by Theresa Kay
He tilts his head to the other side, studying me, and then releases Jason to crumple to the ground on his side. Half a breath later, the man is inches from my face, his slitted eyes peering into mine. I startle and take a step backward, but he grabs my arm to keep me in place, digging the tip of one of those claws into my skin hard enough to draw blood.
He releases my arm and brings his finger to his mouth, a forked tongue coming out to lap at the blood there. “You are the one who triggered the trap.”
The trap? Does he mean that weird force field thing I walked through?
I take another step backward. He doesn’t try to stop me, but his expression flickers into something predatory, as if should I decide to run, he’d be glad to give chase. In fact, he might even prefer it if I ran.
“What does that mean?” I ask, my gaze darting to Jason, still crumpled on the ground.
The man’s nose wrinkles as if he smelled something distasteful. “You have the blood.”
Yeah, that totally clears things up, dude. I have to fight back a half-hysterical laugh as the man just stands there blinking at me as if his statement was a foregone conclusion.
Jason groans and shoves himself to his feet. His hands dance in the sharp movements of a spell I don’t recognize, and he yells out something in Latin as he sends the spell toward the man in front of me.
At the sound of Jason’s voice, the man turns a disinterested eye toward my classmate, glances up at the spell, and then one long fingered hand waves through the air and destroys the spell. As it’s in motion. Before it hits anything. Using no method of spellbreaking I’ve ever seen.
I don’t see it happen, but somehow I feel the magic of the spell being absorbed rather than broken apart.
Much like Nikiforov did when my spell nearly went out of control that first tutoring session.
The man rolls his eyes, an expression so common, so human, but on him it looks foreign, as if he’s seen the motion and is imitating it rather than having any idea what it actually means. “You have been given the gift of your life, child,” he says to Jason. “Do not waste it.” The man’s attention turns back to me. This time his eyes blink rapidly like a lizard. “Come along now, abomination.”
Abomination? This guy is nuts. “Not going to happen. I have no idea who you are or what you want, but there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere with you.”
The smile that slithers on to his face is cold and predatory. “Your fae magic is bound, and even if it were not, the piddling bit of polluted nonsense that your witch half brings you would do nothing against me.”
My what now? I blink at the guy as the pieces come together in my head. The reason why the identity of my birth father could be dangerous. The reason I was hidden so carefully away. The reason my magic is different.
I’m half fae.
And this guy is what? Full fae? I take another step away from him.
“Run,” says Jason. “Just run.”
The fae tsks and looks at Jason like some disappointed parent whose toddler is acting up. “I would have let you live. Although you, too, have the blood, it is in such a minuscule amount to be well below anyone’s notice.”
Long, graceful strides take him to stand before my classmate. The fae grabs Jason by the throat and lifts him into the air. Jason’s lips turn blue, and a wet, choking noise forces its way past his lips as he frantically scratches at the arm holding him.
“Stop it,” I say, my voice timid and scared. Then, louder, “Stop it!”
From behind me, someone yells words I don’t understand, words that itch in my ears but don’t make any sense. A bottle goes flying through the air and lands on the fae in front of me, shattering with another word from the voice behind me, one I finally recognize: Nikiforov.
The fae hisses as a potion bubbles on his skin and he tosses my classmate’s limp form away as if he weighs nothing. Jason is airborne for a few feet before his head cracks against the ground, his neck landing at an unnatural angle. He doesn’t move again.
Nikiforov steps into the courtyard, another bottle held tightly in his hand. He rattles off another long string of words in a language I don’t recognize. The fae responds in the same strange language, and Nikiforov’s upper lip pulls into a snarl. He waves a hand over his face, and his features shift into ones not quite different, but more.
Nikiforov’s hair is burnished silver, his eyes flashing the same metallic color. The lines of his face are sharper, his skin more luminous, and his ears rise to a narrow point.
Holy shit. It must have been a glamour. Nikiforov is fae.
“The hunt is on. She is mine to claim,” says the fae.
“She is not,” hisses Nikiforov.
The fae shakes his head as if disappointed. “You chose sides oddly, Niviriph. And more importantly, poorly.”
With sharp, precise lines, the fae draws the sigil Inferno in the air, the image of it hanging there in a glittering curtain, then shoves it toward Nikiforov as if the sigil is a spell.
And damn if the thing doesn’t behave like one.
A blast of fire races toward Nikiforov who’s preparing a sigil of his own, this one Flood. My teacher sends his sigil at the fire, extinguishing it. Then he mutters a spell and tosses another bottle at the fae.
The fae tries to catch the bottle, but it slips through his fingers and hits the ground at his feet. He screeches in pain as the glass shatters, splattering the potion on his calves and feet. Smoke rises from the slowly burning skin as the fae continues to make a pained noise. He bares his teeth at Nikiforov.
“You have been in exile too long that you resort to human measures.”
Nikiforov holds up a second bottle, this one slightly bigger, and shrugs. “If the human measures are effective . . .”
Another hiss from the fae. “This is not the end. You cannot protect her forever.”
“I do not plan to,” says Nikiforov. “Remove yourself from my territory.”
The fae snarls but retreats for a step and then turns and darts off into the surrounding darkness.
And Nikiforov’s attention turns on me. In his fae form, his eyes hold an intensity that I can’t look away from. He casts a glance at my fallen classmate then shakes his head once, as if making a decision. Moving to me, he grips my chin with one hand, his long, slender fingers holding me in place.
His lips are pressed together, and his body tense with anger. “You idiotic child. I have been safe here for years, and then you come along and destroy everything because you refused to leave things alone.”
I open my mouth to speak.
“No,” he snaps. “Cerlysin’s glamour will not hold much longer, and you do not get to argue with me, not after you have been so horribly reckless as to let yourself be known. What were you thinking revealing yourself like this?”
Cerlysin? Is he talking about the other fae?
“I—I didn’t know,” I stammer.
Nikiforov sneers, and his nostrils flare with rage. “I have placed myself in danger to come to your aid today, but do not expect me to do it again. I will release the bind placed on your magic because it will drain you if I don’t, but I cannot have my identity revealed, and no one can know the truth of what happened here.”
“I—I won’t tell anyone,” I stutter out.
“No, you won’t, but not because I trust your ability to hold your tongue, but because I will place a geis on you that won’t let you tell anyone.” He lets out a sardonic chuckle at the confused look on my face. “Old magic. Fae magic. The kind you don’t deserve to have when you are so ignorant of the rules.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” I say, finally managing to break free from whatever weird hypnotic eye thing he’s doing.
“And neither did I.” He leans forward, staring directly into my eyes, and lays the geis. He spins for me a version of events, the version the geis will force me to give in answer to any questions I’m asked and the only version I’ll be able to speak or write no matter how much I want to scr
eam out the truth.
When he’s done feeding me all the false details, to himself he whispers, “May the Fates forgive this.”
I stumble through the gap in the hedge that marks the exit of the maze, my head foggy and my stomach churning with guilt and anger. And more than a little bit of horror. The geis, the idea that my mouth will say those words, makes me feel like puking. I don’t know if Nikiforov knew what he was doing by forcing me to tell that specific story, knew how much it would hurt me, but I damn sure hope not. If he didn’t know, if he was only rushed and angry, but not vindictive—which his whole forgiveness comment and the fact that he removed whatever it was holding my magic hostage might imply—then he might still be willing to help me.
Because if my experiences with the fae so far are anything to go by, I’m going to need help. Witch magic doesn’t appear to affect fae, and I got the distinct impression from the fact that the other fae called me an abomination and mentioned a hunt that there will be more coming after me. Even as pissed as I am about the geis and as horrible as it will make me feel to tell this lie, I’m not stupid. I’ll need a teacher, one who knows fae magic, and Nikiforov is my only choice.
Groups of students are scattered around the clearing, way more people than entered the maze with my group, and everyone turns to look at me. When the murmurs start, I glance down at my clothes. There’s blood splattered across my shirt—whose blood I’m not entirely sure—and my pants are ripped and covered in dirt.
Not that the other students look much better. The tournament apparently wasn’t kind to anyone.
Isobel is the first person to reach me. Her hair is wild, and there’s a long scratch on her cheek. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for almost half an hour.” When I don’t respond right away, she looks closer at my face, her brows pulling together in concern. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Adrian jogs up a second later, running his hands over my arms and legs as if looking for injury. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not,” I manage to choke out. “Jason . . .”
“Barrington?” asks Adrian.
I nod, not sure what else to say.
“What did he do? I’ll kill him,” says Adrian, scowling in the direction of the maze behind me. “I overheard he was tagged for cheating. How far behind you is he?”
“He’s not. He’s . . . there were . . . I think he’s dead.” I shake my head and grit my teeth, holding back the words the geis wants me to say. Barely.
“Dead?” Adrian takes a step backward, eyes wide. “What the hell happened in there?”
The question triggers the geis to push even more, and Nikiforov’s story is forced past my lips. “There was a shifter. In the maze. He attacked us and killed Jason.”
Isobel gasps, and Adrian jerks his chin the direction of one of the OSA agents. “Go grab one of them,” he says to Isobel before turning his attention back to me. “A shifter? Really? How did a shifter get past the wards to get on campus?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my eyes burning and my jaw screaming with the effort of trying to hold back from saying any more. Pain twists in my chest. “But the shifter was here yesterday. He was the one who attacked Basil.”
“What’s wrong? Do you know the guy or something?” asks Adrian, his head cocked to the side.
“No,” I say, tears of frustration running down my cheeks. And thank goodness I can say that. It’s bad enough I have to point the finger at shifters, something that will enrage the witches and make me look like a traitor to my family, but if I had to finger a specific shifter . . . I think I would be sick.
And I’d never be willing to work with someone who made me do that, the only fae I know or not.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how awful it must’ve been to see that.” Adrian studies my face for a moment before pulling me into a hug and resting his chin on top of my head. “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out.”
But even wrapped in my friend’s arms, nothing about this feels okay, and I’m not so sure I want to risk being part of any ‘we.’ Not after everything that’s happened. Connor is a sticky situation with the other alphas. My parents are still in hiding. Isobel has already suffered the consequences of helping me once. Basil was probably injured because I led the fae to him. Burke had to lie for me. And Tristan . . . even if he were here, I can’t be entirely certain where his loyalties lie when he left with his mother so easily.
Isobel returns with a couple OSA agents, the older man from the entry test and Vivian. The older man only has a bemused smile on his face, but Vivian’s expression is dark with concern.
Adrian releases me, placing a hand on my lower back as he explains to the agents what I told him. Isobel comes to my other side and grabs my hand. I don’t know what I’d do without these two, and I don’t want to find out. My friends stay by my side, refusing to leave for the next hour as I tell my—no, Nikiforov’s story over and over again. I tell it so many times, I almost start believing it, but the subtle pressure of the geis in my chest is a constant reminder of the lie I’m telling.
Why couldn’t Nikiforov have given me time to explain? I wouldn’t have minded lying to protect his secret, but this lie is a betrayal to my family.
At this point, I’m almost glad I agreed to go to the Andras estate for Winter Break. I can’t face Connor after this, not now and maybe not for a long time.
And that kills me.
Eventually, a group of agents exit the maze with a sheet-covered stretcher. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Jason was not my friend, not even close, but he tried to save me, and he didn’t deserve to die like that. And he certainly didn’t deserve to die because of me. The fae—Cer-something—said I triggered a trap, which means Jason was only caught because he happened to be there.
Things like that—people getting hurt because they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time—seem to happen a lot around me.
Nikiforov was right to call me reckless.
Sometime later, the questions are over and the maze is de-magicked or whatever getting rid of it is called, but, of course no catastrophe at Ravencrest is complete without a visit to the director’s office. Vivian takes me and my friends over there and leaves us in the outer office.
I wouldn’t mind this so much if Burke was still here. He’d have some advice or at least empathy for me.
Callahan has neither of those things, only more questions. Once he realizes my friends have no independent information, he sends them away, so I’m alone as I get grilled about the shifter on campus. Again. If he’s suspicious about my sudden recovery of memories related to Basil’s attack, he doesn’t say anything and asks almost the same things as everyone before him:
Describe in detail what happened in the maze.
Did you recognize the shifter?
What did he look like?
But Callahan asks two new questions as well:
Why did he kill Jason Barrington?
Why did he leave you alive?
I don’t answer those last two, and the geis doesn’t force me. I guess Nikiforov didn’t have time to cover every possible detail and, for all I can’t stand Callahan, he’s only doing his job and answering those questions truthfully would only confuse the matter.
After another ten minutes or so of back and forth and seemingly satisfied with my story, Callahan switches up his line of questioning and starts asking about the tournament. I give him an overview of my time in the maze, telling him about the obstacles I completed with Isobel and then meeting up with Adrian.
He leans back in his chair and clasps his hands over his stomach. “Your pole-vaulting trick can cover the obstacle you needed to do by yourself, but it doesn’t sound like you completed enough obstacles for me to mark the tournament itself as completed.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“That means your tournament score cannot be factored into your student rank.”
Of all the things I was worried about, the fact that
I hadn’t actually finished the tournament didn’t even cross my mind.
“That’s bullshit,” I say, my anger at this whole situation finally finding an outlet. “I’m chased and attacked by a . . . shifter and it’s somehow my fault? How is that fair? Why should I get punished for that?”
“It’s not a punishment. It’s policy,” he says in a frustratingly calm voice.
“Well your policy, like I said, is bullshit,” I say, the words coming out between clenched teeth.
He picks up a tablet sitting on the desk then runs a finger over the screen, pulling up the student ranks no doubt. “Nevertheless, the standings have already been determined and yours is . . .” His lips press into a thin line as he continues to scroll. Up the list. The tablet clatters onto the top of the desk, and Callahan’s upper lip curls. “I should have known he would have plenty of time to pull some strings for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He pushes the tablet across the desktop without a word
I pick up the tablet and glance at the screen. My name’s next to number one hundred and twenty-eight. How . . .?
Nikolas. It had to be.
I continue scrolling down the list, looking for my friends, mainly Isobel. Adrian is holding steady in the mid-eighties and I find Isobel’s name next to number one hundred and forty-four. I breathe out a sigh of relief. She’s safe. And, I guess, so am I.
Callahan scowls. “Nepotism is the lazy way to success.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. So far everything I’ve seen in the witch world runs on nepotism. Including OSA.
Sure, a part of me feels guilty about my grandparents buying my way up the list, but they didn’t buy my way to number one or anything crazy like that. I’d like to think one twenty-eight is a rank I could have achieved on my own if about ten million things weren’t working against me.
And it’s not like I asked Nikolas to do anything.
Someone taps on the door and then opens it. Seth. “Sir . . . um . . . Agent . . . Selene’s grandfather is here to pick her up.”
Already?
Callahan huffs out an annoyed breath then gives me a dismissive wave. “You can see yourself out.”
