by Theresa Kay
“She’s definitely a witch,” he says. “She reeks of magic. Strange magic, but still witch. And that’s a pack mark.”
The leader rubs at his chin, eyes narrowed into slits. “I heard something . . .” He advances toward me. “Donovan’s on the outs with the witches, something about his sister kidnapping one, so he’s holed up on his pack lands. He may claim you as kin, but even if the story’s true, you don’t have the authority to do what you’re trying to do.”
And now’s when things get complicated. The guy’s right. I have no standing to claim Tristan as a friend to the pack, but if I can pull this off . . .
I smile, willing my heartbeat to stay steady. No use tipping them off about how nervous I really am. My next words need to be solid, irrefutable. “As daughter to the pack beta, adopted or not, I definitely have the authority to name friends of the pack.”
The leader eyes me, digesting my words silently.
“Who’s to know if we take care of this problem anyway?” asks the second minion, speaking up for the first time. “Like you said, Donovan’s practically in hiding, and there’s no crime if there aren’t any witnesses.”
Shit. That is exactly the conclusion I hoped they wouldn’t come to.
I can’t call for first blood. There’s been no definable insult to my pack, and something tells me these guys wouldn’t honor it anyway. I’d lose a full-on challenge. Only one choice left then. I kick the guy in front of me in the groin, and he goes down with a yelp. Shifter or not, he’s very much a guy, and Reid always says, “If in doubt, fight dirty.”
The second minion snarls and jumps at me. He’s fast, much faster than me, but I know how to use size to my advantage. I dodge and send an elbow at the side of his head, driving his forehead into the brick.
“Tristan, go!” I yell. I don’t have time to see if he listens, because the second minion is turning, and the leader is starting toward me. Perfect. I fake a shot at the leader’s face. He dodges easily and grabs the front of my shirt, slamming my back against the wall.
“Did you honestly think you could take on three shifters, girl? Your trainer was very good, that much is clear, but not good enough.”
The other two are back on their feet, flanking their leader in much the same positions they had taken around Tristan. Just where I want them.
“You seem to have forgotten I’ve had more than one kind of trainer.” I put my hands on his chest and push, magic ripping from my chest and going straight into his. He flies backward, his head cracking against the opposite wall. I shoot my hands out to the side, sending more energy at the other two. They both go down.
Now, that I can do. Sometimes having no finesse works in my favor.
“Wow,” says Tristan from somewhere off to the side.
I glance at him, and he releases the magic he was weaving together with his hands.
“I’ve never heard of someone taking out three shifters like that. I didn’t even see you pull any magic.”
“Raw power has its perks,” I say. “We need to get out of here before they wake up.”
Tristan grabs my arm. “You didn’t have to do that. There’ll be . . . repercussions for you, won’t there? With your pack or whatever.”
“Did you think I was going to stand there and let you get hurt? That’s really not my style.” I tug my arm out of his hold.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says in a harder voice.
I shrug. “If there are repercussions, I’ll deal with them. They had no business accosting you like that. Connor will understand why I did what I did. He won’t consider it a betrayal. What they’re doing is illegal.”
He lets out a dry chuckle. “And that fact has been so good at stopping them? How many witches have been attacked in the past few months? A dozen?”
Penny’s face pops into my head. I never asked her about the circumstances of her Bite. Is it possible she was a victim of these attacks too? But then why doesn’t she hate shifters?
“They’re out of control,” he says, his hands curling into fists. “I know you don’t understand why my parents are doing what they’re doing. I know you don’t agree with it, but as it is right now, shifters have no consequences for their actions. If I’d ended up dead or Bitten tonight, those guys would have run to pack lands, hidden under the protection of an alpha, and gotten away with it.”
“That’s not true,” I say as I follow him out of the alley. “No alpha would allow a major criminal to hide under those protections. It’s against everything shifters believe in. They value family and loyalty and honor. They—”
“Tell that to my sister,” he snaps. His sister? At my blank look, he continues. “The shifters that took Cecily didn’t seem to hold those values. They grabbed her when she and I were having a picnic in the woods by our house and left six-year-old me wandering alone. There was no ransom demand; they simply sent back her fingers one by one. Since the culprits were within the boundaries of your precious pack lands and the region’s alpha was not willing to let in any search parties, no one could do anything about it.”
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. I’ve never heard of Cecily St. James or about anything like what Tristan just described. The kidnapping, the brutality, none of it seems like something shifters would do . . . but how do I really know? Connor’s the regional alpha, but besides a few exceptions he’s mostly kept me away from the other shifters in the small local packs that live in his region, and I grew up sheltered from all the conflict with the witches since, at the time, no one knew what I am. What if I only saw the good parts of shifters?
And only saw the bad parts of witches?
Maybe life’s not as black and white as I thought.
“That’s why you hate shifters so much,” I say softly. “Because of what happened to your sister.”
His jaw sets into a firm line, and he looks at the ground. “Something like that.”
“You know we—they aren’t all bad, right?”
He lets out a loud breath. “I don’t have the option of pausing to find out if the particular shifter I might be dealing with is a ‘good guy’ or a ‘bad guy.’ That’s what drew my sister in. She thought he was a good guy. He wasn’t.”
“Is that why your mom is so adamant about the new legislation?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “She just hates shifters. She always has.” He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “I know you and I will probably never see eye to eye on this issue, but please remember there are always two sides to the story, and growing up with shifters, you only ever heard one.”
I have no response for that. Because he’s absolutely right. My family—Mom, Dad, Connor, and Reid—they’re honorable. They’re good. They’re loyal and honest and every other quality that makes them amazing people. But I can’t say the same for all shifters, not after tonight.
And he can’t say it for all witches either.
“You only heard one side too,” I say softly.
His only response is a nod.
We arrive at his car a few minutes later. This time, he makes no attempt to open my door, and we sit in silence the entire way back to school. As he puts the car in park, he glances at the clock and lets out a sharp breath. It’s only 6:30. We’re stuck together another three and a half hours. He sighs, steps out of the car, and turns to lean against it with his back to me.
I climb out of the car and walk around to stop directly in front of him. “I’m sorry about what happened to your sister. I hope . . .” I let the words trail off because I have no idea what I hope for. That he sees shifters as a whole are not responsible for the actions of a few? That I’m not a bad person for defending shifters? That my family isn’t filled with a bunch of blood-thirsty monsters?
“For what it’s worth . . . I’m sorry too. This whole evening wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” He smiles, strained but real. He moves as if to brush my cheek, but his hand lands on my shoulder instead. “I hope you won’t hold all the drama against me
. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”
Do it again sometime? Not so long ago, he declared that he and I will never get along and now . . . what? He wants to be my friend? But it’s an olive branch all the same, the first one I recall him truly offering.
“That might be nice.” I return his smile and release a slow breath. The spell pulls taut—What the hell? We’re getting along!—then releases entirely. I rub at my chest, my mouth falling open, and notice Tristan doing the same. There’s a strange emptiness in my chest, like there’s a piece of me missing.
Tristan grins, obviously not feeling as weird as I am, full on dimples and everything and not at all strained. “It’s gone. The spell’s gone.”
“I guess so.” My voice is quiet, the jubilation that filled Tristan’s words nowhere to be found in mine.
He tilts his head backward and mouths ‘thank you’ to the sky.
“So . . .” What’s the protocol now? Do I invite him to study with me? Does he even want to? I have no idea what to do, so I settle on saying, “I’ll see you around?”
“Of course.” He nods absentmindedly, and I can see the wheels turning in his head already, probably creating a to-do list of some sort. He gives me one brief smile then a small wave with the hand by his waist. “I’m going to go study. In my own room for once.”
And there’s my answer. Now that he can, he wants to be as far from me as possible. Or something like that.
“Okay,” I say awkwardly, when what I really want to say is ‘stay.’
But he’s gone before I can work up the nerve to speak, disappearing in the direction of the boys’ dorm while I’m standing here trying to figure out what I’m feeling.
I walk to my room slowly, rubbing at my chest. I pull my books out and sit at my desk then move to my bed, but no matter what I do, I can’t get comfortable. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
Is this normal? Is it some sort of side effect like spell withdrawal or something? Because everything feels . . . off. I feel off. Maybe it’s just me. Tristan didn’t appear to be affected by the spell’s absence at all. So, what the hell is wrong with me?
Tristan is irritating and arrogant and condescending.
But I kind of . . . miss him.
The sound of a door slamming somewhere down the hall jerks me out of a dead sleep. Why is it so bright in here? Did I forget to turn the light off last night? I wasn’t that out of it, was I?
I blink my eyes open. The brightness is daylight. It’s at least mid-morning. What the hell? Where is—
The memory hits me. The spell is gone. Tristan is gone. My magical ‘alarm clock’ is gone.
And I’m really, really late.
There’s no time for me to do anything but leap out of bed, grab a shirt, struggle into a skirt, and desperately search out a pair of shoes. My questing fingers find only the flip-flops I wore my first day of class. Hopefully that’s not a sign as to how this day might go.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and yank open the door, pulling my hair back with my other hand, and run down the hallway, the sound of my flip-flops echoing in my ears. I scurry down the stairs and across the quad into the main building. Not until the door is closing behind me do I finally glance at an actual clock. Shit. I’ve missed breakfast and my tutoring with Basil as well, and Wards is almost half over. I push myself to go even faster, darting up the stairs two at a time.
The door is closed when I get to the classroom, but Ms. Anderson’s voice drones on inside. I pause a moment to catch my breath and tuck my shirt in then try to open the door as quietly as possible. I don’t succeed. The hinges let out a loud squeal, and every eye in the room turns to the doorway. It’s like I’m cursed or something. In practically a shot by shot replay of my first time in this classroom, Ms. Anderson shoots a disdainful look in my direction, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted into a scowl. She makes a sharp gesture toward an empty desk in the front row and then turns back to the class.
I keep my gaze on the floor and make my way to the seat she motioned at, the accursed flip-flops making an awful racket the entire way. I glance up at my regular seat at the far end of the middle row. It’s empty, as is the one next to it.
Didn’t Tristan come to class?
The answer smacks me in the brain almost as soon as the thought crosses my mind. Of course he didn’t come to this class. He’s free to go back to his advanced classes now, no longer forced to follow me to the beginner ones. Meaning I’m entirely on my own in here. Again.
I plop my books down on the empty desk and slide into the seat. Rustling through my bag, I pull out a pen and a piece of paper then turn my attention to the whiteboard where Ms. Anderson is going over exercises from last night’s homework.
The homework I didn’t do. Shit.
This is simply not my morning. I rub my fingers over my forehead and then struggle to copy the diagrams already on the board while trying to pay attention to the explanations for the next ones. Splitting my focus does not work out well, and by the time Ms. Anderson passes out a pop quiz near the end of class, I find I might be more behind than ever, the rush of yesterday’s breakthrough buried in the face of Ms. Anderson’s brusque manner and my complete brain fart when I see the problems on the quiz.
I’d be surprised if I get any of the questions right, but my grade on this quiz is not something I have the energy to care about right now. My stomach is growling, and a headache is creeping up behind my eyes thanks to the fact that, along with missing breakfast, I didn’t get my morning coffee.
I try the tracing it with magic trick Tristan went over with me yesterday. It helps, sure, but it does me no good when I get to the last problem on the quiz where I’m supposed to pick one of my drawn wards and actually use magic to infuse it. I imagine the infusion process is something Ms. Anderson went over in class before I got here, so I have no clue what to do. With the way my day is going so far, I might blow something up if I attempt to infuse one of the rather shaky looking wards I drew.
I’ll just leave that last one alone then.
I drop my incomplete quiz on Ms. Anderson’s desk and then rush out of the classroom before I have to face anyone.
Autopilot and my empty stomach take me straight to the dining hall. I’m a little early, so the lines aren’t open yet, but I find a table anyway and sit down. I lay my head in my hands and curse myself for not remembering to set an alarm. I groan and shake my head.
How stupid is it that I preferred it when the binding spell was in place? At least then I was on time and Ms. Anderson’s attitude toward me was always better when Tristan was around.
Twenty minutes or so into my pity party, a familiar voice hits my ears. I glance up to find Tristan entering the dining hall, a wide—though clearly fake—smile on his face. He’s surrounded by the gaggle of rich jerks he calls friends, and he doesn’t so much as look in my direction. Nice to know his life’s gone back to normal. I yank my gaze back to the table, but my eyes quickly find their way to Tristan again as the group passes by.
He’s well-rested and perfectly put together. Obviously he didn’t sleep in. Why didn’t he—
“St. James, did you lose your puppy?” asks Jason with a grin in my direction as he catches me blatantly staring.
Tristan glances over, takes me in head to feet . . . and then turns back to his group without another word. As if I don’t exist.
Jason smirks at me, an edge of malice to the expression. “I told you he was good. Took him longer than I thought it would to get rid of that binding, but I knew it would happen.”
I’m stunned into a stupefied silence. Tristan was actually nice last night, and now he’s back to acting like an ass? Just like that? Was anything he said last night even true? Or was it all an act to get rid of the spell? Could he have . . . engineered everything from the snatching of my paper to the shifter confrontation? My mouth opens, closes, then opens again, but no words come.
Was it all a joke to him? Tristan’s words from the first day ring in my ears: I’ll be rid of
the spell before the end of the month.
Jason quirks an eyebrow. “You weren’t part of the pool, right?”
The pool? I puzzle over his words for half a second before my brain makes sense of them.
The betting pool.
Tristan took bets on how long it would take him to get rid of the spell. No doubt yesterday was his bet, so he . . . I shake my head. I’ve dealt with assholes, but never one so backhanded as this. What was the point? Why would he . . .
My gaze darts to Tristan who’s still standing there as if I don’t exist. I could lose my temper. I could punch him in the face. But what would that get me?
Nothing except in trouble.
I rise to my feet and head to my room without a word, replaying every second of last night in my mind in an attempt to figure out exactly which ones were faked. And why.
His fear of those shifters wasn’t fake, that’s for sure, so that was probably real. But him coming to my defense when my paper was snatched? The, in retrospect, oh-so-convenient ‘breakthrough’ with my academic struggles? And later . . . the story about his sister? Was that real or some play for sympathy in an effort to manipulate the spell? Does it even work like that?
I want to punch him in his stupid smug face all over again. Why does this have me so angry? Is it because I kind of miss the asshole or because he fooled me?
It’s definitely the latter.
Definitely.
How did he do it? He was so bad at it that first day. Did he bide his time getting to know me so he could figure out what might work on me? Or maybe it’s like I thought earlier: he waited until whatever date he had in the betting pool to really put on the charm.
Back in my room, I slam the door behind me and sit on my bed, my hands clenched into fists in my lap. How was I so stupid to think any of that could be real? Me, friends with a St. James? I’m the biggest idiot on the planet. None of it was ever real.
My stomach growls. Oh crap. I didn’t actually get to eat any food, and it’s nearly 1:00 now. No lunch for me today. Another thing I plan to blame on Tristan.
