Smoke and Mist (The Academy Book 1)

by Kate Hall

Hawthorne is practically purring, a low grumble coming from his throat while Sarah and Alex pet him.

  For this moment, everything is perfect. She’s sitting in a warm field with the boy she likes—who likes her back—and Elizabeth, taking in the artificial sunlight while dragons frolic around them. She doesn’t want this moment to end.

  “You can’t just give him the egg,” Elizabeth says, her voice gentle. “I know you want to, but you can’t.”

  “I can’t keep it. There’s too much going on. And Hawthorne should take it. It’s his egg.” Her grip on Hawthorne’s feathers gets just a bit too rough, and he lets out a light grumble. She immediately releases him and puts her hands back on the egg.

  Elizabeth sighs. “I know it is. The problem is, forest dragons are different than most. That’s why I’m studying them—there hasn’t been much research in the past. Most dragons are just animals, nothing special except their ability to breathe fire or ice. Forest dragons are a little more magical than most.” Her face lights up as she talks about the dragons, and her hands get more animated. Usually, she’s a distant creature, but now, she’s so human that Sarah doesn’t feel so intimidated by her ethereal beauty. “The mother has a psychic bond with her egg. If she hadn’t passed it to a psychic, then Hawthorne could, in theory, take it and form that connection. But now, he won’t be able to feel anything from it, to communicate when it hatches, because it’s bonded to someone else. When it hatches, it needs that parental bond to survive.”

  Sarah purses her lips. If she, a human, can feel the hint of the baby dragon, he should be able to. With her hand pressed on it, the pulsing heart rate of the dragon inside is obvious.

  “This female must have passed on her bond when she died. To someone with psychic abilities.” Elizabeth’s tone is slow and careful, as if she’s giving Sarah some sort of news. Treating her, once again, like a wild animal.

  “Then how is this egg alive?” she asks, stroking the holographic striping along one side. “It shouldn’t be possible, right? It’s some sort of fluke?”

  Alex puts a hand on Sarah’s, his long fingers brushing over the surface of the egg. “Sarah.” She turns her eyes to his, and he looks concerned. Careful. “Have you ever exhibited any sort of psychic abilities?”

  Of course not, she thinks. She opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t make the words happen. Because it isn’t true. She’d seen everything from the dragon in the woods, and then Hawthorne’s memories. Alex is a telepath—he couldn’t have been the one to have the vision of them kissing at the party. She’d just been too naive to see it. Or in denial.

  People are afraid of psychics. Not the same way they’re afraid of heights or car wrecks, but in a deep, primal way. Like how they’re afraid of the dark. They won’t say it, not in this day and age, but it’s there. It’s the reason women were burned at the stake in Salem, despite half the townspeople being magic users. It’s why there are neon signs that say “psychic” at carnivals, where teens like Penny will giggle nervously, hearts racing as they go in while adults give the tent a wide berth.

  It’s why Sarah hasn’t admitted it to herself. Dragons, blood magic, the wild fae, and sirens are all things that people should be wary of, but the thought of someone else knowing the deepest, darkest parts of yourself? That’s more terrible than anything that could steal you away into the night.

  “It’s okay,” Alex says, pulling her into his arms. “You know, Cynthia was a psychic, and everyone thought she was awesome.”

  That should make her feel better, but she can only think of how Cynthia was viciously murdered. Being a psychic didn’t save her.

  Elizabeth smiles and says, “Don’t forget your favorite aunt.” Sarah laughs at that. With how her semester is going, “favorite” aunt is a pretty low bar. The other one is a serial killer. “Although you seem to have more of an affinity for animals than I do.” As Elizabeth says this, a prairie dragon climbs into her lap, swiping at her hair with its little paws.

  Sarah looks up at the sky, dragons swirling through the air in the distance. “I guess that’s one perk.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sarah

  SARAH HAS TO DODGE ATTENTION WHEN school starts back up again Monday. Someone found out that she’s related to the murderer —a quick Google search could reveal that now that the police have released Helen’s name and photo. She’s grateful for the abandoned classroom and her friends treating her normally.

  When she reveals to Gabby that she’s a psychic, her only response is, “Oh my god can you tell me if I get a job at Sequoia National Park after college?” Sarah feels bad that she doesn’t know how to do a specific reading, but Gabby just waves her off with a smile.

  She doesn’t recognize the name of the girl who was killed over the weekend. Gina Sanders. Sarah commits it to memory now, looking her up on social media when she gets the chance. It only takes a quick scroll to see that she’d been well-loved in her friend group, a bunch of nymphs and mermaid-related water mages. The usually loud halls are filled with whispers and stares every time Sarah is around, and even more so when she walks through the halls with her hand in Alex’s.

  The most recent murder has everyone on campus even more rattled than before. One murder is an anomaly. Two St. Merlin’s girls killed within weeks? It’s hard to be lighthearted when death feels imminent.

  Studying after school on Friday is a relief. Sarah is stretched out on the couch, trying to focus on her Potions textbook, but she ends up reading the same page three times without retaining any of the information.

  “Gabby, what did you get for number nine?” Alex asks, leaning forward in the computer chair while Gabby sits up on the bed, still in her uniform by six p.m. for the first time since Sarah’s started hanging out with her.

  Sarah looks out the little round window that shows the front yard and road, and, sure enough, a police officer is parked across the street in the same black Crown Victoria that has been following her all week. She hasn’t met this officer, but she’s heard that Nina Gonzalez is one of the fiercest officers St. Louis has to offer. Sarah hasn’t asked, but she’s fairly certain that Detective Gonzalez is following her in hopes of catching Helen before another murder.

  “You alright?” Gabby asks, and it takes a moment for Sarah to realize she’s talking to her.

  She nods but doesn’t say anything. Her eyes burn with tears as ice begins to course through her—the attacks are more and more frequent lately, the thought of the ferocity of them immobilizing her. Alex stands up and walks to her, wrapping her into his arms. She hadn’t even known she was really cold, but his skin is warm against her bare arms. She sighs into his neck, forcing herself to relax. It’s easier to let the anxiety attack run its course than try to quell it.

  “I’m gonna go get something to drink,” Gabby says, and her feet pad away across the antique rugs that cover her floor. It makes sense that she wouldn’t want to be in a room with such turbulent emotions. Sarah will never fault her for it.

  For the first time since the zoo trip, Sarah and Alex are alone. If only it could be when she isn’t falling apart. She clings to him, her anchor in a raging sea of emotion. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t tell her to calm down. He just holds her, keeping her from being swept away as she shakes and gasps.

  Eventually, it subsides. Just like it always does. She shudders out a big breath and pulls away from Alex. His eyebrows are upturned with sadness or concern or both. This isn’t the first anxiety attack he’s helped her through, and she’s sure it won’t be the last.

  He leans forward and presses his lips against her forehead. When he starts to pull away again, she leans up and kisses him. It’s gentle, just like their kiss under the waterfall. He doesn’t push her for more.

  When Gabby returns, they’re sitting together on the couch, and she passes out sodas.

  Instead of going back to his textbook, Alex is scrolling through his phone. Sarah and Gabby chat amiably about their Literature midterm when he gasps.<
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  “I think I figured it out,” he says, his voice quiet and serious. Before they have a chance to ask, he continues. “I remember from the ritual I did that Helen was using certain people. Certain types. I couldn’t remember it at the time because it was through Cynthia’s memories, which were fuzzy at best.”

  He points his phone at Sarah, and the same symbols she can’t seem to escape are staring right at her. Her jaw clenches at the sight.

  “These seemed really random, like she chose them out of an encyclopedia. But look here.” He scrolls down, and there’s a scan of a piece of paper, words scrawled in an elegant hand. Like part of a recipe. She squints and then takes his phone to read it over. The page is ripped, so there are only three things written down, but next to them are those same symbols.

  Blood of a dragon

  Flesh of a seer

  Hair of a mermaid

  The flash of memory comes back, blood slowly dripping from the steel wires strung through the forest. Sarah’s neck stings for just a moment, and she presses her fingers carefully against her throat.

  “Cynthia was a psychic, right?” she asks, looking to Gabby for confirmation. She simply nods. “And Gina. She was definitely a mermaid. At least partially.” Why did Helen have to kill her, though? None of these things seem worth killing over.

  “Is this stuff that she needs in order to do whatever she’s planning? To summon demons or whatever?” Gabby asks when she’s handed the phone.

  “It said on the first page, if you click back to it,” Alex gestures to demonstrate a swiping motion, “that it’s not to start the ritual. It’s to reanimate an old ritual. Or something. It says there are five ingredients, but the person who wrote this article couldn’t find anything listing the other two.”

  Gabby bites her lip, and Sarah has to fight to keep from doing the same.

  “What type of old ritual could she be—“ Gabby is interrupted by a car horn, Elizabeth’s SUV that Sarah rarely rides in, although she’d insisted on picking Sarah up today. She jumps up and grabs her bag, shoving all her books in it.

  “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” she says, her heart racing as more panic worms its way into the depths of her mind. This would be the closest sequential attack yet. Not even half an hour.

  Alex stands, too, and his bag is already put together. It doesn’t take him more than a moment to meet Sarah on the landing.

  He tilts his head. “Are you alright? You seem really freaked out.”

  She wants to tell him so badly, but the words get garbled before they can even make it to her throat. It’s fine, but I think it’s my fault all this is happening. Instead, she takes his hand and tugs him down the staircase that leads to the first floor. The descent through the house is quiet—Sarah has become accustomed to the comfortable silence that she and Alex often share, and he traces his thumb along her palm as they walk. When they make it to the last set of stairs, she stops, pressing a hand against his chest.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking around. The stairway isn’t well lit, the only light source coming in from an upstairs window. Stark shadows cross his face, sharpening his features and making him appear more formidable than he really is. If she didn’t know him, he might be frightening, a stranger in a dark corner. Her heart races, and her eyes trace over his face—his always mussed black hair, his deep, almost black eyes, and his full lips, which are parted with concern.

  She takes him by his St. Merlin’s tie, which is loosened around his collar, and pulls him down to press her lips against his.

  His tension dissipates as his mouth forms a smile against hers. All the fear floods out of her when he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her up against him. Heat rushes through her, so she threads her fingers through his soft hair, and pulls gently. It’s surprisingly soft for how messy it looks.

  A quiet moan escapes him, and she throws her arms around his neck, pressing her lips tighter. There’s nothing else but this, their moment stolen in the stairwell. His lips on hers, his breath hot on her face.

  She gently bites his bottom lip, and he runs his hands through her hair. They stay tangled together, pushing and pulling their energy—she can practically feel his thoughts, his emotions, his memories, just tangible enough for her to glimpse but not solid enough to grasp. He can surely hear her thoughts as well, although they’re all a jumble. For this moment, nothing is wrong. Right now, nothing bad can touch her.

  When the car horn lets out another short honk, she pulls away, her face flushed with the warmth that’s coursing through her.

  “Well,” Alex says, his voice rough. “I guess I’ll see you Monday.” He leans down and kisses her once more, gently this time, and she wants to press him against the wall and kiss him until the sun comes back up, but he pulls away with a smile. “Tomorrow,” he relents, giving her a peck on the nose. “I’ll come over.”

  Instead of leaving him in the stairwell alone, she takes his hand, and they walk out together.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Alex

  INSTEAD OF WASTING HIS SATURDAY MORNING lying in bed and thinking of Sarah, Alex puts his energy to good use. He knocks on Phillips door at nine in the morning, which is met in kind with cursing, both in English and Belgian. He hears banging through the apartment, followed by more cursing. That’s not a great sign.

  When Phillip finally makes it to the door, he’s still in his flannel pajamas.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he growls.

  Alex looks at his wrist as if he’s wearing a watch. “Looks like a logical time to be awake to me, sir,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

  Phillip glares at him under his heavily lidded eyes. “I don’t pay you to be a smartass, Locklear.”

  Alex shrugs. “You don’t pay me. Up for some drills?”

  Phillip glares at him for a moment longer, then closes the door. Alex waits, and it only takes a couple minutes for Phillip to emerge in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. “Coffee first,” he says, only slightly less grouchy. Alex had been expecting this—Phillip is always grouchy in the morning. It’s why he only teaches one class in the afternoon and is a dorm attendant the rest of the day.

  They take Phillip’s car, a newer model Prius that barely fits the two of them.

  “My treat,” Phillip says. He spends his money on students a lot. When Alex asked him about it last year, he replied, “What else am I supposed to spend it on? More collectibles?” Alex hadn’t pointed out that his “collectibles” looked more like junk.

  The car is more cozy than Alex is accustomed to, so he can’t escape Phillip’s glances. Or his questions.

  “Any more partying lately?” Although Phillip mostly trusts the pyromancy students, Alex has had two random drug tests since the party, both coming up negative. The love potion had been successfully flushed out of his system.

  “Definitely not.” Alex keeps his expression open and plain. If Phillip finds out that he’s been trying to solve the recent murders, he would be angry, and he probably wouldn’t agree to give Alex the extra training today. Good students keep their heads down and don’t attract the attention of murderers.

  They spend the rest of the ride talking about the midterm, which is always just an evaluation of where each pyromancer is in their training. As long as they aren’t somehow worse than they were at the beginning of the semester, they pass with flying colors. Phillip doesn’t believe in standardized testing. “The real test is life,” he tells Alex for what must be the hundredth time. It’s either a hipster sentiment or a remaining military mindset.

  They’re only out for twenty minutes, and Alex is glad for the extra shot of courage Phillip had ordered in his drink. He sends a selfie to Sarah with his Starbucks cup with the caption, Ready for Fall! #blessed #NoFilter. When they get to the courtyard, he puts his phone away and helps Phillip set up the four practice cones so they don’t burn down the lawn. Phillip keeps nudging the cones further out until they have a forty foot circle.

&nbs
p; “Lots of space,” Alex notes, taking another sip of his mocha latte.

  “You wanted to do drills. You’re going to do some real drills,” Phillip says, shaking his hands and letting sparks fly out of his fingertips.

  He runs Alex through the normal warm up, and then his usual drills. Alex expects for him to teach him some new maneuvers, but he doesn’t. It only takes half an hour for him to get through his normal set. It’s all a bit underwhelming, and he’s still jumpy and filled with energy.

  “That’s it?” Alex asks, not sure if he should leave. His fire isn’t even close to being done, begging to pour out of him.

  Phillip, now that Alex is done with his drills, begins to stretch. “No,” he says. “No, that’s not it. Today, we are going to spar.”

  Alex’s throat tightens. He’s never sparred before. Once, when he was younger, he got in a fight with a boy from his neighborhood, and he’d accidentally burned the boy’s arm. It wasn’t a bad injury—the boy didn’t even need a bandage—but Alex has avoided using his fire violently, recognizing the consequences to such a chaos-fuelled magic.

  Two girls are dead, though. His lack of training could get Sarah killed as well.

  Instead of arguing, he nods.

  “It’s getting dangerous around here,” Phillip says. “Just knowing how to create fire isn’t going to help you. You need to know how to use it.” Of course, this is what Alex had hoped for. If he’d asked Phillip directly, he probably would’ve been denied. Now that he’s being given what he wants, though, he isn’t sure what to do. Weeks ago, he would’ve fought this type of training. He would’ve laughed at the idea of needing to use his fire for violence rather than showmanship. Now, he’s not so naive.

  He expects for Phillip to indicate the start of the match, perhaps with a countdown, but he just runs at Alex, and when Alex tries to dodge, he throws a burst of flame forward. Alex knows that he has nothing to fear when it comes to fire—it can’t hurt him. However, Phillip feigns left before throwing the flame, so Alex dodges to the right, where Phillip’s palm connects with his chest and knocks him to the ground. The wind is knocked out of him when he crashes down, and it takes a moment to regain his breath.