by Tarah Scott
Then I whirl on Ethan. “When is this sigil coming off?”
He hesitates, then says, “When you graduate.”
Or when I kill Raith Vanderkoff.
Chapter Twelve
ETHAN
Moody Vampires
I reach Raith’s office to find him sitting behind his desk, cell phone pressed to his ear as if he hasn’t just practically challenged Ciarah to a death match.
I don’t wait for him to get off the phone. “What the hell was that all about?”
“We look forward to seeing you, Carter,” he says into the phone. “Someone just came in.” A pause. “Yeah, it’s Ethan. I’ll talk to you later.” Raith disconnects the call and places the phone on his desk. “That was Carter. He’ll be here for the War Games next week.”
“Forget Carter,” I snap.
“She’s out of control,” he replies before I can say more. His tone is colder than ice. A warning if ever I’ve heard one.
I stare. “What are you talking about?”
Raith isn’t one to give in easily. So, of course, he waits a long moment before saying, “You know it’s true. Her last few lifetimes, she’s become more and more volatile. Now she’s a street witch. She’s going to get herself killed, or worse, and take down others with her.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” I say.
He shakes his head. “It’s undeniable.”
“If you push her like this, she’ll let us strip her powers.”
His face remains an unreadable mask. “That’s the preferable solution.”
“What?” I can scarcely believe my ears. “She’s wielded magic her entire existence. She—”
“Look what it’s gotten her,” he cuts in. “In the fifteenth century, she was burned as a witch in Great Britain and again in Salem. Remember?”
I remember. We hadn’t reached her in time to stop the English burning. When witch mania reached the New World, all five of us knew Ciarah would show up. She did.
“Remember, Persia?” I ask. “She was revered as an oracle.”
“It seems she hasn’t learned a thing since then.”
The anger behind his glare startles me. Something is dreadfully wrong.
I recall my sigil on her hand. The magic had burned her. I should have seen to the wound. I’ll have Lacy look at it.
“She used her magic on you,” I say. “She’s never been this powerful. Name another student who’s ever conjured magic while wearing my sigil.”
He shrugs. “That only proves my point. She’s dangerous.”
“I’m not buying it,” I shoot back. Then I understand. I sink down into the chair to my left and say in a gentler voice, “Stripping her of her power won’t protect her.”
His eyes darken and I see part of the old, vicious vampire lurking close to the surface.
“The last thing we want is for her to be vulnerable, especially if The Shadows return,” I say.
“If?” His lips curl in derision. “There’s no ‘if.’ Damien won’t rest until he’s found his Demon Bride. You never did like facing the hard truths.”
It’s my turn to scowl. “Not true. I’m just not a fatalist like you.”
“Realist,” he corrects. “She’s going to get herself killed. She needs a lifetime or two without magic.”
“Are you forgetting those early years?” I ask.
“I haven’t forgotten a thing,” he snaps. “Despite the struggle, she was better off before her magic came into fruition.”
“Struggle?” I repeat. “She was a mess. Half the time she hid from her powers, the other half, she feared she was going mad.” I release a breath. “She’s a witch. Magic is who she is.”
“Bullshit.” The ice mask returns. “Did you get the damn howling night pig off the grounds?”
“I didn’t have to. It shifted into a hawk and flew away. You didn’t have to be so cruel.”
“It’s cruel to let her go on as she is.” He scowls. “The howling night pig shifted into hawk form and flew away? It’ll be back. They’re stubborn as hell.”
“Loyal,” I say. “Leilah is fortunate to have such a familiar. I didn’t think there were any left. I wonder if Leilah knows what the creature is. If you’re right, and The Shadows return, Leilah will be fortunate to have the creature protecting her.”
Raith grunts. “Keep an eye out for it.” He stands, signaling the end of our conversation. “When it returns, I’ll need to kill it.”
“Kill it?” I blurt. “Why?”
Raith flashes a cool smile. “I don’t think it likes me.”
Chapter Thirteen
LEILAH
Longthorpes or Middlewiches?
In the shower the following morning, I examine the remnants of the burns on my hand. Yesterday afternoon, Ethan ordered me to go to the infirmary and have the burn looked at. Lacy, the healer, is quite good. Only the barest of scabs is visible. By this afternoon, I’ll be as good as new.
I skip breakfast. I’m in no mood to face the stares and whispers of the other students. I slow my walk along the campus walkway and look left—south—in the direction of the apartment I shared with Stony. Might she have returned there? At least there are plenty of holes in that dump for her mouse form to squeeze through and get inside. I return my attention to the pavement and pick up the pace. I’m stupid to worry about her. She’s not helpless, not by a longshot. She can turn into pretty much any animal and eat almost anything. Hell, by now, she’s probably lying on a plush carpet in some old lady’s home in the guise of a cat—a well fed cat. Still, I can’t help worrying.
So far, all I’ve gotten from The Academy is trouble, and separation from Stony. I had thought I could get close to Raith Vanderkoff and learn something about Grams’ death, but yesterday assured me that particular idea is about as idiotic as they get. He clearly doesn’t like me. Why should he? Aside from Blade and maybe Ethan, no one else wants me here.
Truth is, I have no one to blame but myself for getting nowhere in finding out what really happened to Grams. I wasted my first two weeks in New York grappling with the past, then got drafted into The Academy. I’ve got to make a plan, a real plan that will force the Illumina’s hand.
I finally locate my 102 Conjuring classroom in Redwood Hall. I sigh in relief. As with Miss Mack’s class, when I step into the room, the sigil on my hand feels feather light. In the last few days, I’ve grown accustomed to the damn thing, but I can’t deny I’m glad to be rid of it, even for a couple hours.
Unlike Miss Mack’s classroom, this room is filled with desks and shelves of books. Spell books, I imagine. I notice the same thirteen-year-old kid I’d seen in Miss Mack’s class. He sits at the back of the room. I pick a desk near his. Other students filter in and find seats, and a short balding man wearing a wizard’s robe strides into the room. I want to laugh, but he radiates an endearing quality that kind of makes me like him.
He lays an old satchel on the desk at the front of the class, then faces the blackboard. He picks up chalk and says, “I am Mr. Cornwall,” as he writes his name on the board. He next writes, Is all magic equal? Then he faces the class and says, “Witch or Wizard?” He scans the room.
“Middlewich is better,” a guy calls out.
The Middlewich clan has been at odds with the Longthorpes from the beginning of time. As mages and wizards are masters of potions, the Middlewich clan brags that their magic is better than that of the Longthorpes. I have yet to see any evidence they’re right.
“Is that why you’re wearing a wizard’s robe?” a girl asks. “Are you finally going to show the Longthorpes that Middlewiches rule?”
“On the contrary,” he says. “I intend to demonstrate the synergy.”
The students groan. He turns and, again, writes on the blackboard. It’s a simple conjuring spell, something I could accomplished when I was ten. Written in Latin, of course. Most believe the old language has more power than other languages. Grams taught me that power comes from the witch.
The
door opens and Fran enters.
“Thank you for joining us, Ms. Shelton,” he says.
She smiles at him from under her lashes. “Sorry, Mr. Cornwall.” She slides into an empty seat in the second row and leans forward as if anticipating the fall of pearls from his mouth.
Mr. Cornwall scans the room. “Who wants to try this quick spell?”
A girl of about eighteen raises her hand.
He nods at her.
“Ignem spirans draconem,” she says.
A shimmer appears face level to the teacher’s left, then evaporates in a puff of smoke.
He lifts a brow. “Any idea what went wrong?”
The girl slumps in her chair. No one replies.
“Anyone else wish to try?” he asks.
A guy stands, tall, with dark hair, probably of the Penncarrow clan. He has the cocky attitude common among young wolf shifters. I hide a smile. This fine male specimen is sure that brute strength will call forth magic. All creatures in Margidda have some sort of magical powers, but witches—and yes, those of Middlewich clan—are the embodiment of magic. Still, this young wolf should be able to conjure a small fire-breathing dragon.
“Ignem spirans draconem,” he booms.
To his credit, a small fire-breathing dragon appears near the window to our left.
Whoops and applause go up. I glance around the room. These are High Potentials and they’re impressed with the conjure of a small fire-breathing dragon?
The dragon screams and breathes fire—then disappears in a bigger puff of smoke than did the girl’s dragon. The shifter drops back into his seat.
“What happened?” a girl asks.
Mr. Cornwall lightly punches his stomach. “You must pull the magic from your center, then push it out with your will. That applies to Longthorpe, Middlewich, and anyone else who uses spells of any kind.”
“Everyone knows that,” another girl says.
I’m betting this girl hails from the Middlewich clan. She would know how to call forth a dragon.
“Ignem spirans draconem,” she says in a clear voice.
A dragon twice the size of the others appears to the teacher’s right. The dragon bellows fire. Mr. Cornwall moves faster than I would have thought possible for a man of his size and dives for the floor just in time to miss being turned into toast. The girl tosses me—me—a satisfied look.
Fiddlesticks.
“Fire breathing dragon,” I mutter.
A dragon twice the size of hers appears. Both dragons scream. The smaller one swoops right in an obvious attempt to get behind my dragon. My dragon whirls. His huge wings brush the heads of the front-row students. They duck as his wicked tail sweeps books from a front row desk. Screams go up as the dragons breathe fire on one another. Mr. Cornwall leaps to his feet and shouts something in a language I don’t understand. Both dragons evaporate.
He faces the students. “Thank you, Ms. Hanson and Ms. Crowe, for demonstrating today’s lesson.”
Ms. Hanson shoots me a dagger-filled look and says, “I understand the lesson perfectly well. I just didn’t feel the need to show off. But what can you expect from a Crowe? She probably threw in a little black magic for good measure.”
Fury rams through me. “My grandmother didn’t consort with Shadows,” I snap.
“Everyone knows she died using Shadow magic,” Ms. Hanson says with cruel satisfaction.
I leap from my seat and shout, “Muzzle.”
Something that looks like string cheese stretches across the girl’s face. Laughs and cries of ‘Oh my God!’ and ‘Look at that,” along with laughter, fills the room. The girl screams. Well, she screams as best a person can when their mouth is covered by magical sting cheese with the strength of duct tape. Duct tape is some strong shit, evidenced by the girl’s futile yanks on the muzzle.
“Ms. Crowe,” Mr. Cornwall’s voice rings out above the din.
The students quiet, all except the girl who’s muzzled. She continues her muffled screams and continues her attempts to tear the muzzle off her mouth.
The teacher motions with his chin toward her. “Do you mind, Ms. Crowe?”
I do mind, but say, “Muzzle remove,” and the muzzle disappears midscream.
The girl’s ear-piercing scream causes me to wince.
Muzzle girl whirls on me. “You bitch. Do you know who I am?” She starts toward me.
“Tut, tut,” I say in a low voice. “The next muzzle won’t be so pleasant.”
She halts, eyes wide. Then fury returns in full force and she spins toward the teacher. “Mr. Cornwall, I demand satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction?” I repeat. “What, like a duel?”
“Be careful,” someone whispers, and I realize it’s the thirteen-year-old kid.
I look at him. He’s giving me a pleading look and shaking his head almost imperceptibly. What’s wrong with the kid?
“I don’t want to have to talk to my father about this,” the girl snaps.
“Have a seat, Jennifer,” Mr. Cornwall says. “This is a magic class. Magic will sometimes run amuck.”
The girl’s eyes narrow. “Either report her or I will. Olympia will not be pleased to learn her favorite niece was attacked by another student.”
“Attacked.” I snort. “You want to see attacked—”
“That’s enough,” Mr. Cornwall cuts in. “Ms. Hanson, take your seat. You, too, Ms. Crowe.”
There is no mistaking the steel in his voice. Wow, the short bald guy has balls. I like that.
“Please sit, Ms. Crowe.”
I drop back into my seat. Jennifer looks from him to me, then sits back in her seat. The glare she throws my way says her grudge against me has gotten very personal. So this is what it’s like to be popular?
Chapter Fourteen
LEILAH
Jailbreak
That afternoon, I start down the maze of garden paths that leads to the dining hall when Thomas emerges from the tall hedges to my right and blocks my way. He’s bigger than me, but lean from strenuous exercise, not because he’s a fighter.
“You recognized them, didn’t you?” he accuses.
“Them?” I repeat.
His face darkens as the delicate Ariel from Reaping Preparedness class steps out from behind the hedgerow. “She ought to recognize them,” Ariel says. Hatred radiates from her. “You know where they got those Shadows Miss Mack showed in class, don’t you?”
“We all know,” Thomas says before I can ask what they’re talking about. “They came from Crowe Potionary.”
His words hit me like a punch in the gut.
Ariel steps closer to Thomas. In the afternoon light, she reminds me of a shrew more than a delicate fairy. “You were talking to them, weren’t you?” she hisses. “I heard you. You called them beautiful.”
I want to reply, but all I can think about is the accusation. The Shadows from Grams’ Potionary?
“She was probably chanting black magic.” Thomas rakes his eyes down my body. “What else can you expect from a Crowe?” He looms over me. “You’re dangerous.”
Anger whips through me. “That’s right.” I clench my fists. “And you’d better fucking remember that the next time you spread lies about my grandmother.”
Ariel’s eyes flick to my clenched fists and she pulls Thomas back a step. “You’ve been warned, Crowe. We don’t allow black magic here.”
“Leave,” Thomas says. “If you want to survive.”
Survive? I keep my gaze locked on them as they step around me and head down the path. The instant they vanish from view, the hedges to my left shake.
“Be careful,” someone whispers, and I recognize the voice of the thirteen-year-old kid from Defensive Magic class. He pushes through the bushes. The knees of his pants are stained with mud. I squint at the dirt smudges on his cheek, then glance in the direction Thomas and Ariel went.
I look back at the kid. Oh, no they didn’t.
“Did they do that to you?”
He doesn�
�t reply.
I will beat that fucking asshole and his sidekick Ariel. “You’re the one who needs to be careful, kid,” I manage in a low voice.
He nods and scurries away.
I head to the dining hall and eat, but can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched. I shove my tray aside and head back to my dorm. The feeling of being followed persists and I’m convinced I’m a victim of some kind of spell. I break into a run. It’s with some sense of relief that I finally reach my room and lock the door. I back up to the bed. I wish I could set wards, but I can’t, not with the damn sigil embedded in my flesh. The best I can do is shroud my room and myself in white light. The back of my legs bump into the edge of the bed and I drop onto the mattress.
I burrow beneath the blanket, wishing Stony were here. I need to find her. Maybe I can convince her to assume the shape of a proper mouse and return to The Academy with me. Why did she leave?
She’s not Grams. She isn’t. And she’s not my parents. She flew close before she left. My throat constricts. Had that been goodbye? I bury my head in my pillow. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she can survive without me. But I can’t survive without her. I try to picture myself alone in Grams’ big house, but can’t.
By the time the moon rises high in the sky, I’m done tossing on the bed. I can’t live with the stress of wondering why Stony left.
As I shrug into a black hoodie, the Penncarrow Hall clock chimes in the common room below, announcing the 11:00 p.m. curfew. Curfews and I have never been on speaking terms. Probably one of the reasons why Grams kicked me out. I don’t follow orders well. Why start now?
I slip from my room and hurry down the dorm hallway as quiet as a cat, a trick I learned when I was thirteen. Grams wasn’t easily fooled. Aside from the spells she cast to keep me inside, she had damned superhuman hearing.
I reach the main doorway, which is, of course, locked with a key and a damned good spell that’s likely to fry the sigil if I attempt to break through. I would have preferred to leave by the front door because that exit offers a shorter route to the wall I plan to scale, but I’ll have to settle for the girls’ bathroom, which has a small window. I turn and hurry back the way I came, then duck into the bathroom at the far end of the hallway. The window has an old-fashioned crank. It probably hasn’t been opened in a decade, but I don’t sense any magic surrounding it. A painted shut window is doable.