by LJ Swallow
“Some pneuma must feed on people.”
“Yes, unfortunately, and with unpleasant effects. This is my equivalent of the cows' blood solution the hemia have.” He laughs. “If you catch my meaning.”
“You mean you don't harm humans because you use a safer feeding method?”
“Exactly.” He rubs his hands on his jeans. “I don’t have all evening to discuss my diet, so let’s move on.”
I nod. “Sorry.”
He steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “People’s minds are difficult to climb inside. In my classes, we learn to break down mental barriers and see thoughts. Influence them. Mind control is a step further. You have to burrow deeper and tune into the decision-making part of somebody's mind.”
“Okay.”
He pauses and bites his lip. “I’m wary about teaching this ability to anybody. I'm sure you can imagine the power that harnessing this talent would give you. Maeve, promise me never to use the power on anybody unless another’s life is threatened.”
“I don’t intend to. You know my thoughts on mind control.”
He breaks into the biggest smile I’ve seen from him, tugging the corner of his eyes and humanising him further. “Indeed, I do, Maeve.”
My name always rolls from his tongue to sound different to most people's pronunciations. European? Irish? I noticed this the first day, and I love the way he says 'Maeve'.
To be honest, Tobias could read the menu at a restaurant, and I’d be hungry for more than food.
Omigod. Maeve. My mind gets stuck on this stupid loop whenever I’m with Tobias. I have two amazing guys interested in me, and still I drool over a professor.
“Maeve?”
“Sorry. I drifted for a minute there.” I swear he knows where because he purses his lips at me. I’ve engaged in Tobias's lessons, pushing at mental barriers, but is delving deeper possible? “How do I practice? I doubt I could have an effect on you, Tobias.”
His eyes meet mine a moment longer than is comfortable. “I would need to open my mind to you, which again is something I’m reluctant to do.”
“I understand. Do you think another student could help me instead? Maybe Jamie?”
He shakes his head. “This academy likes to keep secrets. This new one— your other power—needs to be kept quiet for now.”
"But my friends already know."
"I'm glad they do. You need to look after each other."
“I don’t think Sofia wanted you to know or help.”
His eyes narrow. “Is that so?” Whoa, big mouth, Maeve. “Don’t worry, I’m aware she doesn’t like me. I don’t trust her either.”
He’s confirming what I already suspect; the academy is a place of conflict that the Dominion could take advantage of.
“To start with, I want to teach you how to reach into the decision-making part of my brain. Only something minor, like picking up a glass.” He gestures at an empty one on the table beside him. “Nothing deeper than that. You could spend a lifetime learning to control my actions but could never influence me to do much more than simple tasks.”
I clasp my hands in my lap as I stare at the glass.
“We rarely think about actions like picking up a glass to drink, if we’re distracted by other things. Much the same way somebody would hit the brakes on a car in reflex to seeing a child in the road. Your vic... man was distracted by his phone— you took over and saw what he missed. The swerving was a reflex action.”
I nod. His explanation makes sense, but what he’s asking amuses me. Make the vampire pick up a glass.
“Do you think I can make you do something?” I ask.
“Only because I’ll let you.” He pauses. “I’m trusting you here, and I’m warning you not to pry anywhere else in my mind or memories, at any time. The consequences to you would be greater than an academy detention.”
The aura around him shifts to warning and my mouth parches. As if I’d be stupid enough to upset a professor who’s a vampire with secrets.
I nod, his veiled threat ringing in my ears.
Tobias checks his wristwatch, focusing my attention on his defined forearms and the fingers he placed on my skin. “I have half an hour. Let’s begin.”
He shuffles further back in his seat and places his hand on the table beside the glass. “I will bring the thought to the front of my mind, and you can choose the moment I take hold of the glass. This sounds basic, but if you manage, you’ll achieve a lot.”
We lapse into silence and close our eyes. I picture Tobias in my mind, twisting my thoughts so I’m him, sitting opposite.
How do I do this? My mind reaches out into the air around me, grasping for another’s thoughts as if I could net them like fish. A faded picture comes into view. A glass. Seizing hold of the image, I focus. My face heats as I picture Tobias’s hand as mine—how lucky I spent time studying him moments ago. Concentrate, Maeve.
I snap my eyes open and the world around is mute, the only sound is blood swooshing in my ears. The hand in front of my eyes has long fingers and a silver ring and I painfully turn my head to look down at the glass on the table.
The hand shakes as I reach down; the movement jerky. The male fingers close around the glass tumbler and my heart speeds as I lift it.
I can’t resist peeking at the room around. At the girl opposite. Her eyes are closed, and mouth parted slightly in concentration. The flushed cheeks accentuate her delicate features. How smooth does her blonde hair feel where strands touch her neck? Is her skin as soft as I imagine? This girl is as mesmerising to me as I am to her. She moistens her lips and my pulse races as a familiar, unwanted sensation surges inside.
A glass shatters and I jump back into my own skin. That was louder than somebody dropping the glass, as if someone threw it. Snapping my eyes open, I meet Tobias’s darkened eyes and barely hidden anger. The glass has shattered into pieces on the floor between us.
My heart thunders. What did I do? “Did you drop the glass?” I ask meekly.
“Yes,” he growls. “You were distracted and let go of your concentration. Which means I let go too.”
“Oh.” Embarrassed that I screwed up, I lean down and take the larger shards in my hands.
“Leave that,” he snaps. “You’ll cut yourself.”
“Maybe we should’ve chosen a pen, or something less breakable,” I say, attempting to lighten the blanketing heaviness in the room.
He stares at me, unblinking. “I chose something I could break if necessary.”
“Why? What happened?” He doesn’t answer so I set the glass shards down and reach for others. In my flustered state, I take too sharp a piece and the tip pierces my finger. “Shit.”
He rises. “Stand up. I told you you’d cut yourself. Why do you never listen?”
I do as Tobias says as he grabs tissues from inside a nearby drawer. I stare down at the blood pooling on my finger. Swearing, he grabs my hand and wraps a white tissue around the wound, and a second when the blood seeps through.
“I told you to keep out of my head,” he says, roughly pushing my hand at me. “Get out of here and attend to your wound. You’re lucky I’m not hemia.”
His reaction is a slap to the face. “I didn’t look into your head, Tobias,” I say. “I just glanced around the room through your eyes. I like to locate myself whenever I’m in visions.”
“I’d prefer you call me Professor Whitlock,” he says harshly. “And Sofia was right. This tuition is a bad idea.”
He escorts me from his office and the classroom, muttering something about how he’ll be late for a meeting, if I don’t leave now. The door closes in my face and I stare in disbelief at the wood.
I only looked around the room. Why react this harshly? Because I broke the glass?
No. This is more. I saw myself through Tobias’s eyes, and he looked at his student in a way that a professor never should. My breath catches at the undeniable truth. Tobias is attracted to me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
; JAMIE
Physical Education is my least favourite class, and I’m relieved I only attend once a week. This term, the faculty put Walcott and Gilgamesh in the same class—witches head to head with shifters—which is bloody stupid since they’re physically stronger. This term we play hockey which is supposed to be a non-contact sport, but Gilgamesh kids like nothing better than to remind us we’re weaker with a slip of the hockey stick. We’re at a disadvantage unless spells are used, and that’s not allowed.
Today, I’m counting on somebody 'accidentally' hitting me, so I can test my new magic defences.
I’m not sorry about casting the spell on myself, whatever the others think. How can they understand what it’s like to have a death threat hanging over your head, like a constant black cloud following you everywhere? I bet they’d use any method available to stay safe. Sure, I took a risk casting the spell, but I’m okay. I don’t feel any different.
No, I do feel different—safer.
I feel awful about what happened to Maeve afterwards, but I don’t believe this was connected. Amelia says I’m fooling myself if I think that’s true. Maeve’s still freaked out by the blur between the present and the future, but she’s coping better than I thought she would and there’s no ill effects. So no harm done.
Professor O’Reilly stands with arms crossed tight across his barrel chest, the sports shirt straining against his biceps as he watches us file into the sports hall from the rain. This ex-military guy is one of few teachers who'll discipline you for using his first name. He demands respect from us all—he’s bloody scary.
Maeve passes then half-hides on Ash’s right-hand side, her eyes wide as she looks round at us all. She voiced her worry about competing against the other houses, but Amelia assured her she'll survive.
Survive was the wrong word to use, since Maeve turned pale.
We stand against the wall and Professor O’Reilly walks along to inspect us. Every class I have with him, I feel as if I’m thirteen again, because he looks down at us as if we’re dumb kids. He’s overly strict on sports uniform too—thanks to his military background, everything has to be perfect.
His slight limp is the only clue to the professor's disability. His career fighting for the Confederacy ended abruptly following a loss against hunters. He can still shift into a huge wolf that I wouldn’t tangle with, even with three legs, but his physical prowess isn’t enough for a combat role. Instead of taking a desk job, the professor decided to train others in the hope he’ll find strong candidates for military leadership.
He has his eye on Ash.
Professor O’Reilly stops in front of Maeve and appraises her. His gaze rests on her shoes long enough for the rest of us to fall quiet. He fixes her with his amber eyes.
“You do not have the correct shoes, Miss Foster.”
She straightens but doesn’t look down at the black and white Vans. “Sorry. I didn’t know I needed specific shoes until today. These are the only trainers I have.”
His nostrils flare. “Trainers? These are some kind of tennis shoe. Totally unsuitable for my class.”
“Maeve wasn't told everything about sports uniform,” puts in Amelia. “She joined the academy after the information was sent to her parents.”
“Is that so? Why aren't her parents concerned enough to supply her the correct uniform, once she started here? This academy has rules. You are all different, but the uniform makes you equal. I do not care for individuality.”
Maeve’s cheeks are bright red, and I feel for her. Nobody likes to be on the receiving end of Professor O’Reilly’s ire. “I'll organise something for next week,” she says meekly.
He throws his hands up. “Who taught my class while I was away the last half-term? He or she should’ve enforced my rules.”
“Professor Richards.” The shifter Maths teacher has the correct skills, but no interest in teaching sports. The lessons became unruly—half the students loitered at the edge of the class and did nothing during each hour he taught.
“I should’ve guessed he'd be incompetent.” He gestures at Maeve again. “What are your fitness levels like?”
She glances at Amelia in desperation then back at him. “Not great.”
“Was physical education compulsory at your human school?”
I straighten. This is the true issue here—prejudice. Maeve shakes her head. "Not in my year."
The professor bends forward, arms behind his back. “Then, we will fix that, Miss Foster.”
As he continues his march along the line of students, Maeve looks at the door and for a moment I think she’s about to run.
He criticises other students for wearing the wrong colour socks before he moves to the centre of the room.
“The weather prevents you playing outside, but you can still play indoor hockey.” The professor gestures around the vast hall where two makeshift goals are placed at either end. “I trust you’ll play nicely today, Remi.”
Ash’s shifter friend chuckles. “Sure thing, Professor. Always.”
He makes a humph noise and directs people to the large cupboard containing hockey sticks.
“I can’t play hockey,” whispers Maeve. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Just hang at the sides,” I say. “Defend the goal, which will be pointless since most shifters easily pass witches, and score.”
Amelia grumbles in agreement.
There’s no need to hand out bibs to differentiate the opposite races as blue team and red team, but the professor does anyway. We're split into smaller groups, and my stomach drops into my correct trainers when we’re pitted against shifters.
Including Ash and Clive.
Amelia and Maeve are assigned defence roles. Witches are given the usual strict instructions not to use our magic, and shifters not to use their superior physical skills.
The key reason for physical education sessions is to practice how we’d cope in situations we couldn’t access our powers. Personally, I don’t think we’ll have hockey sticks, neither would we repel people with our excellent ball skills. Amelia told me not to be sarcastic, and that we hone skills like running, dodging, or climbing.
Amelia's right, but I’d rather train without lengths of wood wielded by shifters smacking my ankles.
The burly Gilgamesh players have physical strength, but not agility. As a player in an attack position, I’m able to use my dexterity to dodge. Not as well as a vamp could if they took part in this class, but physically, I’m on the ball. Ash meets me head on a couple of times and his eyes narrow, as his competitive nature takes over.
The game is fast-paced as we swerve around each other, shoes squeaking on the polished floor and cries echoing around the room. I grow hotter with exertion, but my disadvantage against shifters comes through.
Their stamina.
I never expected our team to win, but 10-0 is a worse score than I imagined. Maeve and Amelia apologise profusely at half time for their poor performance, but the team doesn't care about winning. Most of us want the lesson over and to leave in one piece.
The match resumes and the opposing team switch from triumph to goading us “how shit” we are. Once again, someone hits the ball away from me and passes it to his team mate, Clive. Clive heads towards Maeve and Amelia, and my heart leaps into my mouth as Maeve steps in front of him. He calls out something to her and she forges forward, stick positioned in an attempt to stop the ball.
I stare in disbelief as he slams Maeve with a shoulder and knocks her backwards, to the floor. Maeve skids across the ground and her stick flies from her hand. Immediate anger seethes inside and I step forward to confront him. A figure beats me to it as Ash shoves the guy hard in the chest.
“What the hell, man?” he growls.
“She was in the way, dude. Hit me on the ankles too. Just retaliating.” Clive shoves Ash’s hand to one side.
The match halts as everybody stares at the scene. Maeve silently gets to her feet and winces. Hair has fallen from her ponytail during the
match, and she wipes her perspiring face with a hand.
“Professor?” I call out.
He watches impassively. “Yes?”
“That should be a foul.”
“What should?” He scratches an eyebrow. “Miss Foster, please resume the game. The rest of you—in position.”
Clive smirks and steps back from Ash.
“Professor,” puts in Amelia. “Clive deliberately knocked Maeve and he's hurt her.”
“I’m fine,” Maeve says in a small voice. “Let’s finish.”
“Someone twice your size sent you flying across the sports hall. That’s not fine.” Ash steps forward again and Clive raises a disdainful eyebrow.
Professor O'Reilly raises his voice. “I said, resume positions and continue the match. I saw nothing.”
Ash’s mouth opens as if to say something, then closes it and glowers.
“She tripped,” says Clive. “Didn’t you, sweetheart?”
Nose to nose with Clive, Ash says something through clenched teeth, who laughs back at him.
Nobody hit or touched me yet, but I can change that. As we return to our positions, I walk past Clive and whack his ankles. "Oops, sorry."
He winces and scowls at me.
“You’ll regret what you did to Maeve,” I mutter. “I’ll see you later.”
Clive scoffs. “Yeah? And how are you going to make me regret it, little witch boy?”
I smile slowly. “You won’t know what’s hit you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
JAMIE
The shifter camaraderie leads to loud celebrations in the changing rooms, while the majority of witches change and leave as quickly as they can. How will we fare as a house in the academy games next term, if we can hardly take on the others in a hockey match?
I take my time changing and talking down a wound-up Ash, telling him to change and leave, to check if Maeve is okay. If Clive bruised Maeve, Ash is sure to give Clive a larger one.
The volume of voices drops as people leave, until only stragglers remain in the room. I sit on the slatted bench with my bag between my legs, stomach filled with apprehension and some fear. If the spell doesn’t work, my face won’t look great in a few minutes.
