Magic Bound

by Theresa Kay

  He holds up a hand. “Six hours a night. That’s what it takes for me to do the work necessary to keep up with the classes I’m currently not permitted to attend,” he says. He straightens, his chest moving with quick, angry breaths. “I’m up till almost four every night, and then I have to be back here at eight. I don’t need a bloody nap. I need a fucking good night’s rest!”

  It’s the most emotion I’ve seen out of him since that first day.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” I ask, throwing up my hands.

  “Say something?” He jerks backward and blinks. “Would you have cared?”

  I grimace as the truth hits me. “No. Probably not.”

  “Of course not. You’re too self-absorbed to—” The words choke off in his throat as the spell wraps tighter and pulls us closer together. “Perfect,” he says between clenched teeth. “The one time I let my temper get the best of me, and the last week and a half becomes worthless.”

  I place a hand on his chest, and his gaze jerks to mine. “I’m sorry,” I say, and the spell loosens again. “I got caught up in everything else going on, and I didn’t stop to think that you might have stuff going on too.”

  He gapes at me as the spell loosens even more. Isobel was right. It had to be me.

  Tristan sputters something that sounds like an apology.

  “Would you like to come in and study or do your homework? I know our room’s not that big, but you can use my desk. I’ll sit on my bed.”

  “I . . . I don’t have my books,” he says, stunned.

  “We could go get them,” I offer. “I mean, there’s only two more hours until the spell goes to sleep for the night, but that’s two less hours you’d have to stay up, right?”

  “Yes.” A long pause, and then much softer, he adds, “Thank you.”

  My hand is still on his chest. Ooops. I take a step backward, heat filling my cheeks. “Okay then.”

  Tristan leads the way down the stairs and over to the boys’ dorm, occasionally looking over his shoulder at me as if this is some big prank and I’m all of a sudden going to yank him back to my own dorm.

  His room is on the top floor, and by the time we tromp up all those flights of stairs, my thighs are burning. Since that first day in PE, all we’ve done is run a couple laps and then shoot energy balls at targets or each other. I’ve gotten better at accessing magic and using it to make energy balls, but I haven’t been getting nearly enough actual exercise, and it’s showing. Tristan, however, acts like it’s nothing. At my inquisitive look, he says, “I’m used to the stairs. Plus, I run every morning.”

  “Wait a second. Are you telling me you’re studying for six hours a night and still getting up in time to run and take a shower and stop for coffee before coming to my dorm in the mornings?” I stop in my tracks, trying to calculate how much sleep the poor boy is getting. Oh God. Poor boy. Now Isobel has gotten me saying it. I feel even guiltier than I did earlier.

  He shrugs. Shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “It hasn’t been ideal, but it isn’t as if I’ve had a choice. I’m sure you’ve noticed that the past week I’ve been toting a cup of coffee for myself as well? It’s not exactly something I’d drink unless I had to.”

  Not had a choice? Of course he had a choice. My brain stumbles over his words, trying to fully comprehend. “Why not just . . . not?”

  “Not what?”

  “Not run?” I bite at my lower lip. “Or not spend quite as much time studying. I’ve seen some of your grades. I’m sure your GPA could take a couple hits and—”

  “That’s not an option.” The words are tight, guarded, and he immediately starts walking again without looking to see if I’m keeping up.

  Okay then. Must be a touchy subject.

  I jog to catch up—not that the spell would have let me stay very far behind—and don’t ask any more questions. If he wants to tell me, he will. If not . . . it isn’t my problem.

  He stops at the last room on the left and uses the ward to open the door before he disappears inside. I hesitate. What am I supposed to do? I always made him wait outside. What if—

  “You can come in,” he says.

  So I do. The room I walk into is on a completely different level—and at least two, maybe three, times bigger—than mine. For one, there’s clearly only one resident here since there’s one queen-sized bed. The space not taken up by the sleeping area holds a leather couch, a coffee table, an end table, and a sleek-looking entertainment center complete with a very large TV.

  Tristan walks around a corner, and I follow to find a little office alcove with a desk and a bookshelf and another door I’m assuming leads to the bathroom. Judging by the rest of the room, he probably has fifteen shower heads and a whirlpool tub in there or something . . .

  And I should not be thinking about him in the shower right now.

  I let out a low whistle. “Is this the kind of room you get if you’re family friends with the director? I might need to suck up a little more if so. I don’t mind sharing a room, but I’d love to have something other than a twin bed.”

  “No, this is the kind of room you get when your parents are major donors to the school.” His voice is flat, unemotional, but there’s an undertone like he’s almost ashamed or maybe embarrassed about it all.

  Is that why he’s so concerned about perfection? Because of his parents? Even though I suppose I’m kind of here on a scholarship, I know tuition isn’t cheap. Paying the tuition is one thing, but giving the school enough money to land a room like this . . . That has high expectations written all over it.

  He grabs a couple books off the shelf and shoves them in a bag. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Do you want to just study here?” I shuffle my feet, guilt flaring up again.

  “But you didn’t bring your books,” he says. “And I only have one desk chair.”

  “Good point.” I nod like he just said the smartest thing in the world. “We’ll go back to my room then.”

  He gives me a strange look. “Why are you acting like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re uncomfortable with me.”

  “Huh?”

  “You keep wiggling and glancing around. You won’t even look at me.”

  “I feel bad, okay? I’ve been kind of a bitch to you, and although you may have deserved it the first day—or five—I shouldn’t have kept pulling you around after me like a dog.”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly been the picture of courtesy either.”

  “Sorry,” we say, almost in tandem.

  He cracks a smile, a real one, and I let out a small laugh. Maybe he isn’t quite so awful . . .

  The second the thought goes through my mind, the knot in my chest loosens considerably. The spell. It isn’t gone yet, but I guess it’s giving us a little more space. Another thing Isobel was right about: the spell isn’t going to go away just because the two of us aren’t arguing. We apparently need to have some self-reflection or something. I can do that. Maybe this spell can be gone by tomorrow.

  “Let’s go,” he says. “I’ve seen your grades, and you definitely need some serious study time.”

  I press my lips together to hold back the words I want to fling at him. Maybe not by tomorrow then.

  Surprisingly, studying with Tristan is not so bad. Maybe it’s only because he’s the first person to explain some of the basic theory to me instead of automatically expecting me to know things like what a ward actually is (a kind of written ‘container’ for magic that holds it in place) or how potions work (standard chemical reactions combined with magic), but it seems like I’ve learned more from him in the two hours we spent studying—or rather, him helping me study—than I have in the past week and a half of classes. Or at least I understand more about what I’m doing wrong.

  The next evening, after another grueling day of classes, we head to my room and hit the books right after dinner.

  First up is Wards. Whether it’s because Ms. Anderson hates me or becaus
e I simply don’t get it, this subject is definitely kicking my ass. I did okay in regular geometry, but this one has magic on top of everything else, and in general, magic doesn’t like to cooperate with me. Plus, the worst that can happen if you screw up in regular geometry is to get a question wrong, but if the angles or lines are wrong on a ward, it’s . . . not good.

  And we’re about to move on from drawing and analyzing the forms to pulling magic and using it to infuse our wards, something I’m so not ready for.

  Tristan sketches out a couple simple forms and explains them to me, how each line works, what the different angles and points of connection do. Clearly, super basic stuff that anyone who isn’t a complete newbie to all this would already know, but the teacher never bothered to take the time to break it down like this. Tristan’s way is immensely helpful.

  I almost want to hug him. Almost. I stop myself just in time and settle for a warm smile sent his way.

  The next day, Ms. Anderson gives a pop quiz. I don’t get one hundred percent like Tristan, but I don’t fail like I did all the others. I’m so ecstatic with my high C that I almost hug him again. It’s a near thing.

  He graces me with an actual non-condescending smile and congratulates me.

  And the spell loosens even more. We can now be in different rooms in the same building as long as we’re on the same floor. The situation still isn’t ideal, but this is definitely an improvement.

  He doesn’t invite me to his room again, just brings his books with him every day so we can study. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s still putting in another few hours after he gets back to his room. His grades are still perfect, and there’s no way he could keep that up when he spends at least half our studying time working with me instead of doing his own work.

  Two days later, Isobel walks into the room when Tristan is standing over me at my desk. His hand is on the back of my chair, his chest hovering near my shoulder, and he’s explaining one of the homework problems in a low voice. The whole thing is way more innocent than my roommate’s giggle makes it seem.

  I shoot her a death glare and pull my attention back to what Tristan is saying.

  “You see, if you draw the line at a forty-five degree angle, it won’t leave that side of the ward open enough to draw the power it needs,” he says, tracing one finger over the line I’d drawn.

  I quickly erase the line and sketch out a new one, this time making the angle slightly wider.

  “Perfect.” He taps his finger on the paper. “That’s the last one, right? I still have a couple things I need to review for chemistry.”

  “Yes. Thank God.” I lay my forehead on the desk. “I’m never going to be good at this.”

  “You’ll do fine once you get caught up with everyone else,” says Isobel. She glances back and forth between Tristan and me, a mischievous glint in her eye. “So you two seem to be getting along well.”

  Tristan takes two quick steps backward, and his cheeks go slightly pink. Is he blushing?

  “Well, we kind of have to, don’t we?” I say, arching an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the point of this dumb spell?”

  Isobel laughs and sits on her bed before her attention moves to Tristan. “I must admit I didn’t expect the mighty St. James to become such a fixture in our room when I tweaked that spell.”

  Everything but cold anger drops from Tristan’s face, and his voice goes low, quiet. “What did you just say?”

  “I . . .” Isobel stammers, her eyes wide. She leans away from the intensity of Tristan’s glare.

  “I asked her to tweak it so I’d have more control over it,” I blurt out. It’s not exactly the truth but close enough. But if I thought telling him I requested the tweak was going to redirect his ire away from Isobel, I’m clearly dead wrong as, if anything, his expression gets more and more pissed, all of it directed at my cowering roommate.

  “What exactly did you do?” Another quiet question, but this time the words are more strained, as if he’s barely keeping himself in control.

  Isobel spouts out a long explanation about the tweak she made. She loses me after the first time she mentions the syllabic rhythm in comparison to the number of lines. The spell is clearly way beyond my basic understanding, but not beyond Tristan’s. His eyes narrow to nothing more than slits.

  “And how do you know altering the basic structure of the spell didn’t make it worse? Didn’t change the parameters?” He stalks forward, towering above her much smaller stature. “How do you know it didn’t make me stuck with it even longer?” He’s yelling by the end of the question, and Isobel cowers away from him.

  “Hey!” I jump up, step in front of Isobel, and shove him away. “Don’t you do your snarling asshole thing to her. If you want to blame someone, blame me.”

  “Oh I do,” he says, his upper lip beginning that arrogant curl. “I thought this spell was taking much too long to resolve. It should have been as simple as me bringing you coffee and us having a couple civil chats, but now I find out you let your nobody friend alter it to your advantage. I don’t think you even understand what kind of trouble this can cause. Do you know parents’ weekend is only two weeks away? I can’t be stuck with you when they’re here. It’s completely unacceptable!”

  “Lower your goddamn voice!” I step forward, chin up, arms loose at my sides but ready to come up if necessary.

  “Why should I?” he yells. “You have no idea what you’ve done. None.” His fingers curl and uncurl, and he paces to the other side of the room and back again. He starts muttering under his breath, almost talking to himself. “This was supposed to be done with by the time they showed up. They can’t find out about this. They can’t.”

  Tristan has stopped pacing, but his face is twisted into an expression I’ve never seen on him before. Is he scared?

  I reach out and grab his arm. “Why—”

  “We’re not talking about this,” says Tristan through clenched teeth.

  “But—”

  “I said drop it!” He jerks away from me, his entire body tense. He stands there for a second, doing nothing but breathing in slow, even breaths, as if he’s trying to calm down. His lips thin, and he shakes his head. Then, without a word, he gathers up his books and papers before storming out of the room.

  Of course, he can’t go very far, but there’s plenty of hallway well within the distance requirements of the spell.

  Should I go after him? Probably not. I doubt whatever conversation might come of that would be in any way productive. And it might make things with the spell worse based on Tristan’s attitude toward my not even half-asked questions.

  So, I sit here and stare dumbly at the door for a couple minutes, waiting to see if he comes back. He doesn’t. Not five minutes later. Not ten minutes later. Not ninety minutes later. He stays in the hallway for the remainder of the spell’s daily time limit.

  And I study. Well, kind of study, more like I stare at my book and pretend I understand any of it. It doesn’t help.

  By the next day, he goes back to being the taciturn robot that followed me around the first week. If it wasn’t for the spell being so much looser, I’d think I’d imagined the past few days where he was almost . . . nice.

  For a reason I don’t really want to examine right now, it bothers me that he shut me out right when we were beginning to open up to each other. It doesn’t seem to bother him at all, which only makes me irrationally pissed. Why do I care anyway? Did I think the two of us were going to form this undying friendship through the course of this binding spell?

  I laugh to myself.

  Ah, well, I guess it’s back to the way it was before we started studying together, albeit with a bit less naked animosity. Probably only because Tristan knows if there was naked animosity, we’d never get rid of this stupid spell.

  We spend our weekend studying in separate sections of the library. Well, I study anyway. I really have no idea what he does. Left to my own devices, I don’t get nearly as much work done, but his prior help proves in
valuable. I might not get all the questions right, but I understand why I get them wrong . . . about seventy-five percent of the time. Still, it’s better than zero percent.

  Sunday night finds the two of us back at the library after dinner, and my patience with Tristan growing thin.

  The stupid potion formula in front of me simply isn’t making any sense. I can’t seem to get the equation to balance right, and I have no clue what I’m doing wrong. Once magic is tossed into the mix, chemistry isn’t nearly as straightforward as it was in high school. If I could throw the book across the room without potentially damaging something, I would. Instead, I settle for slamming the book shut and stomping over to the table Tristan is sitting at with a different chemistry book open in front of him.

  “Are you done pouting now?” I internally cringe. Not my best opening.

  “Pouting?” he asks without looking up from his book. “Is that what you think I’ve been doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve simply distanced myself from an uncomfortable situation. It might take longer to resolve the binding spell, but it will happen eventually. There’s no need for us to . . .” His eyes dart toward me in a furtive glance.

  “For us to what?” The temper that calmed a little at my idiotic opening ramps up again.

  “To actually be friends,” he says in a monotone voice.

  I blink, too angry to form any words at all. So, he’d felt it too, that we were sort of friends?

  He coughs nervously. “You are not as obnoxious as I first thought, and I don’t think as poorly of you, but I don’t think you and I are of the same . . . anything.”

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” It really isn’t, but my brain isn’t functioning on all cylinders, so my reasoning is rather nonsensical.

  “I don’t want to argue with you.” He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “We’ll never get rid of this spell if I do.”

  I have to admit, that hurts. He pretended to by my friend because of the spell and—

  Wasn’t that the purpose of the spell to begin with?

  I’m so stupid. Here I am thinking we might be friends or at least casual acquaintances, but he’s just trying to get rid of the spell. “I guess that’s it then. We’ll be stuck in this spell until hell freezes over.”