by Theresa Kay
I don’t understand it. I’m working my ass off. I’m not stupid. I have the power, but nothing comes to me like it does the others. I’m not failing my classes, but I’m not doing very well either. The academic portion of everything, like what the angles on each ward mean or why mixing two chemicals together creates the basis for a certain potion, I’m gradually beginning to grasp. But actually using magic to lock in a ward or finalize a potion? Not a clue. No matter how many explanations or demonstrations my teachers give, it feels like everyone else is on a completely different page in a completely different book, and I can’t figure out why.
Neither can Isobel.
I’m beginning to think there’s something very wrong with me, but I have no idea what it could be.
Basil glosses over the subject every time I ask if my problem has anything to do with the binding on my powers like Isobel theorized. He ignores my inquiries about whether or not my problem could have something to do with who my birth mother was and literally pretends he doesn’t hear any of my questions about my birth father, who’s a complete mystery. From anyone else, that would be telling, but from Basil? That’s just how he is. He waves away half my questions and teaches me what he thinks I need to know. When I flat out ask why my magic doesn’t seem to act like everyone else’s, he fills my arms with a pile of books and sends me on my way.
Half the books are in languages I don’t know, and the other half are so old they’re practically falling apart. None of them appear to have any helpful information, but I haven’t had time to spare them more than a basic perusal. There’s simply too much other stuff I have to know right now to bother spending a bunch of time searching for an answer in those books, so they’re sitting in a forlorn pile in the corner of my dorm room.
The one bright spot is that the potion I made with Adrian and Devin in class last week is, surprisingly, an amazing success. The three of us each had to infuse a vial full of our group’s potion with our own magic, and I managed to not only get some magic into the thing without blowing anything up but to make it into one of the most effective potions in the entire class. The tiny seed practically exploded into a full-grown pumpkin within seconds of my pouring the potion over the dirt. If nothing else, I might have a future as a gardener.
Now . . . I just have to figure out what the hell I did differently for that potion and how to repeat it.
On Thursday evening I’m in the dining hall, chemistry book in front of me, trying to research just that when my ears pick up on a conversation at the table next to mine.
“. . . wearing to the banquet tomorrow?” asks a girl I don’t know.
“I’m not sure. My father sent over a couple gowns, but they’re from last year’s line,” replies a second girl.
The first girl wrinkles her nose as if that’s the most despicable thing she’s ever heard. “It’s our first formal and—”
“Formal?” I wince at my very loud and half-involuntary interruption.
The second girl looks down her nose at me. “Of course. Both the Fall and Spring banquets are formal.”
“And mandatory,” says the first girl with a smirk.
I resist the urge to bang my head on the table. I know parents’ weekend starts tomorrow, but someone couldn’t have mentioned this stupid banquet before now?
The two girls return to their own conversation, a clear dismissal. Not that I mind, since I have nothing else to add and I’m too busy doing a frantic mental inventory of the clothes in my closet and drawers. There’s nothing remotely formal. Not one single thing. What am I supposed to do? Wear my uniform?
I need to find Isobel. She’s sure to have an idea. I jump up from my seat, toss my trash, and then jog outside.
It’s dark and my brain is occupied figuring out whether my flip-flops or boots would be better to try to pass off as ‘formal’ as I round the corner of the dining hall, so it’s no surprise that I slam directly into someone’s chest. Tristan. Of course. That would be my luck. Who else would I run into like a clumsy idiot around here?
At least he’s alone, so there’s no witness to my humiliation. Or to the fact that I somewhat blatantly scan him over. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, his tie crooked and loose around the collar. His dirty-blond hair is in disarray, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, and his eyes are weary. The moonlight makes him paler than normal, and he looks exhausted, as if he’s been working his ass off this week too. Who knows? He might have been.
He looks so tired and disheveled and simply not himself that I have a sudden urge to reach out and smooth his hair away from his face and fix his tie.
I resist.
“Hi,” he says quietly. The corners of his mouth twitch like he wants to smile but isn’t sure if he should.
I’m not prepared for the softness of his voice or his eyes. He’s looking at me like we’re friends, like he hasn’t been ignoring and avoiding me for over a week. Like he didn’t manipulate me and place bets on how well he could do so. I scowl and narrow my eyes.
“Selene, I—”
“No,” I say, holding up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. I could have forgiven you for the manipulation, for the bet, for pretty much all of it, but for you to just stand there and let your friend talk to me, talk about me, like that after I stuck my neck out for you . . . No. Just no.”
“You don’t—”
“Understand?” I step forward, tilting my chin back slightly to glare directly into his eyes, hands on my hips. “I understand perfectly. You did what you had to do to get out of the spell, and you owed me nothing after that, not even basic human decency. That’s fine.” I let scorn and disdain take over my features, my upper lip curling. “You are a St. James after all. I don’t know why I ever expected better. You’re just as bad as everything I ever thought about your parents. Maybe worse. Perfect, pretty Tristan who always gets what he wants.”
“I always get what I want?” he asks, the question carried on a huff of incredulity. “If only that were true . . .” Those honey-brown eyes close, and shame, pain, and anger play out across his features in quick succession. But when he opens his eyes again a second later, there’s only pure determination and blazing heat.
I’m still puzzling over his words when, in one seamless movement, he slips a hand behind my neck, his fingers catching in my hair, and pulls me toward him, planting his lips on mine.
What. The. Hell.
Surprise locks me in place for two full seconds before it’s replaced by a rush of yearning hunger. I lean into him, reaching up to wrap my arms around his neck. The anger hiding in his kiss shifts into something else, a push and pull between us that sparks with passion. His hands move down to curl around my waist, and he turns us until my back rests against the stone of the building without so much as pausing the delicious assault on my mouth.
He nips at my bottom lip, pulls back to look me in the eyes as if asking permission, and then presses his mouth back to mine at my nod. His tongue slips past my lips, and he makes an awed sort of noise as one of his hands moves up to cup my face. I match his intensity, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer and closer until there’s no space left between us. My entire world narrows down to nothing but the feel of his mouth on mine, his breath against my face, his fingers around my waist. And I am lost in it.
I’ve never been kissed like this before.
It’s need.
It’s want.
It’s desire.
It’s something close to desperation.
And it’s Tristan St. James.
I can’t do this.
The thought shoots across my mind and shatters the moment, sending my body into autopilot. My hands shove him away.
Tristan stumbles backward, his lips swollen and red, his eyes wide with surprise.
“I can’t do this. Not with you.” Not with a St. James.
His face breaks, his expression more open and honest and lost than I’ve ever seen from him. But just as quickly, the emotions are
wiped away.
And me? I run to my dorm room like the coward I suddenly am, spending the entire time trying to forget the look on his face. First confusion, then desolation, then . . . nothing at all as his mask slipped back into place.
Lying back on my bed, I brush my fingers across my lips where the ghost of his kiss remains. I made the right decision. I know I did. But why do I feel so awful?
The door swings open and I jump to my feet, heart pounding in my chest. He wouldn’t have . . . No. It’s only Isobel.
My roommate takes a single look at me, and her brows go up. “What happened to you?”
“He kissed me,” I say, fingers still resting absentmindedly on my lips.
“Who kissed you? Adrian? I saw him hitting on you at lunch. Do I need to, like, kick his ass or something? He—”
“No. Tristan.”
“Tristan is going to kick his ass? How did . . .” Her voice trails off, and her eyes go wide. “You mean Tristan kissed you.”
I nod, still too scatterbrained to do much else. She backs up and perches on the edge of her bed, and the two of us sit here saying nothing for a good five minutes.
Finally, Isobel clears her throat to break the silence. “So, what did you do?”
“Kissed him back and ran away.”
“You . . .” Giggle. “You . . .” Another giggle. “You ran away?” She doubles over in laughter.
“Better than punching him,” I mutter.
“I would say so,” she chokes out, struggling to hold back another laugh.
The corners of my mouth twitch, and I let out a quiet chuckle that morphs into a loud snort and then into full-blown hysterics. Isobel manages to hold a straight face for all of a second before joining in, both of us rolling around our beds with tears leaking from our eyes. Five minutes pass before our mirth dies down. My stomach hurts from laughing so much, but it’s a good kind of pain.
“He spent the last week and half ignoring me and letting his friends talk crap about me, and then he springs this kiss on me . . .” I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling with my hands clasped together over my stomach. “I told him I couldn’t do it. And I can’t. Not with him. Not when things are so up in the air for me, for my parents, for shifters in general. It’d be like betraying my family or something.”
“I’m not going to say that the situation isn’t complicated, but I think you’re overthinking it,” she replies.
“Yeah, well, there are so many more important things for me to worry about right now. I don’t have time for romantic drama too.” I push up on my elbows. “Because you and I both know it would be drama city between Tristan and me.”
Isobel presses her lips together and tips her head to the side in a half shrug. “You don’t have to justify your choices. I’m not going to try to convince you to do anything you don’t want to.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, a sense of relief washing over me. “You’re the best roomie I could have possibly hoped for, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “Now, how is it that there’s a formal banquet tomorrow and nobody’s bothered to say anything about it until now?”
Her mouth forms an O. “I thought you already knew. It’s a school tradition. The Fall banquet always happens during parents’ weekend. I mean, all the info is in the admissions packet.” I shoot her a look. “Which, of course, you never got.”
“How in the hell am I supposed to find something to wear if I’m not allowed off campus?” I ask.
She laughs. “You know there’s this thing called magic, right? And that you have some? Half the students here will just spell an outfit they already have into something for the banquet.”
“We can do that?” I cry. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? I could’ve magicked up some real shoes or something.”
“First of all, there’s a whole section in your spells textbook marked illusions, so it’s not my fault you didn’t know, and secondly, the spells aren’t permanent and need to have some basis in reality. Like, you can turn a little black dress into a black gown, but you can’t turn flip-flops into flats,” she says. “Come on, I’ll help you find something you can use.” She smirks. “And, yes, I’ll help you cast the spells tomorrow.”
Classes are canceled Friday since parents will be arriving throughout the day for the banquet this evening. I’m not looking forward to it today any more than I was yesterday, but I’m not going to complain about having a day off from class. I should spend the time studying, trying to catch up on homework, and maybe practicing manipulating magic, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Instead, I’m going for a run. It’s a gorgeous fall day, and I’ve spent most of the past week cooped up inside with my nose in a book. Way too much time has passed since I’ve been alone with only my breath and the pounding of my feet. Granted, we do some physical stuff in PE, but we’ve mostly concentrated on more magic-based things. I’ve been getting almost zero exercise, and I’m beginning to feel like a useless lump.
Thanks to Basil’s whirlwind tour my first night here and Tristan’s daily running habit, I know there’s a trail around the lake behind the school and that it’s about three miles long.
Three miles is, admittedly, longer than I should attempt after taking so much time off, and even after I set a slow pace, my legs and shins ache after the first mile or so. But my blood is pumping, the endorphins kicking in, so I push myself faster for the second mile. By the third, I’m alternating between a slow jog and a faster run before I walk the last half mile and then come to a stop at the end of the trail with my hands resting on my knees.
I’m hot, sweaty, and way more winded than I should be, and I might hate myself a little tomorrow, but right now I feel amazing. I might have to follow Tristan’s example and try to fit in a morning run every day.
The thought of his name brings a different kind of heat to my cheeks as memories from last night replay in my head.
What the hell was that? It was so random and unlike him and . . .
I shake my head. Dwelling on this will kill my runner’s high. I wasn’t kidding when I told Isobel I don’t have time for romantic drama. Not only that, but I barely like Tristan, much less feel anything stronger. Right?
My fingers brush against my lips. The kiss was nice, though.
Stop it, Selene.
I stretch out my legs and start the walk back to my dorm. It isn’t until I reach the quad that I realize parents have already started arriving and the grounds are crawling with people, both parents and students, even though it’s barely lunchtime.
One girl runs up to a tall man and hugs him tightly. A boy slings an arm over a middle-aged woman’s shoulders, and the two of them laugh. So many smiles. So many laughs. So many families.
The elation from my run fades away and leaves me sticky, tired, and alone in a sea of people. Homesickness hits me like a punch to the stomach. Anger follows on its heels.
How is it fair that the people who’ve raised me and who love me can’t show their faces for fear of being arrested? Yet, everyone else at this stupid school can—
I catch sight of Tristan walking across the quad, alone, his hands shoved in his pockets and his gaze focused only on the ground in front of him. He looks . . . lost. The memory of last night, of the conversation, of the kiss, replays in my head, and I internally flinch at what I said. He was vulnerable, nice even—not to mention the passion behind that kiss was scorching hot—and I kind of stomped all over him.
Maybe I should apologize? Or something? What could it hurt to talk to him? I ignore the voice in the back of my head telling me it could hurt quite a bit if he’s back to his total asshole persona and rejects me. But maybe I sort of deserve it now?
I’m halfway across the quad, heading in his direction, before my mind fully forms the decision to do it. I give him a warm smile as I draw to a stop in front of him. “Hi.”
He stops, his gaze darting up to meet mine, and a wan smile lift
s his lips and vanishes again just as quickly. “Hey.”
“I’m, uh, sorry about last night. I didn’t mean—”
“Fine. Whatever,” he says with quick, sharp words as a transformation takes over his face. His smile grows wide, and his shoulders straighten. “Mother, Father. Welcome. I’m so glad to see you,” he says to a couple walking up from our right.
Crap. Meeting Tristan’s parents was definitely not on my agenda today. I’m frozen in place for a moment before I force myself to turn and greet the enemies of shifters everywhere.
Allister and Bernadette St. James don’t look much like what I’ve imagined. After all I’ve heard, I kind of expected horns or maybe tails, but they’re simply an ordinary-looking middle-aged couple, albeit super polished and clearly rich. I want to hate them. In fact, I will myself to hate them, but they look so normal. Is it possible that all of the crap they’ve done has been in retaliation for what happened to Tristan’s sister? Does it excuse them if it was?
“Hi, I’m Selene. I go to school here with your son,” I say, unsure of what else to do. I stick my hand out and smile. The gesture is blatantly ignored.
After a beat, Tristan steps forward and places himself slightly in front of my body as if to hide me from them. “Perhaps you two would like to see the library first? Or maybe take a walk by the lake?”
But the attempted distraction, if that’s what it was, is also ignored.
His father’s eyes, twin in color to his son’s, rake over me, so reminiscent of the day I met Tristan that it’s almost like déjà vu. “Selene who?”
Tristan’s nostrils flare. He’s nervous. Or embarrassed.
“Selene Andras,” I say, sticking out my hand. Again.
Allister visibly jolts but recovers his bland expression quickly. His wife? Not so much. Her eyes bore into me, and disgust ripples across her features. By their reactions, I’m assuming they might know who I am and how I grew up.
Bernadette, with obvious effort, softens her expression and offers up a tight smile. “Charmed,” she says, a strong British accent lacing the word as she takes my hand and gives it a brief shake. So she’s who Tristan gets the accent from. She not so subtly wipes her hand on her slacks when she’s done. And apparently some of his manners too.
