Firespell

by Chloe Neill

  Glancing around the neighborhood, across glass and steel and concrete, the city buzzing around us, I could see their point.

  “There have always been a handful of people who know about us. Who know what we do, know what we fight for,” Scout said as we rounded the corner and walked toward St. Sophia’s.

  And there he was.

  Jason stood in front of the stone wall, hands in his pockets, in khaki pants and a navy blue sweater with an embroidered gold crest on the pocket. His dark blond hair was tidy, and his eyes had turned a muted, steel blue beneath the cloudy sky, beneath those dark eyebrows and long lashes.

  Those eyes were aimed, laserlike, in my direction.

  Scout, who’d taken a heartening sip of strawberry-flavored sugar water after relaying Derek’s history, released the straw just long enough to snark. “It appears you have a visitor.”

  “He could be here for you,” I absently said.

  “Uh, no. Jason Shepherd does not make trips to St. Sophia’s to see me. If he needed me, he could text me.”

  I made a vague sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her assessment, but my nerves apparently agreed. My throat was tight; my stomach fluttered. Had this boy—this boy with those ridiculous blue eyes—come here to see me?

  Right before I melted into a ridiculous puddle of girl, I remembered that I was still irritated with Jason and wiped the dopey smile off my face. I’d show him “distraction.”

  “Shepherd,” Scout said when we reached him, “what brings you to our fine institution of higher learning?” She managed those ten words before her lips found the straw again. I realized I’d found Scout’s pacifier, should it ever prove necessary—strawberry soda.

  Jason bobbed his head at Scout, then looked at me again. “Can I talk to you?”

  I glanced at Scout, who checked her watch. “You’ve got seven minutes before class,” she said, then motioned with a hand. “Give me your bag, and I’ll stick it in your chair.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and made the transfer.

  Jason and I watched Scout trot down the sidewalk and disappear into the building. It wasn’t until she was gone that he looked at me again.

  “About yesterday.” He paused, eyes on the sidewalk, as if deciding what to say. “It’s not personal.”

  I arched my eyebrows. I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.

  He looked away, wet his lips, then found my gaze again. “When you were in the hospital, we talked about the Reapers. About the fact that we’re in the minority?”

  “A splinter cell, you said.”

  He bobbed his head. “In a way. We’re like a resistance movement. A rebellion. We aren’t equally matched. The Reapers—we call them Reapers—they’re not just a handful of misfits. They’re all the gifted—all the Dark Elite—except for us.”

  “All except for you?”

  “Unfortunately. That means the odds are stacked against us, Lily.” He took a step forward, a step toward me. “Our position is dangerous. And if you don’t have magic, I don’t want you wrapped up in it. Not if you don’t have a way to defend yourself. Scout can’t always be there . . . and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  An orchestra could have been playing on the St. Sophia’s grounds and I wouldn’t have heard it. I heard nothing but the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, saw nothing but the blue of his lash-fringed eyes.

  “Thank you,” I quietly said.

  “That’s not to say I wasn’t bitter that you ignored me Sunday.”

  I nibbled the edge of my lip. “Look, I’m sorry about that—”

  Jason shook his head. “You saw the mark, and you needed time to process. We’ve all been there. I mean, you could have chosen better company, but I understand the urge to get away. To escape.” Jason looked down at the sidewalk, eyebrows pulled together in concentration. “When I found out who I was, what I was, I ran away. Hopped a Greyhound bus and headed to my grandmother’s house in Alabama. I camped out there for three weeks that summer. I was thirteen,” he said, raising his gaze again. His eyes had switched color from turquoise to chartreuse, and something animal appeared in his expression—something intense.

  “You’re a . . . wolf?” I said it like a question, but I suddenly had no doubt, and no fear, about the possibility that he was something far scarier than Scout and the rest of the Adepts.

  “I am,” he said, his voice a little deeper than it had been a moment ago. Goose bumps rose on my arms, and a chill slunk down my spine. I wondered whether that was a common reaction—Little Red Riding Hood syndrome, maybe.

  I stared at him and he stared back at me, my focus so complete that I actually shook in surprise when the tower bells began to ring, signaling the end of the lunch period.

  “You should go,” he said. When I nodded, he reached out and squeezed my hand. Electricity sparked up my spine. “Goodbye, Lily Parker.”

  “Goodbye, Jason Shepherd,” I said, but he was already walking away.

  He’d walked to St. Sophia’s to see me—to talk to me. To explain why he hadn’t wanted me to sit in on the Adepts’ meetings, mark or not.

  Because he was worried about me.

  Because he hadn’t wanted me to get hurt.

  The moment I’d shared with Jason had been so incredibly phenomenal, the universe had to equalize. And what was the chosen brand of karmic balance for a high school junior?

  Two words: pop quiz.

  Magic in the world or not, I was still in high school, and a high school that prided itself on Ivy League admissions. Peters, our European history teacher, decided he needed to ensure that we’d read our chapters on the Picts and Vikings by using fifteen multiple-choice questions. I’d read the chapters—I was paranoid enough to make sure I finished my homework, magical hysterics notwithstanding. But that didn’t mean my stomach didn’t turn as Peters walked the rows, dropping stapled copies of the test on our desks.

  “You have twenty minutes,” he said, “which means you have a little more than one minute per question. Quizzes will account for twenty percent of your grade, so I strongly recommend you consider your answers carefully.”

  When the tests were distributed, he returned to his desk and took a seat without glancing up.

  “Begin,” he said, and pencils began to scribble.

  I stared down at the paper, my nerves making the letters spin—well, nerves and the thought of a blue-eyed boy who’d worried for me, and who’d held my hand.

  Twenty minutes later, I put my pencil down. I’d filled in the answers, and I hoped at least a few of them were correct. But I didn’t stress over it.

  Infatuation apparently made me intellectually lazy.

  16

  Scout waited until dinner to interrogate me about Jason’s visit to campus. It being Monday, we’d been blessed with brand-new food. Since I didn’t eat chicken, it was rice and mixed vegetables for me, but even simple food was better than dirty rice or stew. Or so I assumed.

  “So, what did Mr. Shepherd have to say?” Scout asked, spearing a chunk of grilled chicken with her fork. “Are you engaged or promised, or what? Did you get his lavaliere? Did he pin you?”

  “What’s a lavaliere?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s a fraternity thing?”

  “Well, whatever it is, there wasn’t one. We just talked about the meeting. About the attitude he copped. He apologized.”

  Scout lifted appreciative brows. “Shepherd apologized? Jeez, Parker. You must have worked faster than I thought. He’s as stubborn as they come.”

  “He said he was worried about me. About the possibility that I’d get wrapped up in a Reapers versus Adepts cage match and wouldn’t have a way to defend myself, especially if you weren’t there to work your mojo.”

  “And what spectacular mojo it is, too,” she muttered. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. “Listen,” she finally said. “I don’t want to warn you off some kind of budding romance, but you should be careful around Jason. I’m not
sure I’d recommend getting involved with him.”

  “I’m not getting involved with him,” I protested. “Wait, why can’t I get involved with him?”

  “He’s just—I don’t know. He’s different.”

  “Yeah, being a werewolf does make him kinda unique.”

  She raised her eyebrows, surprise in her expression. “You know.”

  “I do now.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I heard him growl after I got hit with the firespell. I confirmed it yesterday.”

  “He admitted he was a wolf? To you?”

  “He let me see his eyes do that flashy, color-changey thing. He did the same thing again when we talked in the hospital.”

  “After you made us leave?”

  I bobbed my head. Scout made a low whistle. “In one week, you’ve gone from new kid in school to being wooed by a werewolf. You move fast, Parker.”

  “I doubt he’s wooing me, and I didn’t do anything but be my usually charming self.”

  “I’m sure you were plenty charming, but I just want you to be careful.”

  “Is that a little were-ism I’m hearing?”

  “It’s a little reminder that he’s not like the rest of us. He’s a whole different brand of Adept. And you don’t have to buy my opinion. I’m just telling you what I think. On the other hand, in our short but explosive friendship, have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Did you want me to start with the getting hit by firespell or becoming an enemy to soul-sucking teenagers?”

  “Did you mean the Reapers or the brat pack?”

  I grinned appreciatively. “Ooh, well played.”

  “I have my moments. Besides, who’d you borrow those kick-ass flats from?”

  I glanced down at the screaming yellow and navy patent leather ballet flats she’d let me borrow on our hurried way out the door this morning.

  “Fine,” I finally said. “Fashion trumps evil and prissy teenagers. You win.”

  Scout grinned at me. “I always win. Let’s chow.”

  We noshed, said our hellos to Collette and Lesley, and when dinner was done, returned to the suite for our hour-long break before study hall. The brat pack had made camp in the living room, blond hair and expensive accessories flung about as we entered.

  Veronica sat cross-legged on the couch, an open folder in her lap and M.K. and Amie at her feet like adoring handmaids.

  “It also says,” Veronica said, gazing at the folder, “that her parents dumped her here so they could head off to Munich.” She lifted her head, a lock of blond hair falling across her shoulders, and gave me a pointed look.

  Was that my folder she was reading? Had M.K. taken it from Foley’s office while she was on hall-monitoring duty?

  “Interesting, isn’t it, that her parents left her? That they didn’t take her with them? I mean, it’s not like there aren’t English-speaking private schools in Germany. She’s not even from Chicago.”

  “How did you get that?” I bit out. All eyes turned to me. “How did you get my file?”

  Veronica closed the navy blue folder, the St. Sophia’s crest across the front, then held it up between two fingers. “What, this? We got it from Foley’s office, of course. We have our ways.”

  I took a step forward, anger dimming my vision at the edges. “You have no right to go through my file. Who do you think you are?”

  Outside, thunder rolled across the city, the steel gray sky finally preparing to give way. Inside, the room lights flickered.

  “You need to back off,” Scout said.

  Veronica arched an eyebrow and uncrossed her legs. M.K. and Veronica shifted to give her room. She stood up, folder in her hand, and walked toward us, a haughty look aimed at Scout.

  “You think you’re queen of the school just because you’ve been here since you were twelve? Being abandoned by your parents isn’t exactly a coup, Green.”

  Scout, amazingly, stayed calm after that outburst, an expression of boredom on her face. “Is that supposed to hurt me, Veronica? ’Cause, if I recall, you’ve been here as long as I have.”

  “Irrelevant,” Veronica declared. “We’re talking about you”—she shifted her gaze to me—“and your new friend. You both need to remember who’s in charge here.”

  Scout made a sarcastic sound. “And you think that’s you?”

  Veronica flipped up the folder. “The ones with information, with access, always win. You should write that down in one of your little books.”

  M.K. snickered. Amie had the decency to blush, but her eyes were on the ground, apparently not brave enough to intercede.

  “Give it back,” I said, hand extended, fingers shaking with fury.

  “What, this?” she asked, batting her eyelashes, waving the folder in her hand.

  “That,” Scout confirmed, reaching out her own hand, and taking a menacing step forward. When she spoke again, her voice was low and threatening. “Keep in mind, Lively, that in all the years you’ve been here, some interesting little facts have crossed my path, too. I assume you’d like to keep those facts between us, and not have them sprinkled around the sophomore and senior classes?”

  There was silence as they faced off, the weirdo and the homecoming queen, a battle for rumor mill supremacy.

  “Whatever,” Veronica finally said, handing over the folder between the tips of her fingers, lips pursed as if the paper were dirty or infected. “Have it. It’s not like I care. We’ve gotten everything we need.”

  Scout pulled the file from Veronica’s manicured hands. “I’m glad we’ve concluded our business. And in the future, you might be a little more careful about where you get your information from and whom you share it with, capiche? Because sharing that information with the wrong people could be . . . costly.”

  Thunder rolled and rippled again, this burst louder than the last. The storm was moving closer.

  “Whatever,” Veronica said, rolling her eyes. She turned and, like a spinning dervish of plaid, took her seat on the couch again, attendants at her feet, the queen returned to her throne.

  “Come on,” Scout said, taking my wrist in her free hand and moving me toward her bedroom. It took a moment to make my feet move, to drag my gaze away from the incredibly smug smile on Veronica’s face.

  “Lily,” Scout said, and I glanced over at her.

  “Come on,” she repeated, tugging my wrist. “Let’s go.”

  We moved into her room, where she shut the door behind us. Folder in hand, she pointed at the bed. “Sit down.”

  “I’m fine—”

  “Sit down.”

  I sat.

  Thunder rolled again, lightning flashing through the room almost instantaneously. The rain started, a sudden downpour that echoed through the room like radio static.

  The folder beneath her crossed arms, she walked to one end of the room, eyes on the floor, and then walked back again. “We’re going to have to put it back.” She lifted her head. “This came from Foley’s office. We needed to get it out of their hands, which we did—yay, us—but now we’re going to have to put it back. And that’s going to be tricky.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “That’s great. Just one more thing I don’t need to worry about right now. But before we figure out how to sneak into Foley’s office and drop off a student file without her knowing it was gone, can I see it, please?”

  “No.”

  That silenced me for a moment. “Excuse me?”

  “No.” Scout stopped her pacing and glanced over at me. “I really don’t think looking through this is going to help you. If there’s anything weird in here—about your parents, for example, since Foley likes to discuss them—it’s just going to give you things to obsess over. Things to worry about.”

  “And it’s better if only Veronica and M.K. have that information?”

  Silence.

  “Good point,” Scout finally said, then handed it over. “You read. I’ll plot.”

  My hands shaking, I flipped it op
en. My picture was stapled on the inside left, a shot of me from my sophomore year at Sagamore North, my hair a punky bob of black. On the inside right was an information sheet, which I skimmed—all basic stuff. A handful of documents was stapled behind the information sheet. Health and immunization records. A letter from the board of trustees about my admission.

  The final document was different—a letter on cream-colored stock, addressed to Foley.

  “Oh, my God,” I said as I reviewed it, my vision dimming at the edges again as the world seemed to contract around me.

  “Lily? What is it?”

  “There’s a letter. ‘Marceline,’ ” I read aloud, “ ‘as you know, the members of the board of trustees have agreed to admit Lily to St. Sophia’s. We believe your school is the best choice for the remainder of Lily’s high school education. As such, we trust that you will see to her education with the same vigor that you show to your other students.’ ”

  “So far so good,” Scout said.

  “There’s more. ‘We hope,’ ” I continued, “ ‘ that you’ll be circumspect in regard to any information you provide to Lily regarding our work, regardless of your opinion of it.’ It’s signed, ‘Yours very truly, Mark and Susan Parker.’ ”

  “Your parents?” Scout quietly asked.

  I nodded.

  “That’s not so bad, Lil—she’s just asking Foley not to worry you or whatever about their trip—”

  “Scout, my parents told me they were philosophy professors at Hartnett College. In Sagamore. In New York. But in this letter, they tell Foley not to talk to me about their work? And that’s not all.” I flipped the folder outward so that she could see the letter, the paper, the logo.

  “They wrote the letter on Sterling Research Foundation letterhead.”

  Scout’s eyes widened. She took the folder from my hand and ran a finger over the raised SRF logo. “SRF? That’s the building down the street. The place that does the medical research. What are the odds?”

  “Medical research,” I repeated. “How close is that to genetic research?”