by Jade Bones
The door swings open to reveal a frizzy-haired girl with glasses, and I smile broadly at her, turning on all my charm as I say, "Hi. Malory's your new roommate, and I'm helping her move in. Just picked up the key from administration."
Mal swivels to stare at me in horror, but the wide-eyed girl only nods, glancing between us with scandalized interest as she sticks out her hand. "Bethany," she says in a soft, breathless voice.
Mal shakes her hand, and I wink at her.
The answering blush tells me I was right, this girl adores rule-breakers. Then I take in her state of dress—glasses slightly crooked, blouse buttoned up wrong and half untucked, messy hair... This girl is a rule-breaker. And ten bucks says she hasn't come back from the kind of tutoring session that requires books.
I fight to keep the smile off my face until a knock comes on the door and wipes it away for me. Good luck only stretches so far, and my hackles rise.
Bethany jumps, squeaking faintly, and glances at me in horror. "You can't be here," she hisses, then lunges at the door to crack it dramatically small. "Hello?"
Her voice is muffled in the corridor, and I hear an elderly, dignified tone answering.
"Absolutely, Professor. If I see them, I'll let them know."
A few more seconds pass before Bethany retrieves her head from the gap and shuts the door firmly behind her. "Sheesh," she mutters, letting her head fall against the wood. Then she spins around and waves her finger between the two of us. "This," she insists, "is already a problem. Professor Jacobs was looking for a pair of students who sound exactly like you. Don't you know how to be discreet? I'm guessing he saw you follow Malory into her dorm to collect her things." Bethany paused and looked around. "Where are your things?"
"Outside!" Mal says brightly, edging towards the door. "I'll go get them! It might just take... a minute or two. I've got some things to finalize, and then I'll be right back. See you tonight?"
Bethany nods, blinking rapidly, and picks up a book from her side table. "I have classes now, so make sure to remember your key."
It's a relief when Bethany disappears without question, leaving us with the uncomfortable sense of having been caught five minutes into our charade. There's nothing to do except go back to the terrible trophy cabinet idea, hoping it will get us out of here quickly. Otherwise, we're stuck bunking with Bethany—and somehow I don't think I'm welcome.
Much to my disgust, I'm right. Not about Bethany, but about the trophy. Mal steals a set of clothes from Beth’s closet, then breaks into three more dorms before she finds a set that fits me. Suitably disguised, we go searching for the dance competition judge.
"New blood!" She declares, throwing her hands wide and ushering us into her office, candlelight glinting off her many dozens of rings.
The plaque on the desk declares we're in the presence of Lady Keller—occupation unknown.
Behind the desk rests a looming trophy cabinet. The engraved trophy at the center seems to glint in the light, taunting us.
“Er, yeah,” Mal says slowly, staring at the cabinet as we follow her inside.
Rich portraits line the walls, staring down at us with an ominous lack of emotion. The velvet curtains half-drawn across the window would be the perfect place to conceal an assassin, and I fight to keep my defenses under control. The thick tunic covering my chest is still flammable, and I can't afford a flare-up.
"Here's the sign-up sheet," the lady continues, rummaging through the papers on her desk to find the one she's looking for before presenting it with a flourish. "Rehearsal schedule is on the door, if you're interested, but it does mean revealing your secrets to the competition." She gives us an exaggerated wink.
"Oh," Mal protests, eyes wide as she holds up her hand. "We weren't sure about signing up yet… Could we have some more information first?"
"Nonsense!" Lady Keller shakes her head. "If you have a flare for dance, this competition is made for you. Humans were designed for the sensuous pursuits, darling, don't ever forget it. Let it all out on the floor!" She shoves the fountain pen into Mal's hand and doesn't let us speak until we've both signed our names—mine a more human spelling and a constructed surname.
“Is that the trophy?” Mal asks, a touch of desperation in her voice.
Lady Keller chuckles, turning to the trophy. This time it definitely glints, shimmering translucently for no obvious reason. “You could say that.”
Mal frowns, but before she can ask, Lady Keller taps the glass. The trophy disappears from sight.
“All our competitions are judged by the prize,” she announces, clearly delighted. “The trophy will choose its winner on the night, and only then will it take form.”
“Oh,” Mal says weakly.
Fuck.
Standing outside the office, in the crowded corridor as students flow past us on their way to their next classes, the world seems oddly distant.
"I can't dance," I point out, staring vacantly at the witches as they hurry onward.
Where are all the demons?
"That's all right," Mal replies, equally vacant. "I can teach you."
"In two days?"
"I taught Violet how to cha cha in one."
"You did not."
"I could have."
A bell sounds from the far end of the corridor, and the bustling crowd speeds up. That's when I notice the tension on the faces of at least one third of them—the way their jaws clench a little tighter right before they enter the second classroom on the left.
Propelled forward by instinct, I leave Mal behind and walk slowly up to the classroom.
And immediately wish I hadn't.
Nausea rises swiftly, hot and aching. I step back from the classroom, leaning against the door jamb and facing back into the corridor, but it's too late. The images in my mind don't fade; they grow stronger.
Mal hurries over to me, face white with concern, and all I manage to spit out is, "I found the demons."
Slowing to a halt, Mal regards me for long seconds before glancing in the open doorway of the classroom. I can tell the moment she notices the cages, marked by the ragged hitch of breath. Her eyes widen, sweeping back and forth as she presumably notes the elongated gashes on the prisoners' chests. The dull fire in their eyes. Resigned—broken.
Daerek let something slip the other week... what was it? He'd clammed up the second he'd said it.
Witches. Demons used to drain witches to a husk, using the bond as nothing more than a necessary energy source to fuel their destructive magic.
Of course, this was well in the past, but not 'this past' apparently. Is this what happened after the witches took back control? Or was this the reason demons began draining them at all?
What else is the academy hiding?
"We need to go," I growl, turning away from the curious glances of the students as they file past.
If only the style of this time didn't require me to knot my hair at the nape of my neck—I would be safer if I could conceal my face. Too much is revealed in these moments.
I need to hide my heart, too. It’s already igniting, singeing the threads of my borrowed shirt.
Mal nods and leads the way down the corridor to the first empty room we can find. I barely register the cavernous ceiling, the glittering walls, the slow fall of the door behind us as it drifts towards closed. Something inside my brain acknowledges ballroom, but it's all I can do.
They're killing them. The witches are killing their demons, torturing them for the sake of the bond.
Not killing—killed. These demons are long dead, belonging to an ancient past we were never meant to witness. What happens if we alter what's here?
What happens if they capture me too?
"Aeden." My attention returns to find Mal clutching my face, gloved hands pressed to either side of my cheeks. It's an unexpected source of comfort, and I find myself enjoying it far more than I should. "Aeden, it's okay. We're going to get out of here—we just need to win a stupid competition. And trust me, I'm an excel
lent dancer."
The door finally thuds into the frame, heavy and echoic in the empty ballroom. Mal jumps, staring back over her shoulder with wide eyes. I don't blame her, even without the unpleasant news we recently discovered. We might have fooled everyone so far, but there's only so long we can uphold the social conventions of an ancient society with no goddamn guidance.
Mal disappears, and my body immediately regrets the loss. I watch her distantly, taking in the way she sets her shoulders, her walk confident despite what she must be feeling. Demons are meant to protect their witches, at least in our time. Have I been protecting Mal?
I set the fucking room on fire.
But her power is dangerous.
Never trust her.
Burning fabric distracts me, wafting below my nose, and I beat back the flames at my chest.
Scratchy music fills the hall, and this time it's my turn to jump—both because my musings have been interrupted and because I'd forgotten why we were here.
Perhaps not forgotten, perhaps desperately trying to forget.
If we can't steal the trophy, we have to win it, and that means dancing with my witch. But surely I can put aside my hesitations for long enough to get through this. Even if I don't trust her. Even if I can't.
Mal walks back into the center of the room and doesn't stop. She keeps walking until she's in front of me, her hands on each of my shoulders and her body pressed to mine.
"We'll start with footwork," she says, swallowing visibly.
My hands settle slowly on her waist, and despite her confidence, she feels so small against me. Slowly, she guides me back and forth across our tiny square of ballroom, nudging at my feet with hers when I forget which way I'm going. It isn't as hard as I expected, but something about it won’t gel. My feet stumble when they're meant to lead, my body operating half a second behind where my mind wants me to be.
Even after three hours, I'm not getting it, and my frustration grows with each fumbled step I attempt. Not to mention being so close to Mal for so long is crossing wires in my brain I didn't know were there.
I have to tear off my shirt, because otherwise I'm going light the fucker on fire.
Mal stares at me, resigned, as I try for the hundredth time to execute the complicated twist and switch that happens halfway through the dance.
"How do you know these are even the dances we need to learn?" I growl, picking up my discarded shirt to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
Mal doesn't even blink at my flaming heart, even though she doesn't see it often. She watches it warily for a few seconds every time I get frustrated, but when it doesn't cause any damage, she goes back to studying my face.
I’ve no idea how to take the fact that she can apparently read me even when I don't say anything at all.
"Because they were on the poster," she says patiently. "But we should take a break. We still have a couple of days before the competition."
"We need to win," I mutter, running a hand through my hair and glaring down at my sparking heart. "With an amateur on the team, that means at least eight hours of practice a day."
Mal shrugs. "We don't know that. The other competitors could suck." But the lie is evident in the way she stares down at her feet, hands shoved deep into her pockets.
I reach for her hand and draw her closer to me, the violent thudding of my heart visible to both of us. I shouldn't be doing this—both seeking comfort when I still can't trust her and seeking comfort from a witch at all. But I need it. I need her.
Her hands fall to my shoulders, her gaze steady as the music floats around us. We're swaying back and forth in time to it, as if the dance might suddenly click into place and burst free from our bodies with a mind of its own. It won't. But at least she's close to me.
I want to trust her.
Looking down, my eyes fall to her lips, and I wonder whether there is any point keeping my rules anymore. It's not as though we have anyone to hold up pretenses for. Our days here are numbered. I may as well have what I want.
Then common sense kicks in and I back away.
"What the hell kind of test is this?" My voice raises, but I don't care. "At least Stacey's trial made sense—get out of a hell-pit filled with ghosts. This is... This is fucking with my head."
Mal sighs, so quiet I almost don't hear it, but something in the tone makes me look up. Her expression is twisted into something close to regret, which makes no sense because she hasn't done anything.
"Can you keep a secret?" she asks, closing her eyes.
"Yes." I don't even have to think about that. Sometimes I think secrets are all I have.
"Good. Stay there."
She crosses the ballroom floor and sits cross-legged against the wall.
Then, she peels off her glove and presses her hand to her cheek.
SEVEN
Mal
My heart stammers in my chest, but as quickly as the adrenaline overtook me, I no longer feel it at all.
I no longer feel anything.
The room shimmers in an odd shade of gray; now that I've crossed over into the spirit plane, I can see past the physical husks around me. Stone walls morph and stretch into the cliff faces they were quarried from, the gems of the chandelier sparkle with a luster only found in massive geodes, and out of the corner of my eye that is exactly what they become.
The physics of the spirit plane is fluid, and I try not to pay too much attention or I'll get dizzy.
But the one thing I really want to know, even though I shouldn't, is what Aeden's spirit looks like...
I've never seen him like this, and part of me is terrified to discover there is a reason he always looks exactly as demonic as his birthright. What if his soul is warped? What if I've bonded to a demon who belongs straight back in hell?
Steeling myself, I stand up from my empty body and look at him.
Shock ripples through me, although it's as distant and muted as every other sensation in this form. Aeden's spirit form is... exactly the same. His eyes are just as brown, even through the tones of gray, his hair shifting in and out of a dull black to the luscious black of his physical form. The quiet pensiveness is as present in his expression now as it is normally, nothing like the way the faces in the painting transformed from false politeness into a skeletal grin that promised pain. Viciousness. Even Aeden's heart burns as fierce in this world of muted grays as it does in real life.
Aeden wears his spirit form every day, concealing nothing, manipulating nothing, and I don't know what to do with that information.
So instead I look for what he wants. It shimmers around him in a vibrant aura, shifting as different desires float to the surface. But sure enough, it keeps coming back to one thing: defeat this trial and get out of here. I reach out and wrap a thread of that desire around my finger, using it to guide my energy. That’s one good thing about being a spirit—with no senses to distract you, you can only focus on what you choose.
My magic seems to like this, rippling happily as I pull Aeden’s aura close.
Aeden eyes lock onto my spirit form and widen in disbelief. I thought he would be able to see what I became even without my power being magnified; our magic is linked, which is why I've taken great pains to hide this from him.
"The power you thought I was stealing was my own," I say simply, because there's no point hiding it. "From birth."
Aeden opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He clears his throat and says, "Gonna need a minute."
"Fair, but can you speed it up a smidge because we're on borrowed time?" I cast a glance towards the door where any minute now someone could walk in and see my body for what it is—a husk. I might not have adrenaline coursing through me, but that doesn't mean I'm not aware of the very real danger I've left myself in.
Aeden's eyes flick to my body, still sitting cross-legged on the floor. "What happens if someone touches you?"
"No idea. It's never happened. Let's not make this a day of firsts."
For some reason, Aeden's eyes
darken at that, his intense stare turning to regard me, and it takes me a second to realize that if I was in a body right now, I should definitely be blushing.
"This is why I'm always hiding from Professor Eaken," I blurt out. "I'm worried I'll accidentally zap him if he pushes me too far."
This time, Aeden's face slackens in shock, and suddenly he's laughing—loud and long—and the moment of intensity is gone. "I'd pay to see that," he murmurs, stepping closer to me. "He'd be furious." He widens his stance and stares me down. "All right, I presume you have some plan to teach me to dance this way."
I smile slowly, unable to keep the triumph from my expression, because even without trying it I know this will work. "I do."
The walls of the ballroom undulate, shifting in and out of their true form and the form they've been crafted into. The one thing that remains still, certain, is Aeden. I step close to him and then, glancing to him for wordless permission, I step into him.
He shivers as my spirit body merges with his, and for once I'm glad I can't feel anything, because even with all my senses taken from me, my body still reacts to his. It's like my mind itself is on fire, flames licking up my sides in time with the beating of his heart.
And when I slide into position, our bodies perfectly overlapping—inasmuch as it's possible to do when I'm over a foot shorter than him—his heart somehow spans the distance of this plane and that, and warms me from the inside out.
"Right," I say carefully, hiding the shiver in my voice. "Follow me."
I lift one hand, placing it in the air where my waist would have been if Aeden were dancing with me, and like a cat chasing warmth on a freezing night, he follows.
The movements are slower this way, slower to form and slower to recognize, because the spirit plane is so intangible. But the essence of the dance is stronger. Even without my body, I can feel the physicality in the music out here, almost see it in the air, and with that knowledge I can guide Aeden as if my body were his.
