by Everly Frost
Striker, on the other hand, fits that description perfectly. The chances of him being a fire mage are getting slimmer by the second. The power that simmers behind his eyes is far greater than the power I ever sensed from my father and brother.
It’s lethal. And so is he.
That night, Headmistress Osprey marches into the dining room with extra compliance officers in tow. Sitting next to me, Ashley nudges me with her foot. “The last time this happened, she told us you were coming.”
“Students!” Osprey demands our attention, her thorny wand resting in her hand. Tonight, she’s wearing a fuchsia pink pants suit and her nails are lacquered solid yellow.
“Starting tomorrow, we’re introducing a new subject into the curriculum. We’re calling it Magical Pathways.” She gives us a cold smile, her mouth stretching up at the corners while her eyes remain deadpan, washed-out brown. “It will be taught by a new teacher.”
She pauses, but nobody reacts. I’m not sure if a new teacher is a good thing or bad. I maintain a blank expression. Bree, Ashley, and Lucinda give no hint of their feelings.
“His name is Professor Raptor, and he will teach the class with each of you individually. Your new timetables will be distributed to you.” Her smile broadens. “We hope to encourage you to get in touch with your inner selves.”
Her focus lands on me. “Price, after the stunt you pulled today in gym class, I’ve decided you will be first. Present yourself to the east wing, third floor, immediately after breakfast tomorrow.”
Within seconds of Osprey’s departure, a male hand lands on the table beside me and Striker’s shadow looms over me. “Watch yourself, Price.”
That’s all he says before he walks away, leaving me with a sort of anticlimactic feeling. I was expecting more now that we’re touching again. A threat, a taunt, an insult, a shove…
Lucinda’s serious eyes meet mine across the table. She murmurs, “He’s worried. We all should be.”
Okay, so maybe I should be too.
22. Peyton Price
The next morning, I hurry out for a run before breakfast, nervous energy making me more hasty than usual. I’m surprised to find Striker out there already. It looks like he barely slept, his shirt a crumpled heap on the grass, his bare chest gleaming. When I appear, he surprises me by slowing down until I catch up to him. Then he paces himself beside me for a full ten seconds without saying anything. I count every step until he drops behind me.
After a minute, he catches up to me again, but he still doesn’t say anything.
I scowl at him as he drops back again.
When he does it a third time, I’m ready to demand answers. “Spit it out, Draven.”
He’s surly. “What?”
“Whatever you want to say.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
I huff out an annoyed breath. My fitness levels have improved to the point where I can carry on an entire conversation while running without bursting a lung.
“I heard you last night,” I say. “I’ll be careful this morning. I won’t say anything about… well… anything. About you. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“What then?”
“They’ve gone easy on us for the last few months.”
I arch a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “Vomit-inducing shifter dissections aren’t awful enough for you?” Ms. Vulture’s biology classes have been nothing short of colorful in the worst possible way.
“They were waiting for Raptor to arrive,” he says. “Things are going to change.”
Aside from the surprising realization that Striker and I are having a nearly-normal conversation, the tone of Striker’s voice is also a little unnerving. He does sound worried. “What makes you think they were waiting for Raptor?”
“A while ago, I overheard something I shouldn’t have. Raptor’s dangerous in the worst possible way.”
I want to retort that so is Striker, but he steals the wind out of my sails by sounding genuinely concerned. “Be careful in there, Peyton.”
He pulls away again, but this time, he jogs to the building and heads inside.
Striker telling me to be careful makes me even more worried.
I run another few laps before I return to the attic, get dressed for the day, and try to settle myself during breakfast. The other girls don’t have to ask me for me to say, “I’ll tell you what happens.”
Not knowing what to expect, I head for the third-floor in the east wing. The fourth door is open, and I stop outside it. Bright sunlight fills the space inside it, but it’s empty of furniture other than a chair and a table. And Headmistress Osprey. She stares back at me from her perch on the chair before her gaze flicks to her left.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle a second before a disarmingly pleasant male voice says, “You can come in.”
A guy not much older than me appears in the doorway inside the room, leaning against the doorframe in a way that completely blocks the entrance despite his invitation to enter. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt that hugs his muscular biceps, distressed jeans that cling to his thighs, and black military-style boots. Strands of blond hair fall around his face and across his pale green eyes. Right now, he’s hitting a disconcerting spot between military commander and surfer dude.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not old enough to be a professor.”
He arches an eyebrow at me before casting a disapproving glance back at Osprey. “Is that what they’re calling me? I thought ‘Raptor’ was a bit much, but ‘Professor’? That’s going too far.”
When I frown at him, he steps out of the way, gesturing. “After you.”
I step carefully into the room, keeping my distance from both of them. Raptor extends his hand as if he wants to shake mine. I stare at it before I take a step backward. He may as well offer me poison.
“O-kay,” he says, as if I’m the weird one. “Doesn’t like physical contact. Duly noted.”
Osprey rises to her feet and addresses Raptor. “Well, she’s here. Remember what we talked about.”
He grins. “I know the limitations. Don’t worry.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.”
With a haughty glance at me, she glides to the door and closes it behind her.
Raptor gives me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s just like Osprey. I’m quickly learning that people who smile with their mouths and not their eyes can’t be trusted.
He says, “The Headmistress and I had a small wager. She bet that you wouldn’t come to this class of your own volition. I disagreed. I think you’re smart enough to know that disobeying me would be painful.”
He paces to the chair Osprey vacated, takes a seat, and rests his elbows on his knees in a casual gesture. “She also told me I’m not allowed to kill you. Apparently, Lady Tirelli will swoop down from on high and end me if you die.”
I’m surprised by his admission. Many students have died here—nearly half, from what Bree told me. I don’t see why I would be any sort of exception.
He shrugs, confirming my thoughts. “Osprey’s wrong. Our Lady has much bigger problems right now. She won’t be coming back anytime soon. So, I think I’ll do whatever I want.”
He leans forward. “Do you dislike physical touch more or less than you fear heights?”
I’m not surprised he knows about my fear of high places. Collin and Colby noticed it on my first day and no doubt wrote it down in a file somewhere. So far, none of the teachers has tried to use it against me.
I remain where I am, not answering him, checking out our surroundings now that I’m inside the room: bare window, bare table, one chair.
Then I notice something else. “You don’t carry a wand.”
“Doesn’t like to answer questions,” he says, studying me.
I persist. “All of the teachers carry wands.”
“Because they’re witches and wizards. I’m something else. When they don’t call me ‘R
aptor,’ they call me ‘The Specialist.’” He stands, fixating on my face as he approaches. “Recently healed wounds. The cut on your lip was a blow to the face, but you’ve also been scratched at some point. Maybe by claws.”
I scoff. The damage from the harpy’s feathers is long healed. He must think that his deductions will impress me. “They told you I spent a night in the pit with a harpy.”
“They told me nothing. I’m observant.”
I eye him as he begins to circle me. I’m not sure how… but I’m certain he just told me a lie. “What am I doing here?”
He looks me up and down as he moves, making me feel less like a person and a lot like a specimen.
“I have a particular skillset the Academy needs,” he says.
“And what’s that?”
“The ability to extract information from even the most unwilling participant.”
I hide the shudder that threatens to topple me. He’s some sort of interrogator. Get in touch with your inner selves, Headmistress Osprey said. No wonder Striker was worried. This guy is here to seek out every secret—including the powers some students are hiding.
I paste a smile on my face. “I’m an open book. Ask me anything.”
“How about telling me about the night your brother pushed you down the stairs?”
I suck in a breath, my palms suddenly clammy. Raptor is an outright liar. He may be observant, but they’ve told him everything. There’s no way he knows about my brother’s murderous act of aggression without talking to someone, reading some sort of file on me, medical records, even my elementary school history.
“Tell me how it felt when his hands connected with your lower back.” He suddenly pushes both hands firmly against either side of my spine.
I jolt away from him, but his arm snakes around my waist so hard that the air whooshes out of me, pinning my back to his front. His arm is like a vise, forcing me to stay still while his other hand remains pressed against my spine and his lower half presses against my backside. Dear ancients, he’s totally getting off on my position right now.
Before I can ram an elbow into his stomach, Raptor whispers into my ear, “How did it feel when you teetered for the smallest moment—a beat—at the top of the stairs? Just long enough to realize how far it was to the bottom? How did it feel to hit each step one by one, to be so out of control that you couldn’t even breath? Hearing, feeling the crunch when your wrist broke and you prayed nothing else would.”
I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes, the memory suddenly threatening to overwhelm me. I’m not there. I’m not falling. I’m here. I’ve put the memory behind me. It’s not happening and… I’ve moved past it.
“You haven’t conquered the fear,” he says. “You’re still afraid of heights.”
I open my eyes. Focus on my breathing. I’m stronger than this. I’ve faced Striker in a combat ring, for heaven’s sake. I’ve killed a harpy. I’ve climbed five damn sets of stairs when I was literally dying. The fact that Raptor’s grabbed me in a way that makes me vulnerable… hell, who hasn’t?
“I’m still afraid of heights,” I say, owning it. “I’ll always be afraid of heights.” I focus on the sunlight streaming into the room, my hand closing over his arm, preparing to remove it. “What are you afraid of, Professor Raptor?”
He releases me as suddenly as he grabbed me—so suddenly, I stumble a little, righting myself in time for him to round on me again, folding his arms across his chest. “Now we’ve got up close and personal, you should call me ‘Jake.’”
“No.”
He grins. “Osprey told me you don’t obey commands.”
“That would be correct.”
He gestures to the chair. “Take a seat.”
I eye it for less than a second. “No.”
“Sit on the floor then.”
“I’ll stand, thank you.”
He walks to the table, bends to his boot, and pulls out a gleaming silver blade from inside it. Very carefully, he lays it on the table, as if it’s precious. Leaving it there, he returns to my position, standing exactly opposite me. He points to the weapon without taking his eyes from me. “Pick up the dagger.”
I can’t help my surprised exclamation. “What?”
He’s offering me a weapon? I haven’t trained with weapons, but I’m prepared to learn quickly. Still, there’s no such thing as a free ride in this place. Picking up that dagger is going to come with a catch.
“If you reach it before I do, I’ll let you leave this lesson,” he says. “If you reach it after me, I’ll cut you slowly for the next hour.”
What the hell? He’s officially more of a psycho than Ms. Hawk.
“You’re trying to decide if I mean it,” he says, studying me as I remain silent. “Will I really spend an hour torturing you? I assure you, I’m good at it.” His expression doesn’t change. “It’s why I was excommunicated from the last institution I joined. I was too extreme even for a clandestine group of assassins.”
A chill passes through me. If he’s telling the truth, then I’m in trouble. My brother was obsessed with the assassins growing up. The supernatural community fears them—even the Magical Magnate doesn’t mess with them. There are three Factions of assassins in the United States: the Legion based in Boston, the Dominion in Portland, and the Horde in Austin. Each assassin is an elite warrior who moves in the shadows, expert killers who have no mercy for their targets. They’re all human but control magical rings that give them superhuman strength and agility.
Despite their ferocity, they live by a very particular code of honor that requires clean kills and restricts who they are allowed to target.
My brother wanted to grow up to be an assassin before he found out he wouldn’t be allowed to kill whomever he wanted. If Raptor trained with the assassins… that makes him very dangerous. At least he doesn’t still have an assassin’s ring—his fingers are bare.
“Which Faction?” I demand to know, testing the truth of Raptor’s story. “Legion or Dominion? You don’t have a Southern accent to be Horde.”
He looks surprised. “You know the Factions.” He tilts his head to the side. “I was Legion.”
I shake my head. He’s lying again. I can’t pinpoint how I know. A glint in his eyes maybe. A twist of his mouth. A flicker of his gaze. “You were Dominion.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The Legion is most ruthless, most likely to bend the rules. They wouldn’t excommunicate you for being aggressive.”
He tilts his head in an acknowledging gesture. “I guess I joined the wrong Faction then. You’ve got three seconds, Price.”
He means the dagger. His changes of subject are abrupt, but I was anticipating he wouldn’t let it go. I glance at the weapon, calculating the distance to reach it. Only four quick steps, but if he’s trained as an assassin, there’s no way I’ll get to the dagger before him. I won’t have a chance of fighting him, either. He will have trained for years, whereas I’ve only been training for a few months.
“No,” I say.
“No?”
“I’m not racing you to the dagger.”
“Wrong choice, Price.” He gives a heavy sigh. “Never mind. I can do as much damage with my fists.”
I grit my teeth. “Go on, then. Get on with it.”
He arches his eyebrow at me, his voice clinical. “High fear threshold. Ability to compartmentalize memories.” He circles me again. “Welcomes pain.”
I jolt when he runs a finger across the side of my neck.
“But hates gentle touch. What are you, Peyton Price? A witch? A shifter? With eyes like yours, you must be something other than what you appear.”
I’m genuinely curious. “What about my eyes?”
A smile glimmers around his mouth. “Take the dagger and I’ll tell you.”
Without another thought, I dart right as quickly as I can. He’s a step behind me, but my target isn’t the dagger—it’s the table. It’s a flimsy wooden one, not anchored to th
e floor. Ramming into its side, I flip it, a split second before his fingers would have closed around the weapon. The force sends the knife flying toward the wall.
My hand is already on the table’s edge. I vault it, throw myself toward the dagger and slide across the floor, hitting the wall. My shoulder collides first and then my head.
Raptor lands at a crouch opposite me, but I’m a second ahead of him.
My hand closes around the fallen dagger’s handle.
For a second, I’m afraid I’ve grabbed its blade—cut my fingers—because pain strikes through me, shooting through my hand and up my arm.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. Images race through my mind. The slash of the dagger across a man’s throat, striking into another’s chest, then another... too many… too many deaths…
It’s just like when I picked up Kaitlyn’s wand, except that her thoughts were calculating and cruel, but Raptor’s are…
Horror fills me and my stomach turns. A scream builds inside me, but it’s trapped in a cage of silent images that suddenly burst into sound. A woman crying, a child screaming…
Raptor’s memories are cold, unemotional, and analytical. He doesn’t care…
I need to drop the knife. Need to escape Raptor’s memories, but I’m not fast enough.
His fist cracks against my cheek, his other hand grabs the wrist of my hand holding the dagger—the same one that broke when I fell down the stairs—and twists. Finally, my scream reaches my lips, peeling into the air around us as I let go of the weapon before he can break my bones.
He deftly catches the knife, plucking it out of the air as it falls, his movements faster than I can anticipate. I jolt back against the wall, the force of his punch casting me there, my scream dying in my throat as he thrusts the dagger toward my face.
He stops its downward thrust right before the tip would pierce my left eye. Grabbing my shoulder, he pulls me upright while I try to wrench away from him.