Ritual of Magic (Academy of the Damned Book 2)

by Veronica Shade

  Ritual of Magic

  Veronica Shade

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Genevieve Whittaker.”

  Everyone claps as the group mentor calls Mama’s name. Mama smiles and stands, giving little nods of thanks as she heads to the front of the room to accept her sixty-day sobriety chip. Mama and the mentor hug and shake hands, then the mentor motions for Mama to say a few words.

  I slouch even lower in my seat at the back row. My hands are hidden in the sleeves of my hoodie. I don’t want anyone to see me, or possibly recognize me from all the media attention that surrounded my boyfriend’s death a couple of months ago.

  “Thank you, everyone,” Mama says to the group as they quiet down.

  I need to be here to support her, but at the same time, I don’t know why I’m bothering. I’ve been here before. She’s been sober more times than I can count. But we always end up back at the beginning. I’m tired of getting my hopes up that things will change. That they will get better.

  “I have so many people I need to thank…” Mama drones on to the small crowd. Her fellow addicts. Their families. Their sponsors. Those people who are so full of hope.

  I used to be those people.

  Of course, things are different now. I’m older. I’d like to think I’m a little wiser. I’ve certainly experienced more than most people my age. Mama’s been an addict for so long, I had to take care of myself for a lot of my childhood after Grandma died.

  But the biggest difference, the biggest change, is that I’m a witch. And while I have always been a witch—it’s an inherited trait—I now embrace my powers fully. I’m no longer living at home; I’m an enrolled student at the La Voisin School for Young Witches. I’m no longer dependent on my mother. I don’t have to sit around and watch her blow up her life and try to protect myself from the debris—

  My heart hitches at the thought of flying debris. That… That’s how Beau, my boyfriend, died. That’s what really started all this. Mama’s addiction just pushed me over the edge. But it was Beau’s death that sent me to La Voisin. I needed to learn how to control my powers so I could protect people—instead of hurting them.

  I clear my throat and try to pay attention to what Mama is saying so I can get out of my own head for a while.

  “…and my daughter, Madison,” she continues.

  Geez, why did I have to tune in now? Several people turn and look at me, giving me polite nods and smiles. I give a partial wave back, but I really wish I could sink into the floor.

  “Madison,” Mama goes on, “has been through more than any kid should. And she is still a kid, no matter what she thinks.” She chuckles, as do the other parents in the room at the cliché joke. “Madison’s father died when she was…not even a year old.”

  I perk up at this. Mama never talks about Dad. She always tells me it’s too painful. It’s why she does drugs, to numb the pain of his death.

  “I wish I had been stronger,” she continues. “For her. For myself. But it was such a blow, I just wanted to run away.”

  She stops to sniff, trying to keep herself from crying. The group leader pats her on the back and asks if she needs to stop. Mama shakes her head and pushes herself to keep going. I wish she would stop. If she wants to talk about Dad, I wish she would do it privately to me. I have so many questions.

  “The funny thing is that I barely knew him,” Mama says. “We met one rainy night as he was walking on the side of the road. I asked if he wanted a ride home. He looked so confused. He didn’t have a home, he said. My own mama had kicked me out for my drug use, so I guess I saw something of myself in him. I let him go back to my place to dry off and figure out his next move, and…that was it, I guess. Our next move was together. I got clean; he got a job. We got pregnant. Everything was so…perfect.”

  Pain shoots through my heart. I know what comes next. I can’t be here to listen to it.

  There’s no way for me to slip out without being seen, and I know it will come off as a rude and shitty thing to do, but I can’t stay.

  I pull my hood around my face and turn out of my chair toward the door. I’m hunched over, trying to be as small and quick as possible. It’s not like I’m stomping out, making a scene, but I can still hear people turning in their seats to watch me and the murmurs as they talk about what my departure means.

  Mama stumbles over her words. I push the door handle and let myself out into the hall where I can finally breathe. Sort of. The air in the hallway is still a bit thick. I fan my hands in front of my face, cooling the air around me. As an air witch, I can do stuff like that.

  “Tough meeting?” someone asks me.

  I open my eyes and see a guy a little older than myself standing there offering me a cup of coffee from the refreshment table that is set up for visitors.

  “Something like that,” I say as I accept the cup.

  Did he already add the cream and sugar? I can’t drink coffee black. Gross. I’m relieved to see it’s not black coffee, though it does look a little darker than I usually have. I take a sip to be polite, though. The sugar doesn’t mask that it’s cheap instant coffee, but I manage to get it down without gagging.

  We stand in awkward silence for a minute, each holding cups of coffee, him with a weird smile on his face that I think is supposed to be comforting. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a button-down shirt, his hair combed to the side. Clean-cut nice guy, I guess.

  The silence finally gets to me. “My mama is getting her sixty-day chip,” I say.

  “Congrats.” The guy holds his cup up to me in a “cheers” motion.

  I tap my little paper cup to his. “I guess,” I say. “We’ve been here before.”

  He nods. “Who’s your mom?”

  “Genevieve Whittaker.”

  “I see… You look like her.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

  “Yeah, we share some of the same genes,” I say.

  The guy nearly spits his coffee at me as he tries to stifle a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you would. Sorry. I’m Justin. One of the social workers here at the center.”

  “Oh,” I say, offering him my hand to shake. “Madison.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Justin says. “Your mom talks about you a lot.”

  I shrug. I’m her kid. Her only family. Of course she talks about me. What is it with this guy and stating the obvious?

  “I just mean that you are important to her,” Justin goes on. “She thinks about you all the time. A lot of family members of addicts think that the addict doesn’t care about them. That their only focus is getting their next hit. And while there is that drive to use again—especially in the early days of recovery—their minds are not as gone as one might think. You’re probably the only thing she has that keeps her going.”

  I exhale loudly. “I really don’t need a guilt trip right now,” I say. “Her recovery is not my responsibility
.”

  Justin blushes. “I didn’t mean…” He shakes his head. “Sorry. This is my first job out of college. I’m still learning the right things to say to people.”

  I nod and feel a little guilty for giving him a hard time. He just wants to help people. I let my attitude drop a little.

  “It must be hard,” I say. “A job like this. I mean, just living with one addict was hell. I can’t imagine trying to work with…what? Dozens?”

  “The numbers go up and down a little every day,” Justin says, and I think I see some of the tension release from his shoulders. “But at least everyone who makes it here wants to get clean. They want to get help. Makes the job a little easier, I think. Living for years with someone who doesn’t want help? That must be hard.”

  I nod and take another sip of the coffee. It’s not quite cold yet.

  “Takes a certain kind of person to do what you do,” I say. “To help people. I couldn’t do it. I admire you.”

  “Thanks, Madison,” he says. “But you’d be surprised what you are capable of. Never sell yourself short.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Oh dear. Have we run into the motivational poster quotes part of the conversation already?”

  Justin laughs too. “Something like that.”

  We fall into silence again, but this time, it’s less awkward, more companionable. I almost feel like I want to keep talking to him. I mean, he’d understand at least part of what I’m going through. But I’m not sure I’m ready to open up just yet. Being vulnerable can be dangerous. If I slip up and say something about my powers, my abilities…I don’t want to know what might happen.

  The first rule of being a witch—don’t talk about being a witch with mortals.

  I start to open my mouth to make my excuses to leave, but the doors to the meeting room open and people start filing out, Mama among the first of them. She rushes over to me.

  “Madison!” She gasps. “What happened? What was that about? I thought you would want to hear what I had to say.”

  I cross my arms, still holding the coffee cup in one hand. “Not like that.”

  “Like what?” she asks. “I was speaking from the heart.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “in front of a ton of strangers.”

  “They aren’t strangers,” Mama says. “They are my group-mates. They know what I’m going through and have been there for me. They’re supportive.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Madison, really,” Mama says. “What have I done wrong this time? Getting clean isn’t even enough for you now?”

  “You know what, Mom?” I say, about to lay into her.

  “You know,” Justin interrupts, “the counseling sessions aren’t just for the people staying here at the center. We have free sessions for family members as well. We also have support groups for family members.”

  My jaw drops a little; my first instinct is to be offended. But then I realize that free counseling is actually a really great service. If I could keep my head and not let anything about the witchcraft slip, maybe I should take him up on the offer.

  “That’s…great,” I say, tamping down my anger.

  Justin regains his dorky, awkward smile.

  “How would I go about signing up for a session?”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. “You can use the center’s main website to see the times and dates of our group sessions. Then if you want a private session, you can call the center’s secretary, and she can hook you up. She keeps all our schedules and stuff.”

  “Thanks,” I say, slipping the card into my pocket. “You’ll probably be hearing from me.”

  “Awesome,” Justin says. “Well, I need to mingle a bit. See you tomorrow, Genevieve.”

  “Bye, Justin,” she says softly, as though she is embarrassed.

  I’m almost sad to see him go now that I’m stuck with Mama all alone.

  “I…uh…I’m glad you came,” she says.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” I say, and I bite back my instinct to tell her, I’ve never missed a sixty-day ceremony. It would be true, but it wouldn’t help anything. “But I hope you aren’t getting sober for my sake. That’ll never work. Do it for yourself.”

  Hurt reflects in her eyes. I’m not wrong, but maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say.

  Mama steps closer to the refreshment table. “Would you like some more coffee?”

  “No thanks,” I say. “I’ll be up pretty late as it is thanks to this cup.” Not that I drank more than than a couple sips.

  “How’s school?”

  She wants to spend more time with me. I’m thankful for the change of subject, but I really just want to go.

  “It’s great,” I lie.

  In actuality, my roommate was killed last semester by a teacher, and I still don’t know exactly why. The teacher fled, so who knows if she might come back to take me out next. I mean, this is the sort of thing a parent should know, but in my mom’s current condition, I can’t really tell her anything. She needs to stay here and stick with her program. I have plenty of people looking out for me at school. I’ll be fine. It’s just weird keeping something like this from her. I’m not sure what else I can tell her about it, though.

  “Madison,” Mama says, laying her hand on my arm.

  I look down and feel an urge to pull away from her, but I don’t.

  “You know you can talk to me about stuff. I might not be…like you…but I’m the only person in your life who knows the truth about you. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

  I look in her face, wondering how she knew just what to say. It’s like she can read my mind sometimes. I remember when I was younger and accused her of being psychic, but she just called it a mom’s intuition. I’m sure that’s all it is now. I mean, I’ve barely told her anything about my time at La Voisin. She must be curious. But I just shrug.

  “It’s just a school, really,” I say. “Not so different from my old school. I go to class, have homework, practice…stuff.” I keep my words vague and my voice low so no one overhears us. “It’s fine. I’m making friends.”

  “That’s good,” Mama says. “And Julieta? How is she?”

  “She’s good… I haven’t talked to her as much as I would like. I keep forgetting to call.”

  “Well, be sure to make time,” Mama says, surprisingly sternly. “Julieta and her family have been there for us since you were in kindergarten. Neither of us would be here without them. So don’t forget them just because you have new friends.”

  “I know, Mama, geez.” I finally pull away from her grip. “I’ve just been busy. I had a lot of studying to do this summer to catch up. But I’ll be in third-year classes this year, just like I should be. I’ve worked hard, and Ms. Brewster is really proud of me.”

  “That’s good, honey,” Mama says. “And I’m proud of you too. I just don’t want you to forget where you really come from.”

  “Okay.” I step away. “I won’t, but I’ve really got to go. I’ll call you later this week.”

  “Bye! I love you!” Mama says a little more loudly than necessary.

  I duck back into my hoodie as people turn to look at me. I give her a small wave and exit the front door of the sobriety center Mama has been staying at. I hop into Mama’s old jalopy and drive to our house.

  I don’t spend much time here. It kind of gives me the creeps to be here alone. But this is the fastest—and safest—way to get back to La Voisin. I make sure all the doors and windows to the house are locked and covered before I head up to my room and touch the mirror.

  “Take me to La Voisin,” I whisper.

  It’s a simple enough spell, but it works. The mirror wobbles, as if I’ve thrown a stone into a pond. Then I see La Voisin, which is really just a large Gothic mansion that has been repurposed as a school.

  It’s about nine p.m. for me, which makes it about ten p.m. at La Voisin in Massachusetts, so it’s pretty dark, but at least it isn’t raining like it was the first time I
arrived at the school. That seems so long ago now, but it was only a few months, back in the spring. Fall semester is just now beginning.

  I shake my head and touch the mirror again, this time concentrating on my dorm room so I can slip inside unnoticed. But nothing happens. I try again and again, but I can’t seem to get my room to appear. I sigh and have the mirror direct outside again. I step through.

  I land on my feet on the thick grass of the La Voisin school grounds. I look up and see that there are still several lights on in the various rooms. I mean, ten o’clock isn’t really late for a bunch of teenagers, but the light to my room is on as well, which is weird because I’m sure I turned it off.

  As a shadow moves across the blinds, I jump, then cuss under my breath.

  Giselle must be back. I thought she was gone for good when she crossed over after I found out who killed her. Ugh, I do not need a ghost in my room this semester!

  I go through the front door and stop by my friend Krista’s room. Thankfully, our friend Ivy is there too.

  “Guys!” I say. “I need you to come with me. I think Giselle is back.”

  “What?” Krista says, nearly screeching.

  “I was outside and I saw a shadow pass in front of the window.”

  “Not again,” Ivy moans.

  “Come on.” Krista grabs Ivy’s arm. “Let’s show that ghost who’s boss!”

  The three of us march to my room.

  “You go first,” Krista says, pushing me toward the door when we get there.

  “All right, all right,” I say. I know Giselle is not a mean ghost, but she was a mean person, so she still gives me the willies. I just want her gone. I whisper, “One, two…” and throw open the door.

  “Hi!” a little girl says from a spot on my bed. “I’m Zoey! Who are you?”