Dark Witch: A Paranormal Academy Romance (Academy of the Dark Arts Book 1)

by Analeigh Ford

  I try to read his lips, but it’s all gibberish to me. If I could just get closer . . .

  Neither Abacus nor his partner seems to notice me, which given my current state is pretty impressive. Whatever they’re discussing has made me, a veritable bear of a man, as invisible as the mouse now nibbling on the tip of Abacus’ shoe.

  “I told you before, Renault, it isn’t safe to meet here.”

  The edge in his voice is unmistakable, but it isn’t what makes my head spin. The man Abacus is talking to finally leans forward just far enough for me to see who it is, and to my great surprise—I recognize him.

  I’ve seen this Renault only once before, but his face has been burned into the back of my memory ever since. Literally.

  The witch from the trial. The one I watched burn.

  He stands here, in the shadows, without a single sign he ever stood on that stage—let alone died before my very eyes.

  But seeing him now, here, with Abacus . . . it all falls into place. He was the Dark Witch I saw running away that night. There weren’t three Dark Witches that night, just two. I guess I wasn’t just seeing things after all.

  I’d wondered how Abacus could stomach to stand by and watch Dark Witches punished for crimes they hadn’t committed. Or even if they did, crimes that really shouldn’t be crimes in the first place.

  It makes so much more sense why he showed up after my initiation rites now.

  This is a dangerous game he plays. Descendent of the First Dark Witch or not, if word gets out what he’s doing, there’ll be hell to pay.

  A payment that might be coming sooner rather than later, from the looks of the next witch who wanders in through the front door. It’s another face from that same fateful night so many months ago . . . but this time, it makes my blood run cold.

  Bedford the Crusader has finally found me. He doesn’t know it yet, but that doesn’t stop my body, borrowed or not, from freezing to the core.

  Of all the places to be . . . and of all the nights to be there.

  Maybe it’s a good thing I’ve been stuck inside the academy all semester. Less than a couple hours outside, and I’ve stepped right into the clutches of my worst enemy. And he’s not alone.

  Bedford stops on the inside of the door as several more step in behind them, tiny flakes of snow clinging to the outside of their cloaks. The red and white draws distasteful glares their way. As soon as he’s brushed the snow from his shoulders, his ducked head starts swiveling around, searching for something as the others fan out behind him.

  The mask around me grows paper thin and I feel exposed. Even though I’m currently almost seven feet tall and roughly the size of a water buffalo, I still shrink back at the thought of being recognized.

  But when I shrink back, I catch sight of another witch who shouldn’t be recognized by these bloodthirsty Crusaders either. And he didn’t have the forethought to wear a mask—even if my own mask is starting to get itchy around the edges.

  Renault is supposed to be dead, by Abacus’ own hand no less.

  If Bedford sees him here, this whole place will be swarming with Crusaders within minutes. Even if my disguise holds up long enough to get away, I doubt either of them would be so lucky.

  The Crusaders will burn this whole place to the ground before he lets Renault escape again. I can’t even begin to imagine what they’d do to Abacus. I doubt Renault’s the first witch he’s smuggled out of the Law’s grasp.

  Abacus wouldn’t go out without a fight, however, and there’s enough Dark Witches on his side that he probably wouldn’t stand alone.

  One glimpse at the two witches huddled here, and we might be looking at another all-out witch war.

  So though I should be heading straight for the exit as fast as my giant feet will carry me, that isn’t what I do. I move to fill the entire doorway, but at first Abacus and Renault are too engrossed in their conversation to notice. Their heads are huddled close together, snatches of their conversation finally breaking through the din.

  “. . . starting to close in . . .”

  Abacus keeps shaking his head in disbelief, but Renault grabs him by the shoulder. “Come on Abacus. It’s only a matter of time unless you—”

  I want to hear more, to know what’s only a matter of time. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of Bedford moving through the crowd in our direction now, and I can’t stall any longer.

  Clearing my throat doesn’t get their attention, so I try doing it a second time even louder—to the same result. I shuffle forward another step, but they just shift a bit to the side to let me pass. Bedford’s getting closer. He still hasn’t spotted them yet, but that won’t last long.

  From the growing tingling sensation spreading from the mask on my face, I don’t have long either. It feels like something’s bubbling up under my skin, and even as I make my next move, the tips of my fingers start to shrink.

  I shove forward this time, knocking into Abacus and spilling the rest of my drink over his shoulder. He cries out and whirls to confront me—only to catch sight of Bedford pushing through the crowd behind me.

  I’m immediately forgotten. Abacus grabs his fellow witch by the front of his shirt and throws him through the nearby door into the room beyond. No sooner has the door shut behind him than Bedford’s beady eyes settle on Abacus.

  “Ah yes, I was wondering if I’d find you here,” he says, his voice rasping between his scarred lips.

  “And you, meanwhile, are quite the unwelcome surprise,” Abacus says, with a bow.

  “Well I—” Bedford pauses, stopping to look up into my face in annoyance. “Sorry, do I know you?”

  I didn’t realize I was still standing so close, but now I feel the way I’m practically pressing up against Abacus and Bedford in the small space.

  As much as I’m dying to find out what the three witches are doing here, together, on the same night—Bedford’s started eyeing me as if he’s trying to work out where he’s seen me before. I avert my eyes and mumble something incoherent as I start shuffling away.

  When my gaze lands on the glass in my hand, it looks bigger than I remembered.

  The mask keeps itching around the edges. I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t ignore the way the glass just keeps getting larger and larger in my hands. But of course it isn’t getting bigger. I’m just getting smaller.

  I have to get out of here now before the rest of the mask’s magic wears off.

  I feel Bedford’s eyes following me as I stumble closer to the door. My footing’s uneven, a quick glance down at my feet revealing the unnerving sight of them shrinking at rapid speed . . . along with the rest of me.

  “Bedford . . .” Abacus’ voice carries out behind me, and I catch a reflection of Bedford tearing his eyes away from my retreat.

  Now’s my chance to get away before it’s too late.

  I’m not the only one who’s mask has started to wear off. Several witches step hastily out of the way as a frenzied Puck barrels out of the back of the lounge towards me with Nicholas in tow. Puck is a sight to behold. Though his face has changed back to his usual silver-haired self, the rest of him has yet to follow.

  I’d laugh if it didn’t mean I too am only moments away from revealing my true face in front of the very worst of the Crusaders.

  The boys grab hold of me and with Abacus still holding Bedford’s attention, we rush towards the exit. Lucky for us, the other Crusaders have already moved on to the further reaches of the building. From the way none of the other witches so much as look our way as we force our way back outside, it can’t be the first time they’ve witnessed a gaggle of witches stumbling out as their masks disintegrate.

  What a place this truly is.

  My one regret is that I never did get to do that helicopter thing with my dick.

  Though no one appears to have followed us, that doesn’t mean we’re safe. We don’t stop until we’ve wound back through the city streets to that same dusty, dirty, crate-covered manhole leading back to th
e school. About halfway there I have to start holding up the clothes I borrowed to keep them from pooling around my ankles. Puck, meanwhile, pops three more of the remaining buttons off my shirt.

  By the time we’re doubled over catching our breath in the tunnel down below, only two of us are properly dressed.

  “What was that?” Merlin asks, through wheezing breaths. He smacks Puck in the center of his now boob-less chest. “I thought you bought the ones that lasted all night.”

  “I did,” Puck says, his own breaths coming heavy. “I guess I got gypped.”

  Nicholas is the only one among us who doesn’t seem concerned. “It’s just nice to have you back with us Wren,” he says, shooting me another sidelong glance. “Now if you gentlemen don’t mind, I’d like to get out of this tunnel preferably before the walls start to close in again.”

  It takes me a moment longer to catch my breath.

  That was too close.

  As much as Nicholas is anxious to get out of the tunnel, I make him wait just a minute while I tell them what I saw before Bedford and the Crusaders showed up. The boys are very interested to learn about the Dark Witch Abacus rescued. Merlin is the only one who doesn’t look surprised.

  I wonder, for a second, if the Dark Witch council is aware of Abacus’ actions.

  If we’d lingered just a minute longer, or if Bedford showed up just a bit later, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. Something’s stirring in the city, I just don’t know what it is.

  All I know is that I’ve grown careless . . . reckless, even. The Crusaders haven’t given up. If anything, they’re closer than ever. If Bedford’s here, they must be growing restless. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s here on the night before the winter solstice, the same night I’m finally supposed to meet with the only witch the Crusaders want more than myself—my mother.

  I got lucky tonight, we all did.

  If I’m not careful, next time I run into him I won’t be able to make such a hasty escape.

  I’m not Puck. Eventually my luck’s going to run out.

  Chapter Thirty

  Though Nicholas tries not to show it, the tunnel’s ever-pressing walls soon get the better of him. He gets antsy and then grows pale and sweaty. He probably would have stuck alongside me, refusing to leave until he clawed his own eyeballs from their sockets if Merlin didn’t notice first and suggest he and Nicholas go on up ahead.

  As soon as they disappear around the bend, I know that’s the last we’ll see of them for a while. By the time Puck and I have reached the end of the tunnel to find the trap door flung wide open—neither Merlin nor Nicholas in sight—I’ve had a bit of time to work through the hell of a ride our little misadventure turned out to be.

  “Wait a minute,” I say, resting my hand on Puck’s forearm to stop him climbing up out of the tunnel and back onto school grounds.

  A soft mist has started to fall. It might be snow, but by the time it reaches the tops of our heads down in the now exposed tunnel, it’s so fine I can’t make out the individual flakes. Our breath rising up creates a white fog trailing off into the night.

  I look up at Puck, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Unlike Nicholas, flighty from his fear of tight spaces, Puck has been flighty this whole time for an entirely different reason. Even now he seems to crawl in his own skin, his body restless and unable to sit still.

  “I know tonight didn’t go as planned,” I start, hesitating over my own words.

  He lets out a loud huff. “You mean with me finally getting to experience what it’d be like to be castrated—in every sense of the word?”

  “Come on, you made a lovely prostitute . . . err . . . girl,” I say, nudging him playfully.

  Despite himself, a smile tugs at the corner of Puck’s mouth.

  “See,” I say again, nudging him repeatedly until that little tug is a full-blown smile, “I knew it. You loved it. I mean, you saw your boobs, right?”

  Puck shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “They’re not all they’re cracked up to be.” He finally looks at me now, his eyebrows raised incredulously. “They’re so heavy. I had no idea.”

  It’s my turn to shake my head in jest. “What can I tell you, Puck? We females suffer in silence.”

  Puck lets out a half-laugh and offers me an exaggerated bow. “I’ll never complain again. I promise.”

  “You promise?” I giggle as he straightens up and grins down at me. Snow has started collecting on the torn lapel of the blazer I once called my own. I stand on my tiptoes and reach up to brush some of the flakes away. “That’s a lot, especially for you.”

  Puck’s hands come up automatically to support the bottom of my arms. “Give me a chance, and I think you might be surprised.”

  A freezing gust of wind brings with it a flurry of full-on snow. Reflexively, Puck draws me closer, cradling me to his chest and turning his shoulder to take the full brunt of the cold. When the gust passes, we don’t immediately break apart.

  In fact, I hug him even tighter. The feel of his heartbeat next to mine, his hot breath on the top of my head, even the scent of spiced liquor on his breath—it fills me with something other than the growing dread of what’s to come tomorrow.

  Tomorrow I’ll discover what I am. I’ll finally know the truth. What comes with that truth—I don’t know.

  But I do know that whatever it is, it can wait. I want this moment, here with Puck, to last as long as it can.

  So when Puck finally starts to pry us apart, muttering something about getting out of the tunnel before the whole thing fills with snow, I dig my fingers into his back and don’t let it happen.

  “Stop,” I say in a heady whisper.

  Though it’s barely audible above the whine of the snow and wind as it picks up around us, Puck still hears the tone of my voice and freezes.

  His hand moves up higher to cradle the back of my head while he buries his face into the tangle of hair at my neck. “What is it, little bird?”

  I shiver, but not from the cold.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I say. I clutch him tighter, knowing my nails are digging more little crescent shapes through his jacket. “Stay with me.”

  His breath grows even hotter against the naked spot behind my ear. His lips come so close, they nearly graze the tender skin there.

  “That’d hardly be appropriate. The solstice ritual—”

  “To hell with the ritual,” I say, pulling back to look up at him. As if to respond, another gust of wind swoops down and blasts us in the face. The force of it catches on the prone trap door, lifting it slightly before slamming it back down on the frozen ground.

  It’s the signal for us to move. Puck hoists me up above him, and I scramble out of the way as he climbs up after me. No sooner has he knelt to fashion the door shut that the skies above finally unleash their full fury.

  By the time we’ve pressed our backs to the frosted greenhouse walls, the snow is falling so thick and heavy that I can’t even see my own hand held out in front of my face. All I can see is a dark sheet of white lit by the feeble light coming from inside the glass.

  There’s a brief moment where I think I’ve lost Puck. One moment he’s standing by my side, his hand thrown up against the whipping wind and snow trying to blind us, the next my hand finds nothing but unfeeling glass as far out as I can reach to either side. For that one second, the cold finally settles—chilling me to the bone.

  When Puck does finally emerge from that wall of white, he barrels out like a shadow, tugging me along the edge of the glass until we come to the closest door. He fumbles with his wand a moment, the wood failing in his stiff fingers until a shouted curse causes the padlock to fall off and allows the two of us to stumble inside.

  The burst of cold air rustles the leaves of the plants closest to us. Puck throws himself against the door to wrestle it closed again, but the remnants of snow still frost the ground and brush against the leaves and branches of those plants set closest to the exit.

&nb
sp; Puck rattles the doorframe once for good measure, making sure the gusts outside won’t throw it open again. I’ve faced the threat of Highborne and Dark Witches alike, the council, Crusaders, and even demons—but all that would pale in comparison to facing Professor Heathers if we killed off his entire collection of plant-children.

  I don’t realize I’m shivering until Puck rushes over to place one hand on either side of me to still my shaking shoulders.

  “We’ll have to wait here a while,” he says, glancing once more over at the blanked-out grounds. The thick glass quiets the deafening noise outside, but we can still hear the sound of wind cutting against the walls like the cry of a far-off banshee.

  As the momentary burst of cold evaporates, it’s replaced with the thick, warm air of the greenhouse. The snow caught up in our hair melts, leaving a thin film upon Puck’s brow when he turns back to me. Here in the dim light it glistens like tiny beads of sweat trickling down the side of his face.

  Puck’s thumb moves to wipe away a droplet from my chin. It lingers there a moment, the tip of his finger brushing against my quaking lower lip.

  “You’re still shivering,” he says, quietly.

  It’s true. Not from the cold, now, though, but from something else.

  Without breaking away from him, I shrug my shoulders so that the now oversized jacket falls from them to the floor. My loose, borrowed top does little to conceal the shape of my body beneath it.

  “Ritual be damned,” I say, stepping just a little closer. “Looks like you’ll have to stay with me after all.”

  The arms holding me stiffen. Pucks’ eyes nearly bulge out of his head from the effort of looking-without-actually-looking at my barely covered breasts.

  A nervous laugh escapes his lips. “This isn’t fair, you know,” he says, “teasing me like this.”

  “Who says I’m teasing?”

  I lift my arms a little higher and wrap them around Puck’s neck. Now that I’m back in my own body the effects of the alcohol are a little stronger. It’s not so much to leave me inebriated, but enough to give me the courage to act on the strange and conflicting feelings that’ve been growing steadier inside.