the way the dragon’s damned sigil burns my skin, I know there’s no turning back. It’s nine in the morning as I crack the twelfth egg and drop it into the frying pan. Despite feeling like I’m marching to my death, I’m determined to make Stony’s breakfast as I do every morning. Even though she’s a micro-pig, Stony eats enough for a full-sized hog. Her grocery bill is four times the cost of mine.
“Time to chow down,” I announce.
Stony’s grunt announces her bad mood, and not only because she’s awake before noon. She watched me cook and knows I’ve used the last of our eggs, so her breakfast is at least a dozen eggs short.
“Suck it up, Buttercup,” I say. There’s apology amidst my sarcasm.
She stares at me through her beady black eyes and heaves a sigh. Apology accepted. She likes her eggs runny, so, after a minute of stirring, I switch off the stove, grab the pan’s handle and squat beside her dish. I scrape the eggs into her bowl. As I slide the spatula under the last egg, she knocks my hand. I can’t miss the caring concern in her eyes. She’s indicating that the last egg is mine. My eyes mist. Her ears flick back as she attacks her breakfast with gusto.