Power of Fire: An Academy Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance (The Broken Academy)

by Jade Alters

  After that, Fey Hartgen moves to the Shifters, with a muscular boy the same shade of tan as River. I have a brief wonder if all Shifters are from the same Ahnee-wah-whatever Tribe while my hand cramps from the flood of information passing through it. The boy tells a similar story to that of the Witches and Warlocks. The ancient Shapeshifters joined the alliance of Magicians and Witches around the same time. These three races worked together to form a culture of acceptance and discipline that thrived for hundreds of years inside the walls of the Academy.

  “You, dead center. Three rows back, three seats in,” Fey Hartgen calls out. I go on writing, paranoid that I’ll miss a key detail hidden in all the mumbo-jumbo that might make all the difference on the first test. Will there even be tests in this crazy place, or do they just pit us against one another like gladiator matches? How the hell should I know? “Three rows back, three seats in? Early bird with black hair and blue eyes?” Fey Hartgen tries again. It takes me another full line of writing in silence to realize who she means. I feel the expectant eyes of classmates start to fold back on me from all around. Shit. Me?

  Bryant,

  The Broken Academy, Room A1C

  This poor girl. Others have told me most humans don’t enjoy being pitied, but I can’t help it. She just keeps scribbling, even while Fey Hartgen prepares to count out her seat position for a third time. If I was closer, I might reach out and nudge the girl. Then again, I might not, since my touch tends to have nefarious results for others.

  I could tell she was a little lost in all of this by the way she stared at me when she walked into the room. In a minute flat, she completely undid the effects of my choice of seating. I picked the back corner for a reason. She’d probably laugh if I cracked my eyes a second sooner and told her what I was. She’s probably never heard of a Demon before. Or worse, she has. Now the girl knows how I felt, and I can’t say it’s justice. But then, concepts like justice have always been a little outside my radar. Everyone in Fey Hartgen’s Mystical History class, myself included, stares at her while she shakily lays down her pencil.

  “I’m- uh- Cece Ford… I’m a… Mhm,” Cece hammers the backside of a fist to the bottom of her throat. It’s something I’ve seen humans do before, once or twice, but never so hard. I wonder if she’s trying to dent an airway so that she can’t be expected to present for her race. Every action she takes wraps my attention tighter around her. I couldn’t explain it much further than she’s peculiar, but I find myself waiting on the fringe of her word. “I’m a Dragon. Dragons… Um… Our bodies superheat from the inside, which allows us to create combustions… Our minds are networked by something called the Soul of Fire. It lets us communicate and share thoughts with other Dragons we’ve connected with. That’s…all I know.”

  I tilt my cracked, earthen head at the girl. She’s got it worse than I dared imagine. She understands about as much of what she is as I do. I can imagine how confusing this must be for her. I was in a similar boat on shit creek a while back, without a paddle in sight. Cece stares down at her notebook to escape the expectant eyes all around her. None bend with more sympathy or intrigue than Fey Hartgen’s assistant, Serge. The gravity of her frustration pulls in even my own interest, which remains after Fey Hartgen reclaims the attention of the class with:

  “That’s quite alright, Cece. You’d be surprised how many people in this room know about as much about their own history. That’s why this class exists. We’ll all learn together, even me. I’m sure a few of you come from families I don’t know of, who can offer little nuances I haven’t seen before.”

  Cece sighs and fixes her bright red face down on her notebook. I can’t spot another throughout the whole class as jam-packed full of writing. One by one the eyes of our classmates abandon her in search of Fey Hartgen’s next target. They return to their notebooks or gaze around the room in absent interest. Only Serge and myself remain as onlookers to the girl’s frustration. The two must know one another somehow- there’s a chemistry there I could never replicate. Normally, I’d abandon attempts at understanding here. But then, never before in any class have I seen a person quite like this Cece Ford. She stews in her embarrassment even while she waits for the next line of information. She poises her pencil for another full-hearted try while the heat of her failure pulsates out from her in mirage waves. I close my eyes to let the heat wash over me, only a few rows away. It’s slight, but it reminds me of home.

  “Fifth row back, second seat from the left. Why don’t you go next,” Fey Hartgen announces, which stirs me from my daydream. Daydream? I hardly dream when I lay down to try and sleep. Transitioning back to classroom focus eludes me. When my eyes open again, they float inevitably back to Cece’s tan profile. Her blue eyes that counteract the heat of her body with the chilling force of the underside of a glacier.

  “Darius Jecks. Vampire,” announces the young man Fey Hartgen invited to speak. It’s so brief, but somehow in those three words, he’s erased all traces of embarrassment from Cece’s face. The flush of her cheeks dissolves like someone popped a drain plug. The only mask she has left to wear is pale, full of shock. “We joined the Academy, whether we liked it or not, around the time the east coast made the transition into a metropolitan hotspot, around the 20s I think. Population got plentiful, so we got greedy. Too much rampant, careless feeding called the attention of the Academy, who were so generous as to offer us a choice. Rehabilitate at their supernatural school, or be furthermore treated like a plague. And here we are.”

  With each of Darius’ words, I watch Cece tie herself in a tighter knot. Her fingers fold into a fist that surpasses red, straight to white-hot. The blood flees from her fingers as a little thread of smoke twists out from around its tip. The steel ring below the eraser starts to dissolve before she finally lets it go. Cece flattens her scalding palms on her thighs and alters her breathing. It’s a strategy I’ve seen other humans use to calm themselves or deal with stress. Again, the girl has entangled my mind in her web of intrigue. Perhaps I just don’t understand humans as well as I thought, but I don’t see how anything Darius said could offend her this way.

  “Back right corner seat,” Fey Hartgen calls out, though the sound seems to be coming from a world outside my own. For the moment, my world has shrunk to the space between me and Cece Ford. Why has this girl who, only seconds ago, was so fervent on taking notes, now unable to grasp her pencil without melting it? “Bryant,” Fey Hartgen tries again.

  “Hm?” I grumble back, and my world returns to its usual size. I realize that I am her next demonstrator only when the flock of eager eyes turns now on me. Even Cece, whose sudden rage retreats behind interest, finds me with those deep blue orbs of hers.

  “Would you be so kind as to introduce our class to us Shadewalkers?” Fey Hartgen asks. Even the Fey are hard for me to understand sometimes. Of course she knows I will, and it has nothing to do with my kindness, if I even have any. Because of the nature of my condition, I’ve undertaken classes a bit out of traditional order at the Broken Academy, many with Fey Hartgen herself. Mystical History usually comes far before mastering race-specific abilities and limitations. But there’s a reason there aren’t many Demons here.

  “Of course,” I tell her. The sound of my voice crackles through the bones of those among us who have never heard a Demon before like two tectonic plates scraping together. “I’m Bryant, a Demon. Along with the Fey and Astrals, we make up the category of Shadewalkers at the Academy. Shadewalkers are beings from Realms beyond this one. The originals came through Runic Gates during the early 1900s. While the rest of the world experimented with electricity in the hopes of increasing its availability, the Academy used it to seek out the Realms of Power. They hoped to find the source of each race’s supernatural abilities, in the hopes to better understand themselves. Instead, the Runic Gates opened pathways to Thornegarde, home of the Fey, the Blue Plane, home of the Astrals, and my home, from which came Demons. We were called this by religious fanatics who discovered us. These sa
me people peered into our home Realm though the Runic Gate and deemed it Hell.”

  “Very thorough, Bryant,” Fey Hartgen commends me when I’m done. I was sure to speak slowly, so as not to leave Cece in the lurch, but she doesn’t jot down a thing. She stares back at me, my whole explanation through. In her eyes, I find none of the usual suspicion or fear of those that surround her. I’m not sure exactly what it is I find. She regards me as much like a puzzle as I do her, until Fey Hartgen begins again. “This is a shortened version of everything you’ll learn in this class. We’ll begin today with the Magicians’ departure from India. They were ostracized among their village homes as master tricksters…”

  With this, our class of more than thirty departs together down a twisting mystical road that ends with the Broken Academy all around us. I do my best to write down at least every other word out of Fey Hartgen’s mouth. I’ll need the detail later. At just this moment, not a thing about what she’s saying actually sticks in my mind. All I can stand to think about is the mystery of Cece Ford, whose eyes periodically dart between Serge, Darius and myself. If there’s one thing I am focused on leaving this class with, it’s what she sees when she looks at me. This might just be one of the missing pieces of the big human picture. Fey Rorelia of the Council did warn me when I came here, I wouldn’t understand it, when I found it. But I’d know. Understanding only comes when you gather every last piece.

  When Fey Hartgen dismisses us for the day, no one packs up quicker than Cece, or slower than me. I can pack later. For now, I want to see what her rush is. Cece jams her notebook in a tiny, Academy bag and tosses her pencil in after it. She slings the thing over her shoulder while she stands, almost tipping her desk right over. She’s halfway to the door before most of us have even finished jotting the last of Fey Hartgen’s notes. Serge makes the mistake of stepping into her path.

  “Cece, how are you-”

  “Later. Move,” Cece counters. She flattens a palm on the chest of Serge’s jacket. I can see from the way he flinches that the heat twisting around her bites as hard as it looks. Serge lets her through but follows her out with his eyes. The weight of concern in his coffee-brown irises doubles their size. He cares, so it seems, yet he doesn’t pursue her. There’s something to be learned here about the value of boundaries, I know, but don’t quite understand. It’s part of the reason I play it safe by keeping away from them completely.

  I linger a while in the classroom after Cece leaves, trying to piece it all together. The pegs and holes aren’t quite right, though, too much missing. Still, Mystical History promises to be the most informative class on my roster this term already. I may never be able to share a bond like the one between Cece and Serge, but at least I’ll see her every week.

  Something Else

  Cece, The Broken Academy, D Wing

  I stomp right past Serge out into the hallway. Part of me knows he’s trying to help, but I’m far from ready for help. All I’m ready for now is to wrap my fingers around that bastard’s throat. All I needed was three words, and I knew. Of course it wasn’t Lucidous - the voice of the man who killed my brother is etched too deep in the tissue of my brain to ever forget, to ever fade. Darius Jecks. Vampire, he said, and I knew. It was the same voice from that alleyway. You’re something else, aren’t you? He said then, maybe a week ago. In a previous life. I’ll show him something else. He was frightened at the time, so it was less distinctive than in class, but Darius’ voice has a very distinctive pitch. It’s one of few that I’ve heard that I can say has a shape. He speaks like a twisted, sickening smile. The sound of it, coupled with the flood of Jason’s blood, left a permanent brand on my eardrums. They thrummed for war the second I heard it again.

  There was something else I knew though, instantly, when I heard Darius speak. At the same time I was sure he was the man - the thing - that killed my brother, I was sure there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Not in a classroom full of other potentially powerful supernatural noobies. Not with Fey Hartgen and Serge hanging feet away from me. Not when Darius could, in any way, see it coming. I tried facing him head-on once. I still had parents and a brother before that. No, if I’m going to balance the universal scales of pain and loss - if I’m going to torch that motherfucker - he can’t know beforehand. I have to be stronger. I need control and surprise.

  Suddenly, I’m in front of the door to my room again. While my brain treated me to revenge fantasies to quell the flame in my chest, I must have come here on autopilot. Without realizing it, my little room in D-Wing with a formless bitch and a ghost has become… I wouldn’t say home, but a default, at least. It’s more than I had before, anyway. I twist the knob and push my way inside.

  It looks and sounds like no one’s here. I don’t hear the shower, and Stephanie usually bursts from an inanimate object within the first three seconds of my presence. I kick off my shoes for some much-needed alone time. Both of them hit the bottom drawer of my dresser and plop under my bed. The shockwave frightens something out from behind the unit, which also frightens me. The shadow zips out, rounds the wall, and scurries across my feet. My eyes fix on its coarse fur and long, scaly tail for half a second before it vanishes behind River’s desk. I stiffen up in my bones, muscles, hair and everything.

  “The fuck? We’ve got rats?” I growl. I’ve got no particular fear of them. I’ve seen more than a few of their big-eyed stares peeking out from dumpster lids in SanFran alleys. Still, I’d prefer if nothing scurried across the tops of my bare feet like that. I sigh and crouch low to track down the little guy. Between Darius and the skin-to-skin contact of tiny feet, I don’t stop to think how the hell a rat could even get into the Academy. I creep around to the underside of River’s bed before a thunk pops everything off the surface of her desk. I strafe backward when her chair pushes itself out, then again when she climbs out. She shakes her shoulders to shed the last of her coarse rat fur.

  “What the hell?” River groans, rubbing her head from where she just struck it.

  “You’re asking me what the hell?” I snort.

  “Yeah. What’s the idea, throwing your shoes at me and chasing me around?”

  “How in the hell was I supposed to know that you were hiding back there, or that you were a rat?” I demand. I’ve tried the silent treatment with her most days, but I’m a little hotter in the core than most days. “I was about to catch you and let you go in the courtyard!”

  “Here’s a tip, dipshit,” River twinges my nerves. “The Academy’s a few thousand feet above California. We don’t have pests or pets up here, so if you see an animal in the room - it’s me!” I want to scream right back at her, but it only takes that second-long pause. I wait. I don’t give her the satisfaction, not instantly, and I see her face change. Regret. Without a rise from someone, someone to point the finger at, River’s anger turns right back inward. Against all of my best efforts to stay spiteful, my own frustration performs a similar loop.

  “Is it like this…all the time?” I force myself to ask. “You… Can you do it on purpose at all? Or does it always happen when you don’t want it to?” River’s face transforms into a shape I haven’t seen before. I’m not even sure which one it is, but it sure isn’t angry. She looks more surprised than anything. For the moment it lasts and her lips hang open, I almost believe something besides unbridled hate might come out.

  “What do you care?” River snaps instead. Her face scrunches back to its typical frustration.

  “I don’t know - maybe because we live in the same thirty-foot-wide room? It’s sort of relevant to me,” I bite back. While there’s nothing particularly aggressive in my choice of words, the venom in my tone is palpable. Especially to River. Her single stomp towards me booms through the foundations under our floor with more force than any human could usually muster. Her leg muscle has already begun its pre-shifting bubble.

  “My business is mine. What I can and can’t do has nothing to do with you,” River reflects my rattlesnake bite right back at me. I notice
how hot it’s getting around me by the wavy distortion of the edges of the room. I can’t feel it, but my roommate’s forehead beads up with sweat almost instantly.

  “Do you do this to everyone, or just me?” I dig in. “How do you ever expect to live if you’re going to attack every person who asks you a simple question?” Lines sink deep into River’s tense, glossy forehead.

  “What, you want to be besties? You’re telling me with all of your own shit you wade around in every day, you want to add mine to the mix? You want to know…about my control issues? ‘Cause I can show you,” River chuckles, an admittedly rattling sound with the mania in her eyes.

  “We don’t have to be besties. But we don’t have to be at one another’s throats every time we cross paths,” I try again. Despite my every urge to erupt, I let my clenched fists down. I try to slow my breathing. I need to reserve this rage for the right target. I need control.

  “We don’t have to be anything,” River growls, and for a second it looks like she might calm down too. “Why don’t we go back to that? It worked well the past week or so. We both pretend like the other doesn’t exist?” When I hear the hint of an authentic plea in her voice, it’s suddenly easier to quell the rage inside. Some of the heat distortion dissolves from around me. I unclench my knuckles to raise the open palms of a truce.

  “I don’t think we can, River. Not when there’s a chance I’m going to walk in here and find you scurrying across the floor as a cockroach or smashing walls as a gorilla. How am I supposed to pretend you’re not there, or even know it’s you?” I ask. I give her a few seconds to concoct an answer, but she only stands there, rigid as a statue, still ready to snap. “River-”