by Kate Hall
The vision hadn’t belonged to him, that much is for sure. That doesn’t change the fact that he felt it, that he was there with this vision coursing through him.
He’s had visions before. Almost everyone at St. Merlin’s takes Divination at some point, and everyone has at least one vision from the herbal tea they’re given. Alex’s vision was that he would break his foot while playing soccer in the courtyard. Two weeks later, the nurse had to repair his broken foot after an impromptu game had broken out. He didn’t even get extra credit for his vision coming true—the day before, someone else had forced their vision by slamming their head into a wall to receive a broken nose.
He braces himself against the sink and works on the breathing exercises that he learned in his freshman year pyromancy course. He sucks in a breath, holds it for ten seconds, and then pushes it out his nose. He ties his hands together with his fingers and lifts them with each breath, lowering them as he breathes out.
What the fuck just happened?
He has had visions, sure, but he’s never had someone else’s vision. Random thoughts and feelings will float to him on occasion due to his telepathy, but he’s never received something so vivid.
It’s still reverberating through him, looking for a place to escape. Because it’s magic, it tries desperately to escape using his fire. Because he doesn’t want to burn the bathroom down, he suppresses it, and it keeps playing over and over again.
In his mind, Sarah’s body is still pressed against him, her body cold with the unseasonable chill. Her lips are taut and desperate as they crush against his. They’re at some sort of party, and he has to pull away to gather his thoughts. His hands are knotted in her short brown hair, and her freckles stand out on her pale skin. She’s tall for a girl, only a little shorter than him. Kissing her is so easy, and he wants nothing more than to keep doing it.
He keeps breathing, slowing it until he’s holding his breath for over a minute at a time before releasing it.
Gradually, the vision goes spotty, fading into memory. It’s a powerful piece of magic, but not more powerful than his willpower.
Sixth hour passes in a blur—he can’t focus on anything while his thoughts are on the vision, but by the time the class is over, he’s regained complete control over his mind.
His final class of the day is Pyromancy, and he’s relieved to be here. Normal subjects like Spiritual Magic or Potions don’t interest him in the slightest, and he’s not well suited to Math and History.
He was born to be a pyromancer. Dad says it’s because Alex was conceived at a bonfire, and Mom usually slaps him on the shoulder for saying that.
“He knows how babies are made, Mary,” Dad will say in defense, and he laughs when Mom whacks him again. Neither of them were as good-humored when Alex nearly burned down the barn when he was thirteen, the same year he’d been offered a partial scholarship to St. Merlin’s.
Phillip Lionel is the youngest teacher on campus, and the only one imported from Belgium. He has a black beard as thick as his accent, probably to make up for the lack of hair on his head. A lot of the freshmen are afraid of him, as he’s one of the four live-in professors, the one in charge of ensuring that students are in their rooms with the lights out no later than ten at night before a school day.
“Who actually did the homework this summer?” Phillip asks when all three pyromancers—Alex, David, and Kendall—are in the room. The desks have all been magicked somewhere else, so they must be practicing today. A large rubber mat has been rolled out across the floor, and the air is charged with a familiar charm that keeps them from burning down the classroom.
They all turn in their thick essays—each of them had to spend the summer researching a famous fire mage and write a five-thousand word essay over them. Phillip tosses the papers in the air, where they disappear with a crack, presumably to the work desk where he grades homework in his apartment.
To David’s obvious delight, he and Kendall are grouped together to begin their warm-up drills, while Phillip works one-on-one with Alex. Phillip casts a doppelgänger with a swish of his hand, which Alex assumes is the best way to teach multiple pyromancers at once and not have anyone fall behind. The doppelgänger is a wispy version of the teacher who goes through drills with Kendall and David, adjusting their stances as needed. David’s movements are aggressive, his fire hot and sharp. He’s a grease fire running out of control, while Kendall is soft and graceful, candlelight on a starry evening.
The real Phillip joins Alex at the other side of the room. He explains and demonstrates a few new maneuvers, and then tells Alex where to incorporate them into his current drills. He follows along as Phillip does them, ensuring that he understands exactly what it is he’s meant to be doing.
Alex goes through his standard warmup, which is a sort of tai-chi used to balance a pyromancer before starting to use fire. Apparently, he’s lost his touch, because the movements that were as familiar to him as breathing last year are being picked at and adjusted by Phillip.
After going through the warm-up twice, he starts on the drills, which mainly consist of Alex producing different types of fire using different motions. In reality, the motions are unimportant, but pyromancers have found that it’s easier to focus one’s energy when there are specific maneuvers to follow.
He trips up on the second motion, one of the new ones that Phillip demonstrated. He’s supposed to stretch his torso out in a straight line that extends through one leg, balanced on the toes of the other. Instead, he falls forward and catches himself with his hands, and everyone in the room stops what they’re doing when they hear a loud snap, like a twig underfoot.
A sharp pain shoots up his right arm, and he curses under his breath.
“What have I told you about landing on your hands?” Phillip chides, but he helps Alex up nonetheless. The hand stings and throbs, and his wrist is already starting to swell. When he tries to bend it, the pain shoots through him again. “Ah, off to the nurse with you.”
Alex cradles his hand to his chest and curses himself for being so stupid. He knows how to use his momentum to keep from hurting himself when he falls, but he didn’t do it this time. “It will keep you alive in a battle,” Phillip often explains. He always laughs at Alex when he responds that he doesn’t plan on battling anything at any point in his life.
He passes Gabby Savalza in the hall, and she waves a lavatory pass at him, a green slip of paper. He waves back with his working hand, and she raises an eyebrow at the broken one. When they get close enough, her hand clenches and unclenches in front of her. “That’s a good break you’ve got there, Locklear,” she says. “How’d you manage that?” From the whispers in the student body, Alex knows that she’s an empath, but he had no idea that her abilities were strong enough that she could feel someone else’s pain without trying. Impressive. They have US History together this year, and they had the same literature class last year. Other than that, they don’t really know each other, though she seems friendly enough.
“I thought it would be fun,” he jokes with a careful shrug as they pass each other and continue on their way.
It only takes the nurse a moment to repair his wrist, although it hurts worse than the initial break. To heal him, she has to hold his wrist tightly, and her magic radiates ice-cold deep into his bones. He tries to focus on a poster about preventing the spread of Faerie Flu, but he still cries out after a few seconds of healing. When she releases him, his wrist as good as new. The icy sting is already fading.
“Hasn’t Phillip told you that you shouldn’t catch yourself with your hands?” she asks condescendingly as she puts away the oils she uses to focus her healing powers.
“Yes, ma’am,” Alex replies. “I’m just talented enough to forget and then break myself on a rubber practice mat. Really, I should get an award.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’d better not see you in my office again for at least another month.”
He salutes her sarcastically before heading back to class.
“You’d miss me too much,” he says, shutting the door behind him.
Last year, he had an injury or illness from one class or another every week until school let out. Once, she had to repair both legs and an arm after he fell off the roof of one of the smaller buildings while trying to catch a baby griffon that someone let out during a magical creatures class.
Back on his family’s farm in Kansas, he’s usually quite careful, but something about the energy at St. Merlin’s makes him reckless.
Chapter Five
Sarah
BACK HOME, AFTER TEXTING GABBY ABOUT THE Spiritual Magic assignment, Sarah stares at the dragon egg. She had to add more logs to it and stoke the embers to create a flame, so it’s back to being a steady crackle of flame. The orange light causes the opalescent blues and pinks and greens to twinkle brighter, but there’s no indication of what’s going on inside the egg. For all she knows, it died on her way back to the house in the pouring rain. The internet has been no help in that regard—all she’s found have been pictures of the mystical shell pieces after hatching or eggs being incubated.
She runs her finger over her lips, bringing back the memory—no, the vision—of Alex’s lips against hers. She can still feel the light stubble on his chin brushing against her, and she closes her eyes to bring back the full thing. He’d mentioned that he has telepathic powers, but she hadn’t considered that meant psychic visions, too. Psychics are exceedingly rare, and some people consider them to be dangerous. Sarah has never believed that any magic is more dangerous than other types, although she is wary of blood magic.
She crawls into bed after casting the shield back over the fireplace, curling up tight under her comforter. She only leaves a small hole to the room to let in fresh air.
In moments, she’s asleep.
HER EYES OPEN WHEN THE TRUCK STOPS, FAERIES singing from the trees surrounding Aunt Helen’s house. She was trying to sleep, but the dirt roads had bounced her around, her head occasionally slamming against the window. Besides, she doesn’t want to have another nightmare, which her parents have been doing their best to quell all week. The drive here was long; it had taken hours to get to Helen’s house in the Northwest Arkansas hills.
“I’ll get the mare if you get Sarah,” Mom whispers, her door opening and flooding the cab of the truck with light.
Sarah closes her eyes, still feigning sleep before her parents notice she’s up. Dad turns the truck off, the roar of the engine suddenly silent in the quiet winter night. His keys jingle as he exits the vehicle, and he closes the front door as quietly as possible. She rolls her head against the seat so that she doesn’t fall when he opens her door, and she lets him collect her, his arms warm in the frigid night. It’s been a long time since her dad has carried her anywhere, but tonight, he does it without hesitation.
When he steps onto the wooden porch of Helen and Dad’s childhood home, the screen door squeaks open. Sarah opens her eyes just enough to see her aunt, but not enough that anyone notices she’s awake.
Helen is two years older than Dad, and her freckled face is weary from the cold night. She’s wearing thick, stained tan coveralls and a somber expression. When Sarah was younger, Mom had to explain to her that that’s just how Helen’s face is. Her mess of red hair is tied back in a braid, a few strands escaping in an attempt to curl their way to freedom.
“How was the drive?” she whispers, her voice gentle, the same as the voice she uses to calm frightened horses. Every winter break, Sarah’s parents bring her here to celebrate the holidays, including her birthday. One of her favorite things to do is watch Helen train horses that nobody else can, hands steady and feet planted with even the most difficult of animals. Helen’s gentle hand brushes Sarah’s scalp.
Dad tells Helen about the long ride, about the unicorn mare rocking the trailer with anxiety. He carries Sarah into the dim, warm house while he speaks. She can faintly smell something sweet, probably a cake. Helen makes the best chocolate cake, which they eat for breakfast on her birthday before Sarah’s parents wake up every year.
A loud whinny pierces the night, and she hears Aunt Helen curse, footsteps bounding off the porch. After Dad lays Sarah on the couch, he, too, is out the door. She hears metallic rattling—the unicorn must be spooked at something, its hooves pawing at the trailer walls and shaking the doors. Even the house seems to shake for a moment.
She considers opening her eyes to see if she can spot the calamity, but her eyelids are too heavy, like the sticky darkness is holding them shut. Mom is yelling something to Dad, her words jumbled, and then the trailer door clatters open and slams into a gate, the sound ringing through the winter night.
She forces her eyes open at the noise, but all she can see now is the white semi truck headlight shining into their cab, her mother’s hand tight around her own. She tries to hold on, but her eyelids droop shut, her hands repeatedly slipping out of Mom’s bloody one.
SARAH WAKES UP IN A COLD SWEAT, CHECKING
her phone to see that her alarm is about to go off.
She hasn’t had a dream about Helen’s house since she was twelve, and even then, they were usually nightmares. This time, it was almost a memory. Her only thoughts until now had been related to her parents’ accidental death, but now, she remembers more things about her aunt, like the way she’d make sure Sarah’s birthday and the winter solstice were always separate days. A couple of her friends had birthdays near winter solstice, and they always whined about how the two were sort of merged together into one celebration.
But Helen had been kind. She didn’t want Sarah to feel unimportant, so on her birthday every year, they would eat chocolate cake for breakfast and go horseback riding throughout the sprawling property. Then, in the afternoon, they’d eat pizza for lunch and Sarah’s parents would join them with birthday gifts.
Her heart lurches thinking about it now, and her memories turn dark, Helen’s eyes turning black and her hands becoming slick with blood, like the blood of Sarah’s mother that had covered Sarah’s hands in the accident. She slams the door on this train of thought and gets ready for school.
WHEN SHE MAKES IT TO THE BUILDING, SHE’S surprised to find Gabby waiting for her near the front entrance.
“Let’s grab breakfast before class,” Gabby says. “I left before I remembered that food existed, and I’d rather not starve until lunch.”
Sarah agrees to join her, although Elizabeth had prepared breakfast this morning, which she found ready on her bedside table after getting out of the shower. She considers bringing up her nightmare the dragon in the woods, but that would mean bringing up the the egg. And, although she can see becoming close with Gabby, she just isn’t that type of friend.
The cafeteria isn’t the only place to get food at school—there’s also an atrium near the student parking lot that serves breakfast in the morning and snacks throughout the day. It’s out of the way of pretty much everything, though, so Sarah didn’t even know it was here. The early-morning sunlight streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glittering over the tabletops that swirl with moving galaxies.
While they wait in line, she studies the other students who are milling around, some sitting at the circular wooden tables, others lounging on the plush leather furniture near the windows. She recognizes a few of them from her classes—the dark-skinned girl reading Jane Austen is in her Biology class, and the slender white boy with blonde hair who’s slouching in the big armchair is in US History, the seat behind her’s.
Gabby loads up on breakfast foods and leads her over to one of the nearly empty tables. Across from them, there’s a small blonde girl reading a book about vampires—not a textbook, but a cheesy supermarket romance novel like the ones Penny’s always reading.
“Hey, Cynthia,” Gabby says, and the girl blinks at them, falling out of a stupor.
“Hey, Gabby,” she replies, her eyes sad. Sarah tries to read the description on the book to find out if it’s supposed to be depressing, but she can’t see it from across
the table. That’s just what her face looks like, her mom’s voice rings in her head. The memory is so quick and sharp that Sarah barely has time to register it.
“Any cool visions lately?” Gabby asks, trying to make conversation, but Cynthia simply gives a sad smile and continues on with her book.
They do their best to not intrude on Cynthia’s space, and Gabby explains some of the dynamics of St. Merlin’s to Sarah. She goes over the campus layout, including buildings that Sarah doesn’t have classes in.
“You’ll have to check out the library at some point. It’s huge, and a great place to get some actual work done.” She gestures to the loud atrium, students all clamoring for their voices to be heard over one another, which has only resulted in a low roar. “You can book private study rooms, which are all shielded so that you can practice your magic.”
Sarah considers mentioning that she doesn’t have a specialty to practice, and that she can only do basic spells, but Gabby continues on. “The gym is alright, if you’re into that sort of thing. Some people go to the pool on the weekends. It’s usually for swimming laps, but on Saturday afternoons it’s more of a recreational area. They even have a volleyball net!”
“Good to know.” Sarah doesn’t mention that she’s really terrible at every sort of magic and all sports.
Cynthia looks up at the door when a group of towering, muscular boys comes in, laughing raucously. One of them, who has blonde, curly hair, scans the room, and when he spots her, he ducks his head to hide a shy smile and a blush. The girl goes back to reading her book, her lips tilted upward with a secret. Yet, for some reason, her eyes are still sad. Sarah looks down at her lap, as this feels too much like intruding on a private moment.
She wants to talk to Alex.
She does not want to mention the kiss to him. By now, she’s convinced herself that her hormones have turned her imagination toward love, and she thought too much about the cute boy that she sits next to in two of her classes. She tries to shake it off, but she still feels drawn to him. Maybe after she talks to him, she’ll see that he’s actually a stereotypical rich asshole, and she’ll want nothing to do with him. That way, she can focus on school and the dragon egg at home.
