by Theresa Kay
At the bottom of the stairs, Tristan hits a switch and releases the light spell. Wall sconces lining a hallway with three doors on either side flicker on. The place is so dungeon-like that it’s almost cliché. But, like, a classy dungeon if that’s a thing. There’s no damp, moldy stones, and besides the air being slightly musty, it feels much like the rest of the house. Except underground. With no windows. Who the hell designs a place like this in a fancy manor house?
I go to step around Tristan, but he puts up an arm to hold me back.
“The wards,” he says. “I need to unlock them before you go any farther.”
Heat gathers in my cheeks. Of course there are wards. How stupid can I be? Did I think we were just going to stroll in, take Isobel back, and leave?
Well, kind of.
He waves a hand through the air and mutters an incantation under his breath. Something about revealing the truth of it, and the wards around the doorway shimmer into view. Holy crap. They’re the most complicated wards I’ve ever seen, nothing at all like the piddly little things I’ve been working on in class. His parents must be really powerful.
I look from the wards to Tristan. “Can you get past them?”
He gives me a ‘what do you think’ look and starts concentrating on the first one. It takes him only thirty seconds to unlock, but the next one looks much trickier. Way more advanced than anything I’ve worked on before, and we’ve never even learned to take down wards in class. I look at Tristan with new eyes. He’s that much farther ahead of me? That much better?
The second ward falls.
Even Penny looks at him with something like respect in her eyes, and she knows a hell of a lot more about all this than I do.
“Is this the kind of stuff covered in second year?” I ask, a little worried I’m going to be expected to pull off things like this in less than a year.
Penny shakes her head. “This is master class material, but he shouldn’t have enough time with his powers fully active to be at this level.”
“Then how . . .”
She winces. “There is a sigil and even a few spells that can wake powers early, but no matter the method, the experience isn’t pleasant. For him to be at this level of skill, they had to have done it when he was like seven or eight.” She casts her eyes to the ground. “My parents had me awakened at sixteen, and even at that age it was like fire ripping through my veins.”
Seven or eight? It must have happened not long after his sister disappeared. How disturbingly awful. The kid loses his sister, and then his parents put him through something like that. They really are monsters.
The third ward falls, and Tristan pauses for a second before taking a small step backward. “The next one’s a blood ward. I can’t tell if it’s keyed to only my parents or to any St. James.”
“What happens if you try to take it down and it’s keyed to only your parents?” I ask as I squint at the ward, trying to see what he’s seeing in the shimmery red lines.
He huffs. “I don’t know. Could mean pain. Could mean death.”
“Your parents would put up a ward that would kill you?”
He gives me a droll look. “My mother could give a crap about me, especially right now. If the choice was between me dying and me figuring out their plan and showing up to rescue Isobel . . . she’d have no qualms about at least severely maiming me.”
The words are so matter of fact that they somehow emphasize the horribleness of it all rather than lessen it. This is the kind of family he was raised in? A shudder travels down my spine. I’m suddenly grateful for my birth mother leaving me, for the binding spell, for getting to grow up loved and cherished. I wouldn’t want to have been raised in the witch world if this is the way they treat their children.
Even Penny’s story about having her powers awakened is a cautionary tale of how not to raise a kid.
“So, what do we do?” asks Penny as she leans against one wall. “We’ve come kind of far to give up now.”
“We can’t go back without Isobel,” I say, even more sure about that than before. If the St. James are so awful to their own children, I can only imagine how they must be treating Isobel. My mind conjures a picture of her chained up and hanging from a ceiling somewhere. Granted, in a very nicely furnished and spotless room, but still chained up like some sick centerpiece.
“I’m not planning to,” says Tristan, his voice determined. He pulls a small knife from his pocket and places the blade against his palm.
“Wait,” I say, stepping forward and grabbing the handle of the knife. “If you’re going to do this, you should at least be smart about it. The palm has got to be the worst place to cut. It doesn’t heal well, and the constant movement will keep you in pain. I don’t know why it’s so popular in movies. It’s dumb.” I pause. “Unless you specifically need palm blood . . . Is that a thing?”
Tristan shakes his head, amusement hovering on the corners of his mouth.
“Good.” I grab the knife from him and prick the tip of one of his fingers, then squeeze gently to bring up some blood. “Is that enough then?”
“Yes,” he says. His attention turns back to the ward, and his face moves from amused to strained as he places his bloody fingertip at the top of the triangle and starts re-drawing the edges of the ward with his own blood. The task is almost complete when the lights in the hallway go out, plunging us into total darkness.
Tristan shoves me behind him and quickly calls up one of those magic light balls. The light illuminates our newly arrived company: Bernadette St. James.
“Hello, Mother,” says Tristan in a clipped tone. Not the greeting I would have gone with, but who am I to complain?
She has eyes only for her son, dismissing Penny and me without a second glance. “I’m very disappointed to see you here, Tristan. When I felt the wards go down, I hoped I was wrong, that you wouldn’t lower yourself to continue consorting with the Andras girl.” She sighs. “But here we are.”
Bernadette’s words are calm with nothing more than the tone of a disappointed parent, but Tristan goes rigid, his entire body vibrating with tension. He takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and the muscles in his jaw tense. He’s angled in front of me, one hand holding the light spell that casts his scowl in shadows.
“I believe I was quite clear on this matter, was I not?” scolds Bernadette. “You were to have no further contact with the Andras girl.”
“And I abided by your rules until you went too far,” says Tristan.
Bernadette tsks. “I cannot let you shame the St. James name by—”
“You kidnapped someone!” I exclaim as I step out from behind Tristan, unable to stay quiet. “Isn’t that something that shames the St. James name, or is that just normalcy for you all? You’re delusional, lady.”
She glances at me, looks me up and down, and then waves away my comments with a flick of her hand. “I forbid you from taking down that ward,” she says to Tristan, and only Tristan, in a tone like she’s speaking to a young child. “I was planning on having her returned tomorrow anyway. Why don’t you run along back to school?”
“I’m not leaving her with you,” I say, an angry growl entering my tone.
“And we’re not letting you get away with this,” says Penny with an entirely different kind of growl in her voice. “We’re not letting you get away with any of it.”
What is Penny doing? She’s about to blow her own cover. I grab her arm, digging my fingers in. “Get a hold of yourself.”
She shakes out of my hold. “Why?” she asks. “This is the whole reason I’m here.”
I’m still trying to interpret her words when she shifts.
Except for the whole ripping out of her clothes thing, Penny’s shift is seamless and near silent, a surprising feat for someone newly Bitten, and the beautiful silver-gray wolf left in her place takes up over half the width of the narrow hallway. She angles herself in front of me and Tristan, a growl rumbling in her throat as she takes a step toward Bernadette.
>
I expect at least a little fear, so I’m shocked to see nothing but derision on Bernadette’s face.
“You brought one of those abominations with you? How dare you bring that creature into my house,” she hisses, her nostrils flaring as her composure cracks.
Behind me, Tristan takes a step backward, the space left between us cold and empty. “I didn’t know,” he whispers, half in fear and half in awe. “She’s a second year student. She’s a witch. She can’t be—”
“The thing is a Bitten wolf, you fool. Even worse than one of the natural-born ones. And you had the audacity to bring it here?” She steps forward and Penny matches her, still growling but making no other effort to advance. Bernadette sneers again. “Oh, please, you think your pathetic little noises are going to scare me. You’re Bitten, and it must have been recently for you to have made it to your second year at Ravencrest. Your strength is no match for my power.”
Bernadette makes a sweeping circle with one hand and yanks magic out of the air before shoving her open palm forward and sending the magic in a single concentrated bolt right at Penny.
Penny doesn’t have time to dodge. She takes the hit directly in her chest and goes flying backward, knocking both Tristan and me to the ground. Bernadette hits Penny again, and the wolf slides across the floor and crashes into the wards. The smell of burned hair hits my nose, and Penny makes a noise I don’t ever want to hear again. A cry of such deep agony that it sounds like she might be dying.
“Stop it!” I yell as I rise to my feet. “You’re going to kill her!”
Those cold blue eyes turn to me, a new spark in them, one of pleasure from dealing Penny pain. “Like I should have done to you?”
“Mother! Stop this!” Tristan yells, shoving up to his feet. “Please . . .”
But Tristan’s words have even less effect than mine. Her attention is firmly fixed on me, and she’s gathering magic again, though not as quickly and violently as before. Which means she’s probably cooking up something worse than what she did to Penny and plans to use it on me.
Tristan pushes me out of the way and stands in front of me, arms out and blocking my body. “Stop this!”
She doesn’t listen, and the spell meant for me slams into his chest with a burst of light. He falls to the ground, his mouth gaping open, unable to draw breath. He claws at his chest and throat, making a horrible choking noise. She barely spares him a glance. Her own son lies gasping on the ground, his lips turning blue, and she barely even looks at him.
And there’s no time to do anything for him because Bernadette is amping up again.
“You mongrel! Look what you made me do!” Bernadette screams, flames behind her eyes. She’s completely lost it. She pulls more magic and tosses it toward Penny who’s managed to drag herself far enough away from the ward that she’s no longer screeching in pain.
There’s a part of me that’s resistant to spells or something; the fact that I fought off the paralyzing spell earlier proved that. At least I hope it did. So maybe I can . . . Instinct alone has me drawing on the magic in my chest and hastily constructing what I hope is a shield of some sort as I step in front of the blast. This might hurt. It does, but the shield also works. The blast of magic ricochets off and careens into the wall, creating a large divot with cracks spidering out of it. That was a shot to kill.
But the deflection has thrown Bernadette off her game. “How did you do that?” she yells, frustration evident in her tone. “You shouldn’t be able to do that. That’s too advanced for someone like you.”
There’s no point in conversation, no point in answering her questions, no point in holding off. Copying her earlier motion, I yank some magic from the air and throw it at her. She dodges out of the way, but it’s a near miss, and she’s up and throwing another blast my way before I have a chance to adjust for her new position.
Sure, I’m powerful, but she’s much more experienced. The best I can do is keep her occupied with blasts of energy. If I let her get her bearings, she can toss a whole lot worse at me, so I send a constant stream of energy blasts her way. It’s working. She’s too busy dodging and deflecting to have enough time to pull together a stronger spell, but I’m tiring fast, and Tristan’s gasps have faded into a quiet wheeze. He needs help, and if he doesn’t get it soon, I’m not sure what might happen.
Would she let her own son die? Maybe. But I won’t.
Which means we’re pretty much at a stalemate and—
Penny leaps over my head with a snarl, flying over Bernadette and landing on Allister who must’ve come running at some point when he heard the commotion. Allister goes down, the weight of the wolf on top of him pushing him into the floor. Penny snarls again, her saliva dripping onto his face. Then, she glances at Bernadette, her threat clear. Stop, or I’ll rip his throat out.
And at that, Bernadette pauses. She drops her hands to her sides and smooths her hair away from her face. “Please. Don’t.”
Sure, for her husband she’ll stop. But not her son.
I drop to my knees beside Tristan, frantically trying to feel out the spell that’s wrapped itself around him. Basil gave me only a single lesson on breaking spells. To do it, I have to find a loose thread, a seam, something to grab hold of to unravel. I can’t find anything.
But I’m going to try anyway.
I grab at the magic making up the border of the spell itself and pull, draining away the magic and drawing it into myself. A wave of dizziness washes over me, and my breath comes in short pants, my heart racing. What the hell was that? How did I do that?
Tristan must be thinking the same thing because he’s giving me an odd look. But at least he’s breathing and the color is coming back into his cheeks.
“Get the wards down,” I cough out. “Find Isobel. I need to do something about Penny.”
He grabs my arm. “My father. Please don’t let her . . .”
I don’t know what to say, so I nod. Jumping to my feet, I turn to face Bernadette. She’s muttering something under her breath as one hand moves behind her back, her attention focused on Penny.
I step in front of Tristan’s mother, blocking her view of Penny whose teeth are still hovering over Allister’s throat. “We’re taking Isobel. Nothing you do now can change that. But this doesn’t need to get any worse. Stop with the spells. Stop with the fighting. Just stop.”
“Tell it to release my husband,” says Bernadette with a curl of her lip. Her attention moves to Tristan, who’s still working at the last ward. “If you stop now, I won’t make you regret this. You can come home and still be our son. If you continue on the path you’re on, we’ll have no choice but to cut you off. No money. No car. No fancy school.”
“Then do it,” says Tristan in a hard voice. He makes one final swipe with his hand, and the last ward falls.
“If you—”
Allister screams.
And so do I. “Penny!”
Behind me, Tristan lets out a choked noise and whispers, “No.”
The wolf has her jaw wrapped around Allister’s arm, teeth in his flesh, blood trickling against his skin. She bit him. Penny bit him. She snarls again and lets go, taking slow steps backward until she reaches the wall, then sits down on her haunches, her canine lips quirked in a satisfied smile.
Bernadette’s face twists with rage, and my hands come up preparing for more fighting, but her expression shifts to anguish. She falls to her knees at her husband’s side. “What have you done? What have you done?”
I slowly lower my hands to my sides, and Tristan walks up beside me. In the corner of my eye, his face is ashen, shed of all color. We all know what this means. Allister is Bitten now. He’ll be turning furry. I glance at Penny, but it’s not the end of the world, right?
“There are still things he can do,” I tell him. “Wards . . . potions . . .”
Tristan scoffs, a new coldness taking over his demeanor. “Is that the kind of nonsense your ‘pack’ is spreading?”
“It’s true. Penny
said—”
“She lied,” he says in a flat voice. His gaze finds mine, his eyes hard and unforgiving. “And so did you. You knew about her, didn’t you? Knew about her and didn’t tell me. Knew about her and let her come here and . . .” His gaze strays to his father, still lying on the ground.
Tristan takes a hesitant step forward, but Bernadette holds up a hand and twists toward him, nothing but scorn on her face. “This is all your fault. Take your imbecilic little friend, and get out of here.”
“But . . .” He takes another step forward.
“Leave!” she yells as she cradles Allister’s head in her lap. “All of you.” She turns rage-filled eyes on Tristan and makes complicated motions with her hands. Her son’s eyes go wide and he moves back, bumping into me in his haste. Her lips are moving with words I can’t hear, but I can feel the magic gathering in her hands, the way she’s wrapping it all together into something truly awful. She pulls back a hand as if lining up a pitch. And throws.
Tristan covers his face with his arms and flinches away. I grab his shirt, pulling both of us down to the floor as Bernadette’s spell flies over our heads and slams into the ceiling.
Someone yells a long string of strange words and magic freezes me in place, freezes everyone in place. A parade of black boots stomp down the stairs, and an entire unit of OSA officers fan out into the hallway around us.
Outside, the previously quiet lawn is in chaos with patrol cars parked haphazardly in the grass and numerous OSA officers swarming around. A pair of them have Penny, now human again, in silver handcuffs, and they’re loading her into the back of one of the cars. I want to argue, to speak up for her, to do something, but . . . she knew the consequences and did it anyway. Her actions were deliberate, purposeful, and malicious.
