by Tarah Scott
I’m startled—and touched—that she’s asking, but before I can reply, Joseph says, “She can’t.”
“She can, if you come with her,” Fran says. “Plus, she’s got her familiar.”
I barely suppress a gasp. The little tattletale knows too much for her own good.
Joseph shakes his head. “She has an appointment with Raith.”
Fran’s eyebrows shoot up. “Have to see Raith, huh? Maybe you have a party of your own going on.”
“Not hardly,” I blurt. “His Majesty has decided I need tutoring.”
She grins and I realize my mistake. “Tutoring?” Her grin widens. “You clearly don’t need a party.”
“It really is just tutoring,” I insist.
She tosses her hair and laughs. “Promise to give me the juicy details later.” Fran starts away, then faces us and walks backward. “It’ll be our secret.”
I groan inwardly, pretty sure that’s code for I’m going to tell everyone the moment I get to the party.
I watch as she turns around and continues toward Silwood Hall and wonder what it would be like to be go with her to the party instead of to Raith’s. Grams said that men were a nice thing, but to never underestimate a woman’s need for the friendship of other women. I haven’t had a lot of female friends. Women tend to avoid the company of pretty women. Too much competition. Fran said she wanted Blade, but that clearly doesn’t stop her from being my friend. She disappears around the science building and I return my attention to the walkway.
Joseph and I reach the administrative building and I get glances from a group of students as the Watchman and I head up the half dozen steps to its oak door. I’m relieved to enter the building.
The Watchman halts inside the door and nods toward the sweeping staircase directly ahead. “Take the stairs to the top floor. If you’re not up to the climb, there’s an elevator there.” He nods right.
I don’t bother to look. I was here four days ago, covered in blood. My stomach does an unexpected somersault as I turn toward the stairs, and I consider the possibility of skipping this damn lesson. First, I would have to get around the Watchman, then I would have to avoid The Three for, well, for the next six months. I can’t help a morbid laugh at the thought and start up the steps.
At the top of the stairs, double oak doors stand open. I cross the hall, knock lightly on a door, and step inside as Raith says, “Come in.”
Of course, Raith looks better than a man has a right to. The sleeves of his white button-down shirt are rolled up and reveal muscled forearms. I note that the dark hairs on the nape of his neck are beginning to curl slightly as if he needs a haircut. I start when a woman rises from a squat in front of a fireplace at the far side of the room. She dusts off her hands then faces us. I know it’s stupid, but embarrassment makes me want to turn and run.
“Rebecca, this is Ms. Crowe,” Raith says without looking up from the papers on his desk.
She reaches me and extends a hand. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Crowe.”
I clasp her hand and say, “Nice to meet you.”
She smiles politely, but I sense a secret beneath that polished veneer. Does she think I’m here for a quickie with Raith? No, even Raith wouldn’t flaunt his one-nighters to his staff. One-nighters? Is that how I think of him. No, I realize. She’s worried that’s what this is. Fuck, she’s in love with him. First, Miss Mack with Ethan. Now Raith’s assistant and him.
“Will that be all Mr. Vanderkoff?” Rebecca asks.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Rebecca hesitates for the barest second, then gives me another polite smile and heads for the door. This woman’s feelings for Raith aren’t like the desperate teenage infatuation Miss Mack has for Ethan. She genuinely cares for him. She reaches the doors and pulls them shut behind her with a soft click.
“Have a seat, Ms. Crowe.”
I jump at Raith’s command and blurt, “That was mean of you.”
He looks up. “You and I will get along better if you stop seeing persecution in everything I do.”
“I’m not talking about me, dammit. Your assistant.”
He frowns in genuine confusion.
I roll my eyes. “Men are such idiots.”
His brows lift.
“She’s in love with you.”
He blinks in shock. Deep shock, I realize with surprise.
“You didn’t know,” I say slowly.
He leans back in his chair. “What kind of adolescent game is this, Ms. Crowe?”
Stony stirs in my pocket. I start to ask if he doesn’t think we’re beyond the formality of addressing each other by our surnames, then realize it’s better to preserve the distance.
I drop into the wing backed chair in front of his desk. “Think what you want. She’s in love with you.”
He opens his mouth to reply, then doesn’t. A thought strikes and I concentrate on what he’s thinking. I start at the sensation of hitting a brick wall. My head—or is it brain—feels like a pool ball bouncing off the inside of my skull.
“I have spoken with your instructors,” he says. “I gather you feel no compunction about using magic anytime you like.”
Wow, he’s unaware I tried to connect with him through our blood pact. “I don’t know how you came to that conclusion, considering I wore that damn sigil,” I say, and mentally cheer that my voice remains steady.
“In fact, the sigil was deactivated in some of your classes. And, lest you forget, you have pushed through the sigil to use magic.”
I shrug. “Isn’t that why I’m here? I’m a High potential. That’s a sign of how powerful I am.”
“Headstrong,” he replies, though I detect no rancor in his voice—damn his soul.
“You don’t like me, why bother with me, at all?” A thought occurs, and I add, “You have to know that I was selling fake IDs. That’s against the law. Why not just turn me in?”
“You think the Illumina doesn’t know about your illegal activities?”
“So, the Grand Witch knows?” I hadn’t considered this possibility. I am beyond stupid.
He shrugs. “I can’t say that such inconsequential news has reached her ears.”
“Why not tell her?”
“You’re a High Potential. Who am I to question who the Stone names?”
A shadow flickers in his eyes and his words in my dream repeat, “They are not who we need fear.”
“Why are you afraid of me?” I ask.
Surprise slips through his cool mask. “If you mean, why do I fear the trouble you make, the answer is, you act before thinking.”
He isn’t completely wrong. But he’s lying. I realize that his secret is closer to the surface than usual. I want so badly to demand to know what he’s hiding, but I can’t pry the truth from him even with magic. Or can I… Just how hard would it be to use a truth spell on him?
“I would think twice about that,” he murmurs.
I jump. What did he say? I would think twice about that?
He can’t read my mind. Can he?
“Think twice about what?” I ask.
“Whatever it is you’re contemplating.”
“Who says I’m contemplating anything?”
He stares.
“What’s tonight’s lesson? How to win a staring contest?”
“The consequences of using magic for personal benefit,” he says.
My mouth falls open. “You’re kidding?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“You’re telling me you never use magic to help yourself?”
“I have lived as long as I have by not being a fool.”
“Just how long have you lived?” I ask.
His expression remains neutral. “Personal details of my life are not a part of this lesson.”
“Personal details like why you didn’t tell me that Blade was the person investigating my grandmother—which makes him the person who judged Grams guilty.”
“You are misinformed, Ms. Crowe. Blade
only reported the facts gleaned from his investigation. One of Blade’s finer qualities is the ability to be objective. He had no personal stake in Miriam’s guilt or innocence. It was the evidence that damned her.”
“Damned her?” I repeat.
I swear, something sizzles in the air.
Raith lifts a brow.
Yes, that sizzle was Stony. She doesn’t like Raith.
“You have you familiar in your pocket.” It’s not a question.
Good. I’m asking the questions. “What evidence damned Grams?”
“You’ve seen the Shadow husks. You’ve seen the hole in her basement.”
“If that’s all you’ve got—”
“Remnants of Shadow magic are unmistakable,” he cuts in. “We detected Shadow magic long before she killed herself.”
“She didn’t kill herself,” I snap.
He angles his head. “Before she accidentally blew herself up.”
“I’m supposed to take your word?”
“Ethan and I have no more personal stake in Miriam’s guilt or innocence than does Blade.”
“The Illumina does.”
“We are not the Illumina.”
I snort. “The fuck you aren’t.”
Stony squeaks.
“Your familiar is to remain in your pocket and not interfere,” he says.
I flash a smile. “You have nothing to worry about—as long as you don’t threaten me.”
“I don’t make threats, Ms. Crowe.”
“You make promises.”
“You wouldn’t see me coming,” he says with such nonchalance that I know he’s not talking out his ass. But then, I never doubted his badassery.
He leans back in his chair. “You have never experienced the effects of using magic for personal gain?”
“Like casting a truth spell on someone to find out if they’re framing an old woman for treason?” I flash another smile.
His eyes flash. Yep. I got him.
“You muzzled a student your first day in class,” he says.
I shrug. “She—”
“—doesn’t like you,” he cuts in.
I wave a hand dismissively. “She didn’t like me before I muzzled her. Are you really telling me this is the lesson?”
“Are you really telling me you have never experienced ill effects from using magic for personal gain?” he counters.
“Everyone has,” I say. “For the record, I’m not an idiot. I don’t go around arbitrarily casting spells on people.”
He angles his head. “What do you use magic for?”
“Not that much.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
I shrug. “I protect myself. Sure, I use magic to clean house, sometimes.” Though not that often. “Who doesn’t?” I add.
“No influencing employers to get a job?” he asks. Before I can answer, he adds, “No, you sell magic.”
I don’t flinch. “We already established my trade.”
“You don’t call that personal gain?” he asks.
“I’m not using magic,” I reply, unruffled.
“Your grandmother taught you magic from childhood.”
I nod. “Of course.”
“What about your parents?”
“I never knew my parents. They left me with Grams when I was a baby.”
I’m surprised by something that looks like compassion in his eyes. No. I have to be wrong. Raith Vanderkoff isn’t capable of compassion.
“So, Miriam was your only teacher,” he says.
He says her name as if he knows her. I lean forward. “You knew Grams?”
“I know all coven leaders. She was the head of her coven—until two years ago.”
Grams knew Raith? I shouldn’t be surprised, but for some reason, I am. I pin him with a stare. “Is that how you discovered she was practicing Shadow magic?”
“If you’re asking if I pretended to be her friend while spying on her, no. We weren’t friends.”
“That much I believe.” Raith is no one’s friend. “You have no concrete proof Grams was practicing Shadow magic. Everything I know—everything I’ve learned since I’ve been here—says The Shadows are insidious. How do you know they didn’t infect Grams?” I hadn’t actually considered this possibility until now, but what if it were true? She might do things she wouldn’t have otherwise done. What fears and anxieties might The Shadows have latched onto in order to infect her so that she might practice Shadow magic? “Bottom line, you can’t prove she did a damn thing wrong. You need concrete proof, something like—like a spell book written in her hand.”
His gaze sharpens.
“The house is mine,” I hurriedly add. “You can’t stop me from living there.”
“That’s not my job,” he says slowly, clearly surprised by my sudden change of topic—and clearly still cogitating on my statement about needing a spell book.
Shit, I fucked up. I stand. “This lesson is over.” I start toward the door and get four paces before an unseen force drags me backward. I gather my will and shout, “Release me!”
I’m nearly thrown into my chair. I glare at Raith. “What the fuck did you do?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Then I understand. “The blood pact.” I promised a two-hour lesson with Raith every Friday night.
Fucking blood pact.
“Shall we begin again?” he asks.
Stony stirs in my front pocket. She’s not happy, but there’s not a damn thing she can do. There’s not a damn thing I can do.
Fucking blood pact.
An hour and forty-five minutes is an eternity when you’re confined to a small room with a stick-up-his-ass vampire—even a gorgeous one. I keep expecting his good looks to diminish as a result of his being a grade A jerk, but no go. I don’t know if that makes being here easier or harder.
Vague images of a tall man flit across my brain. A warm mouth on my body. Impressions of memories, I suspect, of when he drank my blood and—I shiver—I drank his. Memories that have eluded my every effort at recall. Aside from the impressions—and dreams—I haven’t noticed any negative effects of the blood sharing. Except maybe for the betrayal I feel as a result of his complacency in Blade’s deception. The hurt has to be a side effect of the blood pact.
It’s not like I’m friends with Blade. The Three are doing their jobs, despicable as those jobs may be. All I have to do is keep my distance for the next six months—that, and make sure the Illumina doesn’t destroy my house—my first real chance for stability.
“Ms. Crowe.”
My head spins for an instant, then Raith’s face snaps into focus.
He’s staring, brow lifted. “The ingredients for the spell?”
My cheeks heat and his gaze sharpens. I manage an even voice as I run down the list of ingredients used for the spell to cleanse a home of negative energy. He rattles off three other spells that I’m supposed to list ingredients for, then returns his attention to his paperwork.
I comply and, when I’ve finished, frustration has replaced embarrassment. I pin Raith with a stare. “Why are you wasting both our time with this drivel? You have to know I learned these spells by the time I was eight.”
“Patience,” he says without looking up.
“You’re not paying attention.” I wince at my wheedling tone.
He looks up and recites the ingredients I just told him, in the order I gave them.
I roll my eyes. “Everyone knows those are the ingredients for that spell.”
“How about the spell to contact the dead?” he asks.
I hesitate. “That’s one helluva jump from grade school spells.”
“You do know how to call someone from the dead?”
“Every witch worth her salt knows—” I break off, understanding dawning. “You have got to be kidding. You actually think I’ve tried calling my grandmother from the dead?” The thought had occurred to me—numerous times.
“Have you?” he asks.
<
br /> “Hell, no.”
“Why not? That would give you your answers.”
“You clearly didn’t know my grandmother well. She won’t answer my questions any quicker in death than she did in life.”
“Was she in the habit of lying to you?” he asks.
That’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times, but that’s family business, and Raith isn’t family. “No,” I say. “If you want answers, why don’t you call her from the dead yourself?” Then I realize, “You did try, with no luck.”
Not just anyone can call spirits from the dead. That magic is generally the purview of witches and wizards—mostly witches—but not just any witch, witches who are recognized by the dead. I happen to be one of those witches.
I give a slow nod. “Like I said, if Grams doesn’t want to talk, she won’t.”
“Maybe we didn’t use the right spell,” he says.
We both know that’s bullshit. A witch who can call the dead practically only has to command them forth by name.
I glance at the clock. Ten more minutes and I can tell Raith to fuck himself, at least until next Friday night. Guilt niggles. Truth is, once we got past the initial bullshit, the lesson hasn’t been terrible. Well, aside from being forced back into third grade. I almost laugh at his paltry attempt to get me to help him call Grams from the dead.
I shouldn’t be angry. I’ve wasted my time in worse ways. Raith is exercising his authority. Why should that bother me so much? Because I’m powerless? Because the blood pact forces me to uphold my side of the bargain for the next six months?
Guilt digs deeper. The Illumina takes seriously the training of High Potentials. High Potentials are the ones taken in the Reaping, the ones most successful at fighting The Shadows. They are Margidda’s first and last defense against annihilation. Was that what Blade meant when he said High Potentials aren’t free to choose?
Shit.
I refocus on Raith. “How did you stop The Shadows? Don’t give me that same bullshit about stopping all magic.”
“You learned in Reaping Preparedness that we fought The Shadows within dreams,” he says.
I frown. “That’s it?”
A corner of his mouth lifts—a ghost of a rare smile. “You didn’t learn the exact magic we used in the lucid dreams, but, yes—that’s it.”