Magic Bound

by Theresa Kay

  She faces the class. “For the remainder of the period, I want you to find a partner and work on drawing the simple locking wards from page ninety-three in your textbooks. We’re not actually infusing them with magic yet. That won’t be covered until later in the quarter. Right now, I want you to just practice drawing the correct lines and angles.”

  There’s a flurry of activity in the room as the other students pair up. No one offers to partner with me. Fine. I’ll do it by myself. How hard can it be? But there’s one problem . . .

  “Ms. Anderson,” I say as I raise a hesitant hand. “I don’t have a textbook yet.”

  She shrugs. “Next time, come to my class prepared and on time or not at all.”

  I take a deep breath through my nose and clench my teeth to hold back the argument I want to make. Antagonizing her any further won’t do me any good. Maybe when I can prove I’m not a complete spaz, she’ll go easier on me. For today, I’ll sit here and bite my tongue until the end of class.

  And I do. I spend thirty minutes staring down at my desk as the other students work around me. As soon as a soft tone signaling the end of the period sounds, I’m on my feet and heading toward the door. I have a while until my next class starts, but I want to grab some lunch, and I’m hoping I’ll also have time to grab a pen and some paper and maybe a uniform and a textbook. I’m dashing past the second row when a purse slides into my path, the strap tangling around one of my feet. I go stumbling down to my hands and knees.

  A jolt of pain travels up from my knees, feeding into my already on-edge temper. I leap back to my feet and spin around in a much more graceful move than I should be able to achieve in flip-flops—thank God for all that time training with Reid—and find the girl sitting at the desk next to the purse, smirking at me.

  “Clumsy much?” says the vaguely familiar-looking brunette, and two girls to her right giggle.

  The thin-lipped smile on her face finally clicks in my memory. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name, but she’s Bridget’s older sister, which means she knows damn well who I am and where I came from. I already told Adrian that I was raised by shifters, but he seemed nice enough since he helped me with the door and all. If I asked him to keep quiet, he probably would. This girl, however . . . Burke might be able to “spin” my identity as a distant relative of the Andras line but he’s out of luck if he’s hoping to keep my upbringing a secret.

  I scowl and try to ignore the heat gathering in my chest, but everything in me wants to smack the smile off her face. Someone wraps a hand around my arm, squeezing gently, and I turn to the new arrival in surprise.

  “It’s not worth it,” says the girl next to me. She’s a short, curvy Hispanic girl who I don’t recognize and I’m pretty sure isn’t in this class. When I don’t say anything more, she continues, “Basil sent me. I have some time before my next class. Why don’t I show you where to pick up your books?” Her brows rise expectantly.

  She has a point. Bridget’s sister isn’t worth getting into trouble over, and something tells me I’d be the one blamed no matter who started it.

  “Yeah. Sure.” I take a deep breath and follow the new arrival from the room without another word to the still-smirking brunette.

  “I’m Isobel by the way, your roommate,” the girl says as she leads me around to the stairs. “Sorry I wasn’t awake last night to greet you. I was trying to knock out all my reading for class and practically passed out on my desk. It was all I could do to crawl into bed.”

  I return her smile, grateful. She seems friendly enough. I certainly could’ve ended up with a worse roommate. Thank you, Basil. “Thanks for rescuing me from making an even bigger idiot out of myself back there. I’m not used to people being mean for the hell of it, or at least not without consequences. And the coffee this morning . . . You’re a life saver.”

  “No problem,” she replies. “Let me see your schedule. I can help you figure out where to go after lunch.”

  “My lackluster guide told me my next class was down on the bottom floor somewhere. I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth, though we didn’t quite hit it off, so I wouldn’t put it past him to lie either. He wasn’t happy about showing me around.”

  “Guide?”

  “He wasn’t much of one. He was way too busy scowling at me for existing. Plus, he’s a St. James, so I think I’m supposed to dislike him solely on principle.”

  “Ah, the illustrious Tristan St. James, huh? It’s a shame he’s so vile when he’s so pretty.” She laughs and pushes open the door at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You can say that again.”

  “I think we’re going to get along just fine.” She links her arm through mine.

  “I think you’re right.” I grin. “I’m so glad not everyone at this school is a jerk. This is not how I planned to spend the next year, navigating a bunch of stupid social niceties while trying to fit in and deal with all these new classes. I can’t even open a door correctly.”

  She pats my arm. “No worries. I can help you out with that. You’re here, so you must have plenty of power. You simply need to learn a little finesse. How long has it been since you manifested?”

  I mime looking at a non-existent watch. “Oh about sixteen hours.”

  “Are you serious?” She stops dead in her tracks. “How in the world did you get through all the admissions testing already?”

  “Uh . . . I didn’t?”

  She starts walking again. “Explain.”

  Knowing the way rumors spread, my not-so-secret is going to be common knowledge before long, so I have nothing to lose by telling Isobel the truth. “I was raised as a Blank. By shifters. My powers were bound or something, and they only showed up last night. The next thing I knew, I found out my parents had been lying to me, Basil showed up at my house, and I was whisked off here. I don’t know all the details, but my birth mother was from a fairly important witch line. She was an Andras witch.”

  “An Andras? That must’ve been one hell of a binding spell to keep that kind of power under wraps.” She casts a glance at me from the corner of her eye, assessing. “How is it you got stuck with a roommate like a peon? Not that I’m complaining—I’m here on scholarship, and this place is sorely lacking in down-to-earth people—but I’d expect you to have one of the private rooms since the Andras family has more money than . . . well, pretty much anyone but the St. James family.”

  “Director Burke suggested I use the name since it means there’s less of a chance of me having to explain exactly how I got here, but they aren’t really my family, at least not in the way I think of family. I’d much rather room with you than be stuck with a bunch of rich, uh, witches.”

  She laughs. “I take it growing up with shifters was not of the ‘more money than God’ variety like most of the students here.”

  “Definitely not. My uncle is the regional alpha, but we still lived pretty simply.” I sigh. “And we were never lacking love.”

  There’s a lump in my throat now, and I have to pause to take a deep breath.

  “It’s hard being away from family.” Isobel places a gentle hand on my arm and offers up a small smile. “My little brother and I were raised by our grandmother. When I was given a scholarship to attend Ravencrest, I almost turned it down because I didn’t want to leave them behind. I’m sorry you had to leave yours so suddenly.”

  I return her smile. “Thanks.”

  Steering the conversation toward less depressing things, she tells me a funny story about her little brother and a pair of hair clippers. She goes on to tell me more about Ravencrest and how the student body is fifty percent the ‘richer than God’ variety, about forty percent ‘as rich as God,’ and the last ten percent is made up of either moderately rich students sponsored by richer family members or scholarship students. Her stream of friendly chatter continues as she leads me back to our room. The distraction is exactly what I need. I don’t know what made Basil choose Isobel as my roommate, but I’m beyond grateful that he
did.

  When we reach our room, Isobel winks. “And now to teach you the amazing feat of opening a door.”

  After my door opening lesson and scarfing down some snacks my roomie had in a box under her bed, I try to get in a quick nap before my next class while Isobel heads to the library. Everything is still catching up to me, and I’m starting to drag again, no matter that I had another two cups of coffee. I rummage through my bag, throw on a pair of leggings and a loose tank top, then curl up on my bed and promptly fall asleep.

  Sometime later, Isobel’s frantic voice rips me away from sleep. “Selene!”

  “Huh? What?” I sit up quickly, rubbing at my eyes. Dammit. I really should have asked Isobel about setting an alarm . . .

  “Have you been asleep this whole time? You missed your potions class.”

  “Crap. What time is it?” I drag a hand over my face. This isn’t good. I fumble at my desk for my schedule and squint at it. “I’ve got phys ed next.”

  “You have time to make it if you leave like right now,” says Isobel.

  “I’m going. I’m going.” I give my head a shake and go over to my bag.

  The leggings and tank top will be fine for PE, but I grab a sports bra and wiggle it on underneath my top. I redo my hair, pulling it into a high ponytail, and search out my running shoes. Thank goodness I shoved those in my bag. PE in flip-flops wouldn’t have been fun. Once I’m ready, I shoot Isobel a quick wave and run out the door.

  At least this is a class I can probably do okay in. I’m used to training with Reid most days, so how different can magic PE class really be? A part of me is looking forward to it.

  That is, until I actually arrive at the athletic field behind the main building.

  The entire class is decked out in navy-blue shorts or leggings and white tops with the school crest on them. Gym uniforms? Really? Is this middle school?

  My steps slow as I draw closer and take in the various groups. There’s a flash of familiar dirty-blond hair in one of the groups—Tristan. The group he’s with is made up of seven or eight others, all of them with that certain kind of shine that comes with being rich and popular. Perfect hair. Perfect skin. Perfect teeth. And Tristan with his arrogant attitude and pretty face should fit right in with them.

  Except . . . he somehow doesn’t. His expression is bland, his arms crossed over his chest, and he’s just silently standing there in the middle of the group as the others talk around him. Even though he’s surrounded by others, he’s alone, as if he’s playing the part of the popular guy but doesn’t actually want to be there. It’s weird.

  There are a couple smaller groups around the edges, and on the far side, Adrian is standing with another guy. Interesting. With Adrian’s dark good looks and friendly personality, I’d expect him to be one of the popular kids. If the flashy watch he was wearing earlier is anything to go by, he’s certainly one of the rich ones.

  I shuffle my feet. What now? I know all of two people in this class, and I’m damned sure not going to try to hang out with Tristan whether he’s my supposed student guide or not. There’s only one option then . . .

  I plaster a smile on my face and wander over to where Adrian stands. “Hey, um, we met earlier. Selene.”

  He gives me a wry grin. “Oh, I remember. Did you get your ‘student ID’ situation straightened out?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. I’m still one step behind everyone else though,” I say, gesturing down at my clothes.

  “No worries. Sometimes standing out can be a good thing,” he says with an amused glint in his eyes.

  I scoff. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

  Adrian’s friend grins at me and holds out a hand. “Devin Ames. I’m Adrian’s roommate. You’re the girl raised by shifters, right?” He shares a look with Adrian. “We’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

  I cringe. “The rumor mill’s that bad, huh? I can”—I wave a hand at an empty patch of grass near one of the other groups of students—“go over there or something.”

  “Please, stay.” Adrian winks. “I imagine you’ll be the most entertaining part of this class.” He pushes a hand through his hair, and the sun glints off the fancy watch on his wrist, further solidifying my opinion that he belongs with the group of rich, popular kids.

  “Why aren’t you two with the others?”

  “Haven’t you heard? I’m the stereotypical black sheep.” Adrian holds his arms out to the side. “My family name got me in, but I’m not much of a ‘joiner,’ and I certainly don’t care to cater to the expectations of others. And Devin here is, gasp, a scholarship student. The lemmings over there don’t know what to do with us.”

  Devin nudges his friend with a shoulder. “And there’s the fact you tend to hit on anything that walks on two legs.”

  Adrian shrugs. “What can I say? I have a healthy appreciation for the physical form no matter the gender.”

  All three of us laugh, and I don’t feel quite as awkward anymore. These two are outsiders kind of like me.

  The teacher, Mr. Davis, a broad-shouldered man with close-cropped black hair, starts us off with a few laps. I keep pace with Adrian and Devin for the first one, but I pull out ahead by the second one, and by the third, I’ve almost lapped them. I’m not trying to leave them behind, but I’m used to running with Reid or my mom, and they don’t know the meaning of a slow pace.

  “Too bad we don’t have a track team,” says Adrian as I pass him. His breaths come easily, so he could go faster if he wanted to.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Not much of a joiner.”

  Unlike Adrian, my breaths, though regulated, come fast and hard, and talking isn’t easy. I slow my pace just a bit and turn around to face him, moving backward at a slow jog.

  “Show off,” says Devin, smirking.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you two—”

  My back crashes into someone, and we go down in a tangle of feet. The air is knocked from my chest as I hit the ground. I fumble around until I can flip over onto hands and knees, my legs still half-tangled with the other runner’s.

  “Get the hell off me,” says a voice I’m coming to know better than I’d like to. Tristan.

  Adrian clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he draws up beside us. “St. James, it’s always nice to see you on your knees, but that’s no way to talk to a lady.”

  “Piss off, Dumont,” says Tristan. He shoves to his feet and goes back to running without another word.

  “Jackass.” I brush dirt off my leggings.

  “So true,” says Adrian. “But can you imagine how hot the hate sex would be?”

  Devin shoves him. “Hot or not, don’t mess around with St. James. His parents would have your head on a platter, and I rather enjoy having a roommate who doesn’t have a stick up his ass about money.” His gaze moves to me. “The St. James family has certain ‘expectations’ of their son, and they tend to . . . clear the field of obstacles.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “So what you’re saying is he’s a spoiled brat who will go running to Mommy and Daddy?”

  “Pretty much,” says Devin. “And Mommy and Daddy have enough influence—and money—that they have practically the entire OSA at their beck and call.”

  Some pieces of the exchange in the director’s office earlier suddenly make more sense. As does my earlier observation about Tristan being alone in a crowd and the fact that he’s currently running entirely by himself. Is it because he has no real friends because of who his parents are or because he doesn’t want any friends?

  Mr. Davis claps his hands. “All right. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He has us arrange ourselves into two parallel lines, and I end up between Adrian and Devin.

  Relief seeps into me, and I find an actual smile on my face. As horrible as my other class went, at least I have friends in this one.

  “Now, turn toward the center of the field and face the other line.”

  I do as directed and find myself staring at Tristan. A sense of foreboding oozes in
to my stomach.

  “The person directly across from you is your partner for this exercise.”

  Wonderful. Having friends in this class does me no good at all if I have to partner up with this asshole. What did I do to deserve this punishment?

  “We’re going to take things a little easy today,” says the teacher. “A few practice shots, nothing major. And we’re concentrating on defense right now. Offensive skills won’t come into play until later. Everyone on this side”—he gestures toward Tristan’s side—“will pull a little magic and send energy balls at the other side as they defend themselves accordingly. Energy balls only. No spells.”

  I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not the one expected to use any magic since I’m still not exactly sure how to do it, but I also have no clue how to defend myself from magic either. Apprehension must show on my face because Tristan smirks.

  Devin leans to the side so he can speak into my ear. “It’s nothing to worry about. All you have to do is defend yourself.”

  “All I have to do is defend myself?” I repeat.

  “Yes,” confirms Adrian from my other side.

  Defending myself sounds easy enough, but there’s gotta be a catch. I don’t have time to figure out what it is though. The teacher sweeps his arm down through the air in a motion that I guess means begin. Everyone in the other line goes into action, each of them moving their hands in different ways.

  Tristan only uses one hand in a motion that looks as if he’s scooping something from the air, and then he tosses whatever that something is in my direction. I don’t see what he threw, but damned if I don’t feel it when it lands on my arm.

  I wince and hiss out a breath. What the hell? How am I supposed to defend myself from something I can’t see?