Spell Linked
Author: Theresa Kay
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Fae; Magic; Witches; Fantasy; Shapeshifters; Young Adult; Paranormal Romance; Romance
Description: School sucks, even for the supernaturally gifted. The fallout from last quarter is worse than I could have ever imagined and hostilities between shifters and witches are intensifying by the day. OSA has practically taken over campus in their search for Bitten witches—and any traitors who didn’t report them. Including... me. But that's not the only secret I have to hide. My powers are growing, while my control over them is not. Unfortunately, there's no one I can turn to for help. My roommate's already suffered the consequences of being drawn into my problems, and after a magical mishap ends wi

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ALSO BY THERESA KAY

The Broken Skies Trilogy

Broken Skies

Fractured Suns

Shattered Stars

www.TheresaKay.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2020 Theresa Kay

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Christian Bentulan of Covers By Christian
eBook design by Inkstain Design Studio

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

Chapter 26

About the Author

Acknowledgements

To Grandma, Christmas isn’t the same without you.

My life has never exactly been normal. As a witch raised by shifters—even if I was supposedly a powerless Blank—things were always bound to be a little weird, but lately my life has resembled a cheesy soap opera. There’s been a secret baby (me), a dramatic kiss, a kidnapping, and, most recently, a roommate with amnesia. I just hope I don’t have an evil twin out there somewhere because then I might have to fake my own death and run off to join the foreign legion or whatever it is that soap opera characters do when they leave the show.

Granted, Isobel’s memory loss is from a potion and not from a brain tumor or someone knocking her upside the head with a candlestick or whatever, so that might make her amnesia slightly less soap opera-y. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet whether memory loss by potion could be a soap opera plot point.

I suppose my decision comes down to why she was dosed and who did it. Was it Bernadette, the crazy, power-hungry mother trying to make sure her son is top of the class? Or Penny, the Bitten witch hiding in plain sight, trying to keep her secret? Either one of those people is a feasible culprit, but for all I know it really could have been some sort of evil twin since that seems to be the way my life goes lately. I simply don’t have enough information.

And I have no idea what to do next.

Barely twenty-four hours have passed since I banded together with Tristan and Penny to rescue Isobel from Tristan’s crazy mother, and I’ve spent most of my Saturday camped out here in the Ravencrest Academy library, reading every book I can find on memory potions. Which isn’t very many. Potions and spells that affect the mind are, for the most part, illegal, and the books that do more than give those kinds of things a passing mention or acknowledge their existence are few and far between. There might be some in the section of the library reserved for second-year students or in the restricted section reserved for faculty, but I have no way of accessing either.

All I want is to find some sort of solution, some sort of hope, before Isobel gets out of the infirmary. After everything she’s done for me, I owe her that much. Unfortunately, none of the information I’ve found has been at all helpful.

I close my eyes, resting my forehead in my hand and rubbing my temple with my thumb. My stomach is about to eat itself, and my eyes are starting to cross. I’ve been here researching since the library opened—nearly eight hours—and the book in front of me is even less helpful than the last. Sure, I now know the basics of how memory potions work and how there are about a gazillion different kinds, but I’ve learned nothing about how any of them might be reversed—or if it’s possible to do so. The only tidbit of info I’ve found that’s remotely helpful is that memory potions require months’ worth of prep work. Not the type of thing an amateur could pull off.

In the heat of the moment right after Isobel’s rescue, I was so sure the potion was Penny’s doing, but if I’m having this much trouble finding basic information, then the odds of Penny getting her hands on enough knowledge to actually make a memory potion are slim. Of course, that doesn’t completely remove her from the suspect pool. She was a second-year student whose concentration area was potions, and I have no idea of her actual skill level. Clearly she was skilled enough to qualify as a TA. Plus, nothing discounts the idea that she could’ve had outside help, potentially even mine since Penny asked me to activate a potion for her not long before everything happened.

And, like an idiot, I did. No questions asked.

She claimed the potion was her second-year project, a simple sleeping draught that she was having trouble with because her magic was acting wonky. That could have been a lie, but I’m inclined to believe she was telling the truth, at least in part. If nothing else, I believe her powers were failing.

Though how she had magic at all is a mystery.

Everything I’ve ever heard says Bitten witches are stripped of their access to magic, that their powers are simply gone and they’re left with nothing. Even my uncle, Connor Donovan, the Blue Ridge region’s alpha shifter, has never indicated anything that contradicted that fact. Plus, it’s illegal for a shifter to bite a witch specifically because of the whole powers disappearing thing.

But Penny made it through almost the entire quarter before having any issues with her powers, and there’s no way she could have faked it for that long. She definitely still had her magic at the beginning of the school year. I just have no idea how. Another thing the library doesn’t have much of is information about Bitten witches.

I bang my forehead on the open pages of the book in front of me and blow out a loud breath. I’m never going to figure this out.

Even if I could cross Penny off the suspect list, there’s still a number of people who could have made that potion and given it to Isobel, the instructor Penny was TA for and my own Potions teacher, Dr. Nikiforov, among them.

How does someone get a doctorate in potions anyway?

I’d love to blame the whole thing on Bernadette. She’s kind of a crazy bitch who has no love for anyone who upstages her son and is willing to go to extreme measures to knock out Tristan’s competition. But she’s not dumb. OSA wouldn’t arrest her for kidnapping Isobel—which I’m still pissed about—but if she’d been messing around with an illegal potion? I don’t think OSA would’ve been as lenient, and Bernadette would know that. I don’t think she’d take the risk.

So . . . that leaves me with no real suspects, no solution, and no answers.

But does who did it even matter at this point?

No matter who dosed her, my sweet, helpful roommate doesn’t deserve any of this, not getting kidnapped, not losing her memories, and sure as hell not falling so far down in the student ranking that she barely made the cut to remain here at Ravencrest.

Isobel was number one, and now she’s two hundred and thirty-nine, a dangerous place for her to be considering the new policy about dismissing the lowest ten students at the end of every quarter. Technically speaking, she shouldn’t still be here. A few students dropped out before the end of the quarter, so anyone lower than two hundred thirty-seven should have been dismissed, but Director Burke decided the dropouts would count as dismissals. Whether he’d planned to do that before the whole mess with Isobel, I have no idea, but I’m grateful to him all the same.

I’m not and never will be a star student here, and I don’t give a damn about job placement with OSA after graduation. The only reason I’m here is to keep my adoptive parents safe and, as long as I keep my rank high enough to keep myself from getting kicked out, I don’t care if I’m number one or number one hundred. Not that I’m anywhere near either of those, but Isobel was, and I hate that she wouldn’t be quite so low in the ranks if it wasn’t for me.

Sure, all the stupid rank wars and Bernadette’s crazy kidnapping scheme didn’t help, but it was helping me that sent Isobel to the very bottom of the ranks. She skipped two midterms because of whatever amazing discovery she made when she was researching my past and my magic.

Then, on top of everything else, she’s lost two weeks’ worth of classwork and assignments to the memory potion, destroying what academic edge she had. At an elite OSA academy like Ravencrest, having an academic edge is everything—unless you have enough money to buy your way to the top which, as a scholarship student, Isobel very much does not.

There’s a chance I could help her with that, but it’d require me to reveal myself to my biological grandparents. Before all hell broke loose the other night, Burke gave me their contact information and indicated they might be willing to take part in the whole ‘donation’ to OSA thing to help with student rank. I’d made the decision to call them, not for myself, but for Isobel, and even got as far as picking up the phone before I had second thoughts. Now, I can’t decide whether calling them is a good idea or not.

I know very little about them beyond their names and relation to me, and as far as they know, I’m only some distant relative, not the secret child their daughter, Helen, had with an unknown man and gave to shifters to raise as a Blank. Without any guarantee that they’d help my roommate, I’m not sure I’m ready to meet the uber rich, super powerful witch couple who contributed to my DNA, especially after everything I’ve learned about witch society and the old money families who control it. For all I know, Nikolas and Thea Andras might be just as bad as Tristan’s parents. After all, there has to be a reason Helen hid her pregnancy, ran away, and hid me from witch society. Maybe she was even trying to hide me from her own parents.

I sigh and drag a hand over my face. Life was so much less complicated before I found out I was a witch and was forced to attend this stupid school. I’d give just about anything to rewind to the night of that shifter party and simply walk away instead of stepping into the middle of Penny’s fight with those witches. Not only would I still be at home, Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to hide from the Coven Council who’d like nothing more than to arrest my parents. Because charging the shifter couple who took me in with kidnapping would make so much sense, right?

But that’s the whole problem with the Coven Council. Nothing they do makes much sense, at least not to me. Tristan explained that his older sister was allegedly kidnapped and murdered by shifters over a decade ago, but I don’t understand why his mother, as the head of the Coven Council, is only now trying to push through anti-shifter legislation. Or why OSA seems to be placating her enough to at least consider the idea. Hell, at this point I’m not entirely clear on the differences between the two organizations since, in my experience, both of them are filled with mostly assholes and are so deep into each other’s pockets that OSA wouldn’t even consider arresting Bernadette St. James for kidnapping my roommate.

Witches are so ridiculous . . .

“Excuse me,” someone says softly. I glance over to find a willowy man with large eyes and inky-black hair dressed in a library assistant uniform. “Director Burke has requested your presence in his office.”

Wonderful.

Being called to the director’s office is never a good thing, at least not in my experience. Since I didn’t get much of a lecture in the aftermath of Isobel’s rescue, I assume that’s what this summons is about.

I force a smile and close the book in front of me. “Now?”

The library assistant nods. “I can return the books to their proper shelves if you’d like.”

“Please. And thank you.” I drag myself to my feet and stretch my arms overhead to work out the kinks in my stiff muscles.

The man smiles and dips his chin before gathering the books on my table into a stack.

Might as well get this over with. I exit the library to make my way upstairs to face whatever punishment Burke might come up with. If nothing else, it’ll probably be creative.

Ten minutes later, I knock on the outer door to Burke’s office. Before I even lower my hand, Seth, Burke’s assistant, is here and ushering me inside. He’s missing his normal smile, his lips instead pressed into a thin line.

“They’ve been waiting,” he says.

They?

Seth practically pushes me through the open door leading to the inner office where Director Desmond Burke sits along with two other people.

One of the two people I’d recognize anywhere, even from only the back of his head of dirty-blond hair—Tristan St. James. But the color of his hair is the only recognizable thing about him right now.

This is the first time I’ve seen him since we returned to campus, and obviously the past day or so hasn’t been kind to him. He’s dressed down in sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt, an outfit I’ve never seen him in—or expected to ever see him in. His shoulders are slouched and he’s fidgeting in his seat, one of his legs bouncing up and down. He doesn’t turn around, instead staring resolutely at the top of the desk, the muscles in his unshaven jaw tight with tension.

The second person is a man I’ve never seen before. He’s maybe in his early forties, his short, brown hair sprinkled with gray and his mouth bracketed by frown lines. Considering his presence here, the black suit he’s wearing, and the general air of authority, I’m assuming the guy must be OSA.

Burke glances at me over the top of his wire rimmed glasses as I enter. Elbows resting on his desk, he clasps his hands and dismisses Seth with a curt nod then returns his gaze to me, tilting his head toward the chair beside Tristan.

“Thank you for joining us, Ms. Andras. Please, have a seat. You already know Mr. St. James.” Burke gestures toward the other man. “This is Jay Callahan with OSA. He’s heading up the investigative team assigned to Ravencrest.”

“Investigative team?” This does not sound good.

Burke gives me a pale imitation of a smile. “At the request of Bernadette St. James, OSA will be looking closely into the situation with Penelope Martin and how her presence here went undetected. They are hoping to root out any accomplices she may have had.”

Accomplices? Like maybe someone who knew Penny was Bitten and didn’t tell anyone? As in someone like me?

My stomach twists as Callahan turns his attention on me, his face so expressionless that the effect is more unnerving than if he were glaring. At least then I’d know where I stand with him. “I understand you were friends with Ms. Martin?”

“Um . . .” I look to Tristan for some kind of reassurance, but his gaze is focused on Burke. How much does this OSA guy know? How much have they told him?

Burke dips his chin in the barest of nods.

“Kind of? More like acquaintances really, Officer—”

“Agent,” snaps Callahan. Well, someone’s a little testy about his title. He returns to the bland, modulated tone of his first question. “In our interview with Mrs. St. James, she indicated you appeared to be aware of Ms. Martin’s nature at the time of her shift.”

That’s not a question, but the wording is purposeful, and he clearly expects a response. Word games have never been my thing—too close to the intricate power plays between shifters—but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to play them. I’m not going to be tricked into giving more information than I absolutely need to. “What do you mean by ‘aware of’?”

Callahan’s nostrils flare, and a hint of irritation enters his voice “That you weren’t surprised by the fact Ms. Martin changed into a wolf.”

“I wasn’t surprised,” I say. Before Callahan can interrupt, I continue, “But I wouldn’t be surprised by someone shifting. I was raised by shifters.”

His eyes narrow. “Yes, I have been made aware of your circumstances. I’ll rephrase my question. Did you know prior to her shift at the St. James estate that Ms. Martin was Bitten?”

“I . . . I’d recently found out Penny was Bitten, yes,” I say, hesitantly trying to stick as close to the truth as possible.

The man tilts his head to the side and studies me. Tristan’s hand tenses on his thigh and Burke’s lips tighten, both movements so slight that I almost miss them.

“Interesting,” says Callahan. “Director Burke and Mr. St. James were just telling me that no one was aware of Ms. Martin’s condition.”

Crap. The answer I gave was definitely the wrong one . . . but I think I know what’s going on now. This is some sort of ‘pretend the other person already talked’ type maneuver where he’s using me to verify whatever Burke and Tristan told him, and having them in the room while he does so is supposed to make me more inclined to tell the truth. Or maybe I’ve just watched too many human cop shows like that OSA officer—err, agent suggested back at the St. James house.

I don’t want to lie, but this guy is definitely not someone I should tell the whole truth— that I knew Penny was Bitten the first time I met her before I even started at Ravencrest.

“They didn’t know I knew,” I say slowly. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Are you saying you failed to report a Bitten witch?” Callahan asks in a flat voice.

Oh shit. I walked right into that one. Of course there’s some rule or regulation about reporting Bitten witches. How the hell do I talk myself out of this one?

I let out a nervous sound that’s half laugh, half cough. “Yes? I—”

“Selene couldn’t have realized the implications of Ms. Martin’s status,” says Tristan. Is he covering for me? For the first time since I got here, he turns toward me, his golden-brown eyes meeting mine. “And in all the chaos that evening, she probably didn’t have time to tell anyone.” His brows twitch upward in an action I assume is meant to tell me that’s the story I should tell.

“Exactly,” I say. “I didn’t have time to report her.”

Callahan looks back and forth between me and Tristan. “If that is the case, then why—”

The door flies open and Basil rushes into the room and right over to the OSA agent, grabbing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “Hello, hello. I’m Basil Kostis, Head of Admissions. I’m so sorry for being late. I wasn’t aware of this meeting until only a few minutes ago.”

What is Basil doing here? Relief flashes across Burke’s face, so this must be a welcome interruption, if not a planned one.

“Mr. Kostis,” starts Callahan in a cold voice.

“Do, please, call me Basil,” my tutor replies with one of his signature beaming smiles. His white hair is more wild than normal, leveling him up from ‘eccentric professor’ to somewhere near ‘mad scientist’. “I’m so excited to work with OSA on this investigation. One of our very own students . . . Bitten.” He shakes his head. “How awful.”

“The situation calls for—”

“And to think that I admitted her. I’m sure you’re anxious to interview me about her testing and how something like this got past me,” says Basil. His attention moves to me. “Selene, Isobel has been released from the infirmary. You should probably go check on her and make sure she has everything she needs.” A pause. “You too, Tristan. I’m sure Isobel would love a visit from a friend.”

Tristan? A friend? Basil is fully aware that—

“Of course.” Tristan grabs my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine and pulling me to my feet. A wide smile takes over his face, complete with dimples. If I didn’t know that particular smile so well, it might pass for real. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Agent Callahan. On behalf of the St. James family, I’d like to thank you for looking into this. I have faith that OSA will get to the bottom of the situation quickly so that justice can be served and everything can return to normal.”

Tristan yanks me out of the room before anyone else has a chance to speak and then drags me down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door, his grip on my hand tight and almost punishing. The situation feels very similar to that stupid binding spell Burke forced us into as Tristan stomps across the quad and pulls me behind—well, except this time there’s actual physical contact.

I don’t dig my heels in until we’re almost to the girls’ dorm. “Stop.”

Surprisingly enough, he listens . . . and promptly drops my hand like I’m contagious before turning around.

“Are you stupid?” he asks. I’m still blinking at him, trying to find words, when he continues, “What were you thinking telling OSA you knew about Penny? Do you know what the consequences could be?”

“Frankly, no. I don’t. It’s one more thing that no one has bothered explaining to me.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Thanks for covering for me back there or whatever that was, but you can leave off with the insults. It’s not like—”

“Covering for you? I wasn’t covering for you. I was covering for Desmond.”

Now he’s lost me. I’m aware Burke is a family friend and something like an uncle to Tristan, but I have no clue how me knowing about Penny would affect Burke in any way.

Tristan lets out a frustrated huff, and his upper lip curls. “Your little stunt almost cost him his job. If OSA gets any proof you knew—that Penny’s condition was that obvious—and Desmond didn’t figure it out . . . well, there are worse things than being fired.”

Little stunt? My brain is about three steps behind wherever this conversation is, so it takes me a second to figure out he means rescuing Isobel. Anger twists in my stomach.

“Stunt? You mean rescuing my roommate from your insane mother? How in the world could that possibly—”

He lets out a harsh laugh and shakes his head at me. “You used magic to knock Desmond across the room to prevent him from stopping you and then went on to do something that got a prominent witch—my father—bitten by a fucking shifter. OSA can hold Desmond responsible for not keeping control of his students.” He presses his lips together, and his nostrils flare. “And if they were to get wind that a novice like you was able to take him down, by surprise or not, he can be deemed unfit for his post.”

Probably not a good time to mention I have no idea exactly how I had enough power to knock Burke on his ass like that. So, I deflect. “Prevented him from stopping me? Don’t you mean from stopping us? You were there too. In fact, you volunteered to go. So how is this my fault?” I step forward and stab a finger into his chest. “And, that aside, couldn’t your mommy just snap her fingers and get him reinstated or whatever?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and chuckles, a dark, dry sound. “Although my mother is the head of the Coven Council, my family has much less influence with OSA than you seem to think they do. And even if she could, I’m fairly certain you can imagine how my mother would feel about doing me any favors right now. Nor Desmond, considering she’s the one who requested this investigation in the first place.” He sighs. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I say.

He shoots me an exasperated look. “I’m sorry for being a jerk about this, but you don’t know enough about the witch world to navigate this situation blindly and hope for the best. It won’t turn out well for anyone that way, and it’s not just your ass on the line.”

I huff. “I think I did okay in there.”

His nostrils flare, but his next words are tight and controlled with no trace of his earlier anger. “Please, if OSA tries to question you again, make an excuse and go find Basil or anyone who knows what the hell they’re doing.”

“Fine,” I bite out.

His shoulders slump and this time when he meets my gaze, he only looks tired. And stressed. And worried. And all sorts of other emotions he doesn’t normally show.

Impulsively, I grab his hand. “I’m sorry, Tristan. About your dad.”

“Yeah . . .” He gives me a sad smile and squeezes my hand. “Thanks. I guess. Just . . . yeah.”

Then he turns and walks across the quad, leaving me standing here trying to figure out what the hell that meant. I don’t think the boy could be more confusing if he tried.

I make my way back to my dorm room and find Isobel sitting at her desk with a collection of open textbooks taking up most of the surface. Leave it to my studious roommate to hit the books right after getting out of the infirmary.

Her long, dark hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she looks like she’s still wearing the pajamas I brought to the infirmary for her. She glances up, an overly bright smile plastered on her face, and then waves a piece of paper in my direction. “Isn’t pre-potion me so frustratingly cryptic?”

I blink at her, completely lost, before finally recognizing the paper as the note she left for me the night she was kidnapped, the one where she said her research had led her to a discovery that “could change everything.”

“I suppose that would be accurate,” I say, speaking slowly as I walk over to sit on the edge of my bed.

Isobel’s false cheer leaks away as her shoulders slump and she stares at the note as if an intense glare will cause the words she doesn’t remember writing to miraculously reveal their meaning.

“Stupidly cryptic,” she mutters. “What was I thinking?”

“You were thinking that I wasn’t going to accidentally fall asleep and miss our meeting like a dumbass?”

Her lips curl into a wry smile. “Seriously, though. I don’t understand what I was doing, why I didn’t write down whatever I found. I write everything down.” She flings her other hand toward a pile of notebooks stacked in the corner of her desk. “It’s the weirdest thing. There are no notes, no lists, no . . . nothing, as if I spent two weeks researching and didn’t write a single thing down.”

That is extremely weird—and even more, it’s concerning. The idea that whatever the discovery she made about me was the reason someone erased her memories isn’t one I’ve given much thought to, but it sounds an awful lot like someone went through the trouble of making sure whatever information Isobel found would never see the light of day. Not only did someone give Isobel a memory potion, but they must have taken or destroyed all her research notes, because Isobel really does write everything down.

“This is all my fault,” I whisper, shaking my head. “How could I not have seen it before?”

“It’s not your fault,” says Isobel.

I raise my eyebrows. “And how exactly did you reach that conclusion? You were doing research on me and—”

“And there’s no evidence that the research I was doing was at fault for any of this.” She avoids my gaze. “For all we know it was another stupid ranking thing that someone took too far. I mean, if kidnapping is ‘normal’ then thinking someone might dose the competition with memory potions isn’t too much of a stretch, and there are plenty of witches around here who could afford to buy one.”

“But—”

“No. I will not let you blame yourself for this.” She shoots me a strained smile. “We don’t know anything for sure. I probably trusted someone I shouldn’t have and am now suffering the consequences. Remember the spelled donuts? This situation is much more likely to be because of something like that than because of my research.”

I’m not sure why she’s so adamantly against my theory, but even if she’s right, the fact that my bright, friendly roommate wants to brush the whole thing off as if something like this should be expected in the fight for rank here is ridiculous. No matter the reasoning, dosing someone with a memory potion damn sure shouldn’t be considered normal.

Sometimes—or maybe most of the time—I really hate this place.

“Besides,” says Isobel, “there’s nothing I can do about it now except study my ass off and get caught up. I can make my way up the list. It’ll just take time. I may never make it to the top twenty or even the top one hundred, but as long as I graduate, I can be content with that.”

“You shouldn’t have to be content with that.” I clear my throat and stare down at my hands. “Burke gave me contact info for my biological grandparents. I was thinking about calling them. I don’t want their money, but . . . What if they could help you? I could—”

“No,” she says. “Having someone pay my way to the top wouldn’t feel right, especially since at least part of this situation is my own fault for skipping midterms. Besides, you don’t know anything about your grandparents. They could be just as bad as the St. James family for all we know.”

I snort and shake my head. “Great minds think alike. I came to the exact same conclusion earlier.”

“Then why . . .”

I wait for her to meet my gaze. “Because you’re my friend and I want to help.”

Isobel walks over to sit next to me then pulls one of my hands between hers. “I have a crap ton of work ahead of me, I know that, but I know how the witch world has treated you, and I don’t want you doing something you can’t take back. This is a huge decision, and I don’t want you to make it based only on my success or happiness. If you want to have a relationship with them, that’s different. Is that what you want?”

That’s a good question . . .

“I have no idea what I want. Even if my grandparents are wonderful people, in some ways wanting a relationship with them feels like I’m betraying my parents.”

She squeezes my hand. “Do you think they’d see it that way?”

“No,” I say, biting at my lower lip. “They just want me to be happy.”

“What if we can figure out a way to kind of feel your grandparents out to see what they’re like without having to reveal yourself to them? That way if they’re awful, you can just move on as if they don’t exist.”

“How exactly would we do that?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Did Burke tell you anything else about them? We could try asking around to see what kind of people they are. Adrian might know something. Or maybe Tristan?”

“I don’t think Tristan’s too interested in helping me right now,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“I know he’s angry, but it’s not like you bit his dad, and you certainly didn’t tell Penny to do it.”

Yeah, but I didn’t stop her either. And, if I bothered to try, I might have been able to.

Throwing Burke across the room with barely a thought wasn’t the only new ability that popped up that evening.

Something happened when Bernadette hit me with a paralyzing spell—one that should have killed me—during Isobel’s kidnapping. First quarter I struggled to do much of anything with magic except for tossing energy balls in PE class. Sure, I had a few little tricks I’d picked up, so I wasn’t completely hopeless. But after Bernadette’s spell, something unlocked inside me, and a new instinct led me to create a shield that shouldn’t have been possible and helped me break a spell on Tristan even though I shouldn’t have been able to. Who knows what else I could have done if I tried.

But what did I do with my newfound strength? Absolutely nothing. All I did was stand there. Tristan begged me not to let Penny bite his father, and instead of stopping her, I stood in front of her and protected her from Bernadette.

“What is it?” asks Isobel. “Your face just got even more broody.”

I shake my head. “Not brooding. Guilty.”

She cocks her head to the side and quirks her brows upward.

“I could’ve stopped her,” I say after a moment’s hesitation.

“Bitten or not, she’s still a shifter. You’re no match for that kind of strength,” she says.

“I don’t mean by overpowering her physically—I’m not that dumb. I mean with magic.” I give her a brief overview of what happened the night she was kidnapped, Bernadette’s spell, and all the little oddities that followed.

Isobel rubs her chin, a pensive look on her face. “That’s really strange.”

“Yeah. I know.” I clasp my hands together. “Any ideas on what it might mean?”

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “No. I’ve never heard of anything like that.” She returns to her desk and picks up the paper again, staring at the note like it might have all the answers. “I wish I could remember. I have this feeling that whatever it was I was planning on telling you might have had something to do with what you just described. Maybe I could retrace my steps and—”

“No.” I swing my feet over the edge of my bed to stand, walk over to her, and pluck the note from her fingers. “No matter what you say, I think helping me is what got you into this memory potion mess, and I’m not taking the risk of anything else happening to you. Stay out of it. Please.”

She huffs and then scowls at me but isn’t able to hold the expression long enough for me to believe she’s truly all that angry. I tuck the paper into one of her notebooks. “Why don’t we take a break from worrying over all this? We can head to the dining hall for dinner.”

“Fine,” she says as she rubs her temples with her thumb and forefinger. “But I don’t want to stay long. I still need to review my notes from last week for Advanced Spellcasting.”

We grab our jackets and then make our way to the dining hall with our hands shoved in our pockets and our shoulders hunched up around our ears. The fall air already has quite a bite to it even though October is only beginning.

Red-nosed and chilled, we rush into the dining room and grab a couple trays before making our way through the line. My stomach growls and even the food I can’t stand suddenly looks appetizing—like the brussels sprouts, a vegetable even the addition of bacon can’t improve. Clearly, my diet of stale potato chips and coffee leading up to midterms has affected my brain.

I pull myself away from the cursed sprouts and load up my plate with other, more palatable veggies, then follow Isobel to an empty table in the corner. As I take my first bite, loud laughter pulls my attention to the entryway as the preppy, popular, old-money crowd arrives. In other words, Tristan’s friends are here. But, strangely enough, he isn’t with them. Instead of Tristan being the leader of the pack, a position he holds however reluctantly, Jason Barrington appears to be in charge now.

I don’t know much about Barrington except that he’s an ass who made number one last quarter and he and Tristan have a weird kind of frenemies thing going on. Or at least they did.

Jason’s gaze lands on me, and he leans over and whispers to the guy next to him. Two sets of eyes turn toward me. Noticing my attention, Jason’s mouth curls into a predatory grin, and there’s a glint of calculation in his eyes.

Could Isobel be right about the origin of the potion? Jason did try to trick us with spelled donuts once, and he probably has enough money to buy a memory potion . . .

Jason gives me a flirty wink. I roll my eyes and go back to my food.

“Making friends all over the place now, aren’t you?” asks an amused Adrian as he plops himself into the seat beside me and steals a cucumber slice from my plate. “Hi, Isobel.”

Isobel returns his greeting with a small smile.

“That’s me, Miss Congeniality.” I poke his hand with my fork as the thieving appendage moves toward my plate again. “You know there’s plenty of food up there, right?”

“Of course. But this is more fun.” He slides his other arm behind me as he sneaks a tomato from the opposite side of my plate. I elbow him in the side, but all he does is grin, a couple dark curls falling over his forehead, as he pops the tomato into his mouth. “So, care to explain my new roommate?”

“Huh?” I stare at him in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“About this tall”—he holds up one hand about an inch over his head—“face of an angel, personality of a rock . . .” He twirls his hand as if waiting for me to fill in the blanks. “Currently, he has the attitude of a rabid honey badger . . .”

Who . . .? When the answer hits, I can’t help but snort. “Tristan?”

Adrian chuckles. “That’s the one. I figured you’d already know since you two are so close.”

“According to him, we’re not even friends,” I say.

Adrian jerks backward, the smile falling from his face. He cocks his head to the side. “What the hell happened?”

That’s right. Adrian wasn’t here for any of the drama. I kind of wish he had been so I didn’t have to explain everything. I blow out a breath then give him a brief overview of Isobel’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue. “And now Isobel can’t remember anything from the past two weeks and Tristan pretty much hates me.”

“I suppose that explains his rather antagonistic behavior,” says Adrian. “That and the fact his mother apparently went through with cutting him off. The big private room, the fancy car, probably the generous allowance . . . gone. If Burke would let her, Bernadette would probably try to take away T’s spot here as well.”

And cue even more guilt.

Isobel scowls at me. “It’s not your fault, you know. He made his own choices.”

Adrian nods. “Your roomie has a point. Plus, his parents are assholes. Maybe being cut off will be good for him, give the guy a little humility.”

“And Director Burke won’t kick him out,” adds Isobel.

“She’s right. As long as his rank makes the cut, he’s not going anywhere. The worst thing he has to put up with is, well, me.” Adrian grins.

At the mention of rank, Isobel’s face falls and she fidgets with her hands. My expression must be similar because Adrian glances back and forth between us, his brows pulling together. “What am I missing? You guys are fine, right?”

“Two hundred thirty-nine,” whispers Isobel. “I missed two midterms.”

“But . . .” he stutters.

“There’s nothing Burke could do,” I say. “And she’s lost two weeks’ worth of information, so catching up might be a problem, too.” I sigh. “I’m not doing too badly, but I’ll probably enter the tournament to give my rank a boost just in case.”

Adrian winces. “I don’t know if the tournament is going to help as much as you think it is.”

“Why?” I ask, my brows drawing together. “It’s optional for first-year students, right? Wouldn’t entering set me apart?”

“Yeah, the tournament is optional for first-year students, but because of the new dismissal policy almost all of them plan to enter. The school is expecting so many first-year entrants that only the top fifty students are automatically allowed in and for anyone else there’s an entry test.”

“An entry test? Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s about three weeks from now,” says Adrian. “There will be a portion focusing on each subject to determine eligibility for the tournament. The test isn’t supposed to be difficult or anything, but you’re required to have recommendations from all your instructors in order to take it.”

All of my instructors? One or two won’t be a problem. Basil will give me a recommendation in a heartbeat, and most of my other teachers would too. But Ms. Anderson, my Wards teacher, not so much.

Letting out a long breath, I rest my forehead on the table. I survived being the new girl. I made it through first quarter and midterms. But just when I think I might be able to get ahead, yet another obstacle pops up.

Wonderful.

Monday morning brings the beginning of the second quarter and a return to classes. My schedule won’t change until after the end of the semester, so the only real difference between this quarter and last quarter is the weirdness of the three OSA agents patrolling the quad and stopping students to ask questions.

Three agents aren’t very many, but they’re more than enough to make me nervous. After the scene in Burke’s office, I want to stay as far away from OSA as possible. Tristan was right when he said I have no idea how to navigate this situation without help, and I don’t want my ignorance to come back and bite me in the ass, especially considering I have a lot of things to hide. And I’m not the only one who might be affected by my secrets coming out.

Sticking to the edges of the quad and losing myself in another group of students, I avoid the agents and slowly make my way to the dining hall. Isobel already ran off to the library before I woke up, so I’m on my own this morning. A stack of pancakes and two cups of coffee later, I’m heading toward Basil’s office for my morning tutoring session, which is mostly a weird mashup of history, spells, and whatever random bits of information Basil likes to impart.

I tap on the door and, when there’s a mumbled response from inside, I enter and make my way toward the couch at the back of the room.

Basil pops his head up over a pile of papers and waves at me. “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he says. “I’m trying to locate something for Desmond.”

I nod and sit on the couch, curling my legs underneath me.

A couple minutes later, Basil walks a stack of papers over to his desk, sets them down, and then moves in my direction. He makes a pit stop at another of his many shelves and pulls out a book which he hands to me when he reaches the couch.

I glance at the title: Shifter Myths and Legends.

Interesting.

Basil has a habit of showering me with books on random subjects to read in my—mostly non-existent—spare time. Last quarter he gave me a whole stack of them that are currently collecting dust under my bed somewhere, but this is the first one he’s ever given me about shifters.

“I thought you might find the subject matter particularly interesting,” he explains. “How much do you know about shifter history?”

I shrug. “Not a whole lot.”

“You remember how I said shifters inherited their ability to change shape from the fae? Well, like the shifters you know, fae can only take one other form besides their own. The difference being that fae can choose the form of the animal they take.” His eyes brighten, and he waggles his eyebrows. “But the really fascinating thing is that the first shifters were actually true shapeshifters, and they were the strongest of all the supernatural races because they had the ability to take any form they wished. They were powerful and magical enough that if there were any still alive today, they’d be considered lesser fae. It wasn’t until the Iron Age when King Lycaon insulted one of the fae kings that shifters became restricted to only the form of a wolf, greatly lessening their strength and turning them into what they are today.”

I blink at him, stunned into silence. True shapeshifters? How had I never heard about this before?

Basil grins at me. “I see I’ve piqued your interest.” He tilts his chin toward the book. “Give it a read, and let me know what you think.”

I return the smile then glance down at my hands as I pick at the corner of the cover. “Since we’re on the subject of shifters . . . I think I need to tell you something. I knew about Penny. What she was. I’ve known. This whole thing with OSA, what will happen to me if they find that out?”

He sits down beside me and pats my hand. “The odds of you getting in trouble for not reporting her in such a short time period—”

“Penny has been Bitten since at least August.”

His brows pull together, and he tilts his head to the side. “I assumed the bite was a recent thing.”

“No,” I say. “She was there the night I manifested. Hell, she’s half the reason for it. I stepped into an argument she was having with a few witches, thinking I was defending a lone shifter, and that’s how I got zapped.”

“I see . . .” He taps one finger on his chin. “I know the basics of what happened that night, but I don’t believe I’ve heard the whole story. If Penny was alone, how did you know she was Bitten?”

“I sensed her.”

“You sensed her?”

“Even when I thought I was a magicless Blank, I had that one tiny bit of power,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I can tell if someone’s a shifter or a witch just by being near them, probably vamps too, but I’ve never had an opportunity to test that out.” I pause. “I figured this was a common thing.”

“I’ve never heard of a witch having an ability like that,” he says, studying me. “Have you always had it?”

“As far back as I can remember. It didn’t matter while living with Mom and Dad since pretty much everyone around was a shifter. I didn’t really notice anything different until I went to school and encountered a witch for the first time,” I reply.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Mom, Dad, Connor, Reid . . . umm probably a couple other shifters.”

He leans forward. “No one here at Ravencrest?”

“No.”

“Yes, yes, that’s good then.” He nods and releases a long breath. “Provided you don’t tell anyone else, OSA has no way of proving when you knew about Penny. You don’t have anything to worry about on that front.”

He moves to one of his shelves and runs a finger along the spines before grabbing another book, this one small and slim with a well-worn cover, and handing it over to me. Advanced Spellbreaking Techniques.

“Um . . .” I glance from the cover up to Basil. He has his brows raised as if daring me to argue. “Advanced?”

“You broke Bernadette’s paralyzing spell. With barely any training.” He gestures at the book. “Hence, advanced.”

“The spell Bernadette threw? I don’t know that I broke it so much as I endured it.” I pause. “But there was something else. When we were fighting, she spelled Tristan. I’m not sure what kind of spell it was, but he couldn’t breathe. I did break that spell, but I’m not sure how.”

He purses his lips and nods for me to continue.

“And that’s not the only weird thing. Since Bernadette hit me with that spell, my magic has been . . . different. Stronger, but also stranger. It kind of worries me, to be honest.”

“That is rather odd,” he says, cocking his head to the side as he stares at my face. Not even two breaths later, he breaks into one of his signature beaming grins. “But I think you’re simply learning how to operate based on instinct. I think your magic is finally starting to catch up with the rest of you after being locked away for so long.” He rests a hand on mine. “You’re one of the most powerful witches I have ever met, but you shy away from it. Once you own it, you’ll have no problem mastering it.”

His explanation sounds great, but I’m not convinced things are that simple.

“You’ll see. It will all turn out right in the end,” he says when I don’t respond.

“If you say so . . .”

We spend the next hour or so going over the spellbreaking techniques in the book, but none of them seem to be what I used to break the spell on Tristan. Basil shrugs when I tell him that but says he’ll look into it.

When the period ends, I wave as I head out the door, so lost in my own head that I don’t notice the person in front of me until I smack right into them and bounce backward. Tristan.

Of course. Isn’t this how we always meet?

He’s still as unkempt as he was on Saturday, and he’s dressed in athletic clothes instead of his school uniform. Did he skip first period, or is he running late? There’s no way he’d go to class without changing. Well, except for the day I kind of made him with the help of the binding spell.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I have to speak to Basil.”

“Don’t you have class? I mean—”

“I don’t have time to chat.” He moves around me and mumbles something I can’t understand before stepping inside Basil’s office and closing the door in my face.

What was that? I stare after Tristan for a beat, fighting the urge to barge in and ask what the hell is going on with him. But what purpose would it serve except to set the two of us arguing again? It seems like we do that a little too much as it is. I’m better off heading to my next class, even if it is the dreaded Wards.

Ms. Anderson has never forgiven me for that first disaster of a day, no matter that I’ve worked my ass off, I’ve slightly improved since the beginning of the term, and I am always on time. I suppose my first day of Wards class is a good example of what happens when you make a bad first impression: it sticks.

Still, I offer her a greeting as I walk through the door, and she offers up a bland smile in return. I go on to my seat, ignoring everyone else in class, then pull out my textbook. The tone signaling the beginning of the period sounds as Ms. Anderson begins writing on the whiteboard at the front of the room. When she turns to face the class, there’s only one word on the board: Sigils.

I puzzle over that before the realization finally hits me. The full name of this class is Geometry of Wards and Sigils. Just my luck . . . It looks like we’re shifting to a new subject today. I sigh. Maybe I’ll be a little better at sigils than I am at wards?

Yeah. Right.

“Typically, I would not start on sigils until the latter half of the quarter, but as many of you plan to enter the tournament, I decided a general overview was in order. You will need to demonstrate a basic proficiency in sigils for the entry test as well as have a general working knowledge of sigils for the tournament itself.” She underlines the word on the board. “Now, who can tell me the biggest difference between a sigil and a ward?”

Every hand in the class goes up. Except mine because I have no clue. So much for my hopes of being better at sigils.

Ms. Anderson points at someone in the first row. “Andrew?”

“A ward is placed on inanimate objects, a sigil on animate ones,” the guy answers.

“That’s correct,” says Ms. Anderson. “The most common use of sigils is on yourself or another witch. Unlike wards, sigils have set forms. There are no alterations, no variations in the shape, and it is the location of the sigil, the witch’s intention, and the way that the sigil is drawn that forms its purpose. In that aspect, sigils are more easily learned. However, by nature, sigils must be more concise. There’s no room for error. A ward gone wrong may blast open a door . . .” She sends a look in my direction. “A poorly done sigil could blast your arm off.”

Wonderful. I drag a hand over my face.

“You are not, under any circumstances, to attempt to place a sigil on yourself, another witch, or another living thing without supervision and approval from me.” She smiles. “Luckily, you will not be expected to do anything but draw a sigil on paper for the entry test, and by the time the tournament comes around, I expect those of you participating will have at least a basic understanding of how to use them safely.” She draws a figure on the board. “This is the most commonly used sigil. It can be used to keep yourself more alert, to make you more aware of your surroundings, to enhance your senses, or many other purposes. Its name is ‘Awareness.’”

Awaken, something deep in my mind counters, and somehow that name, unlike the one Ms. Anderson said, feels . . . right. I study the sigil. The form itself isn’t overly complicated and, as Ms. Anderson continues to drone on in the background, I trace out the sigil on my notebook, half unconsciously, the tip of my finger tingling with the movement.

Ms. Anderson continues, drawing a line of sigils across the board and announcing the name of each one as she does so. And for every single one, the name she gives is completely different than the one my mind calls out. Once she identifies all the sigils, she returns to the first one and goes through them again, this time describing the different ways they might be used.

I’m so absorbed in the lesson that I don’t notice most of the class time has passed until Ms. Anderson tells everyone to get out their textbooks.

“Please open to page 234 and complete the exercises there. Once you have drawn each sigil five times, bring your paper up to me and you may be dismissed. Remember: They may look simple, but every line needs to be precise.”

I tug a sheet of paper out and open my textbook. There are nine sigils in total with at least five different ways for each of them to be used. The number of possibilities is mind-boggling. But that doesn’t matter right now. All I need to do is draw the damn things.

I start with Awareness—Awaken—my fingertips tingling as the crisp lines form beneath my pen effortlessly. With each repetition, I grow faster and faster until my hand is practically flying over the page.

Quiet—Silence

Fire—Inferno

Earth—Growth

Air—Breath

Endurance—Power

Water—Flood

Darken—Death

Hide—Conceal

I’m not sure how long it takes me to complete the exercise, but my classmates are still writing when I’ve finished. I cast a glance around the room, unsure of what to do. Am I the first one done? Maybe I missed something?

I turn to the next page in my textbook to see if there’s anything else, but I’ve completed all the exercises.

“Is there a problem, Selene?”

I jolt in my seat at Ms. Anderson’s sudden appearance at my side. “No, no problem,” I squeak out. “I think I’m done.”

“You think?”

“Well . . .” I gesture at my paper. “I drew them each five times.”

She lets out a huff of disbelief. “So, you rushed through the exercise and now you want to be excused?” She grabs the paper off my desk. “Weren’t you listening when I said these had to be perfect? You can’t simply . . .” Her voice trails off, and her brow furrows as she glances at me from the corner of her eye. “You drew these? All of them? Right now?”

“Yes?” Oh crap. What have I done wrong now?

Ms. Anderson clears her throat. “Your lines are well-formed with no hesitations. You did well.” She looks at me again. “Very well.” She taps her fingers against my desk. “There aren’t many witches with a natural aptitude for sigils. You, apparently, are one.”

“Seriously?” I can’t help the exclamation of disbelief.

The corners of Ms. Anderson’s mouth twitch. An actual smile. For me. “Yes. You may be excused. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I can’t believe I actually did something right.

“Before I go, is it okay if I ask a question?” She gives me the barest nod. “How did the sigils get their names? Like, how did they come up with the names in the textbook?”

She raises a brow. “They didn’t get their names. The names are a loose translation of each sigil. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I say quickly. I’m finally doing something right in this class, and I’m not about to mess that up by contradicting the teacher. Especially when I have zero idea where those other names came from.

After lunch and a quick dash to my room to switch textbooks, Potions class is up next. Besides my time with Basil in the mornings, Potions is probably my favorite class. I’m not half bad at the subject matter, the teacher, Dr. Nikiforov, is the nicest one I have, and I have Adrian as a lab partner, making it the only class besides PE I have a friend in.

I must have taken longer than I thought at my dorm room because Adrian’s already waiting when I arrive, and he waves me over to our lab table.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?” he asks.

I glance around the room and then down at my empty wrist. “I don’t know. Am I?”

“I’m kidding.” He gestures at the unoccupied tables surrounding us. “You’ve got like five minutes to spare, obviously.”

My gaze finds the fancy watch on his wrist, and I reach over and tap the face. “I need to get one of these. Having Isobel wake me in the mornings is fine, but having to ask people for the time if I want to know during the day is a bit annoying.”

“I don’t think one of these is what you need,” says Adrian as he also taps a finger against the timepiece. “Or rather, you need a watch. This is a talisman.”

“Really?” I wrinkle my nose. The thing looks normal enough, if a bit expensive, but I suppose the magic dampening talisman necklace my birth mother left with me does too. “What does it do?”

“Uh . . .” He averts his eyes. “It’s a focus talisman.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s kind of embarrassing, to be honest.” He eyes me for a beat before chuckling and shaking his head ruefully. “When a witch has their powers awakened early, they need a talisman to help focus their control. I guess you could call it magical training wheels.”

“But . . .”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “The earlier a witch’s powers are awakened, the longer they need to wear one. You don’t see many students our age who still have one.”

“Why?”

He gives me a sardonic smile. “Having your powers awakened early hurts like a bitch because your body isn’t meant to handle magic before your powers manifest naturally. It creates weird pathways or something. I don’t know the technical bits, just that the earlier in your life it is, the weirder the pathways get and a focus talisman helps straighten them out.” He inhales through his nose and closes his eyes, his next words spoken barely above a whisper. “I didn’t leave my bed for a week. I didn’t leave the house for a month.”

“That’s . . . I don’t know. Horrible seems too tame a word.”

He shrugs, refusing to meet my eyes. “It is what it is. If you hadn’t figured it out yet, magic is currency in this world, and the stronger you are, the more time you’re forced to build upon and expand that power, the better off you are. Except for the scholarship students and you, I bet there isn’t a single student here whose powers weren’t forced to manifest. It’s a sign of status after all. The spells and potions required are highly expensive, more so the younger a witch is when awakened.”

I recall what Penny told me at the St. James estate about her powers being awakened early, and the bitterness in her voice makes a new kind of sense now. Maybe her animosity toward witches was well earned.

“How old were you?” I ask in a soft voice, already dreading the answer.

His gaze goes down to the watch as he twists it back and forth on his wrist. “The youngest I’ve ever heard of was ten, but it wouldn’t be ‘socially acceptable’ for people to think the Dumont family tortures children. They do it at thirteen in my family.”

Penny was convinced Tristan’s powers had been awakened at six, maybe seven based on the level of skill he showed when he was taking down the wards at the St. James estate. If Adrian didn’t leave his bed for a week at thirteen, what might Tristan have gone through at half that age? The thought makes my stomach turn.

Adrian huffs out a breath and drops his hand to his lap. “How about a subject change? I am not drunk enough to have this kind of deep conversation.”

I have plenty more questions, but Adrian is practically vibrating with tension, and pushing him about this would be a crappy thing to do to a friend.

“Okay then . . . How’s life with your new roommate going?” I’ve seriously gotta have a talk with my brain about having Tristan be a topic it likes to spit out all the time.

Adrian chuckles and glances at me sideways. “About as well as you’d expect.”

“How is he? Really.” I stare down at my hands as I ask the question, my desire for Tristan to be okay warring with my desire to throttle him.

“I don’t see much of him, and when I do, we don’t really interact. I don’t know that he’s talking to anyone right now, not even his regular group of frenemies.” He sighs, probably at whatever expression my face is making. “I don’t know what to tell you. Tristan and I aren’t friends. We’re barely acquaintances. I can’t exactly say, hey man, you want to have a heart to heart about your dad getting bitten by a shifter.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Adrian gives me a lopsided smile. “He’ll come around. The guy spent just as much of last quarter mooning over you as you did over him.”

My cheeks heat. “I—He did not. Most of the time we can’t stand each other.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying there’s a thin line between love and hate? Well . . . believe me, it’s obvious to everyone except the two of you.”

“Hush, you.” I elbow him in the side, and he laughs.

Seconds later, Dr. Nikiforov enters. We turn our attention to the front of the room where he sits on his desk and faces the class. He spends ten minutes going over the cleaning potion we’re going to be brewing today and then claps his hands and tells us to get to it. Adrian and I organize all our ingredients and start mixing as Nikiforov makes the rounds to each table. We’ve just put our mixture in a beaker to heat when he reaches us.

“That color is perfect.” Nikiforov leans over my shoulder to take a closer look. His nostrils flare, and he jolts as if in surprise before turning a narrow-eyed look at me. “What magic have you been playing with?”

“Uh . . . we were working on sigils in my other class,” I say hesitantly. What an odd question.

“Interesting.” He pauses, studying me, then moves closer. “And tell me, are you good with them? A natural as they say?”

“I guess so?”

He nods, then his blank expression shifts into a wide smile as he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You have been working so hard. I’m glad that you’re seeing some success. I assume you are planning to compete in the tournament, correct?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Well, I’m happy to provide the required recommendation.”

“Really? Just like that?” I’m not bad at potions, but I’m far from the best student in the class, and he’s offering a recommendation to me without me so much as asking?

“Of course.” He pats my shoulder as he steps away, warmth spreading from the touch, and a peculiar smell tickles at my nose. I shake my head to clear the scent away. That was weird. “You’re a hard worker, and I suspect you could be rather powerful.”

Nikiforov walks on to the next table, and I start combining the ingredients that will be added after our mixture is done heating.

I can feel Adrian staring at me. “What?”

“Dr. N is being oddly ‘touchy-feely’ today. What’s up with that?”

I glance over at Nikiforov where he’s smiling at another student, his hand on the back of their chair.

“No clue.” I shrug.

He smirks. “You know he’s the hottest teacher here, right? How do you think I can get him to get all ‘touchy feely’ with me?”

I roll my eyes. “Get back to work, Dumont.”

“Fine,” he huffs. But he’s smiling.

Our potion turns out perfectly, and once class wraps up, I make a quick dash to my room to change into my PE uniform. The weather is a little too chilly to have class outside, so I head over to the large gym near the athletic fields.

The PE teacher, Mr. Davis, has us all sit on the long benches by the wall as he paces back and forth in front of us. “As I’m sure you’re all aware by now, the tournament is coming up at the end of this quarter, and this year, more than ever, first-year students will need the rankings boost the tournament gives you.” He pauses to look over each of our faces. “You may have also heard by now that to even have the opportunity to take the entry test for the tournament, you need recommendations from all of your instructors. If you’re here and you can throw an energy ball, I’m more than happy to provide a recommendation. You don’t have to ask.”

Well, that was easy.

“Keep in mind, though, that there’s a reason for the entry test. The tournament can be dangerous, and if you don’t have basic proficiency in every one of the four disciplines, you have no business competing, no matter how much of a ranking boost it could give you.”

Dangerous? That doesn’t sound good.

Mr. Davis claps his hands. “But we can discuss all that another time. Today we have a special guest.” He motions to a stocky, dark-haired man dressed in jogging pants and a black t-shirt. “This is Agent Wright. He’s an OSA specialist in offensive spellcasting. He’ll be directing our exercises today, observing your skills, and maybe choosing to work with some of you one on one. We’ll be skipping laps today, so why don’t you guys line up?”

We break into two parallel lines facing each other. I learned my lesson the first day when I got stuck with Tristan as a partner—and kind of punched him in the face—so I make sure Adrian is across from me, making him my partner for whatever exercise we’re about to do. He grins and waves.

Agent Wright walks between the two lines until he’s standing near the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back. “As Davis said, I am a specialist in offensive spellcasting. In my time with OSA, I have trained some of the best agents we have to offer.” He paces toward the other end of the room, passing in front of the assembled students. “That means my time is very valuable, as is the opportunity to work with me. Do not waste either of those things.”

Across from me, Adrian scrunches up his face and then rolls his eyes, sticking his nose in the air as if imitating Wright’s self-important attitude. I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my mouth, and Wright’s gaze jerks toward me. He glares at me for a good five seconds before continuing. “Like your instructors, OSA wants to make sure those of you who do plan to participate in the tournament will be prepared not only for the entry test, but for the tournament itself, so we’ll be jumping ahead in the curriculum a bit. Today, instead of target practice or simple light spell games, you’ll be practicing a few basic combat spells with the person across from you.”

Combat spells? I can barely pull off a decent light spell, and this guy wants me to use magic to fight?

“Today you will take turns using any spell that can physically push your opponent, and the goal is to push your opponent past the line behind them. You should have already covered multiple spells of these types in your Spellcasting classes and—”

“I don’t have a Spellcasting class,” I blurt out.

Wright turns his attention on me, narrowing his eyes, and snaps out a question. “What makes you think it’s appropriate for you to interrupt me?”

“Umm . . . nothing?”

His gaze goes from my head to my feet, and he scoffs. “Then do be quiet.”

Mr. Davis clears his throat and sends me a look that’s almost sympathetic. “You’ve been working with Mr. Kostis, correct? And have covered the basics?”

“Yes, but we’ve only gone into detail on light spells and—”

“Then use what you know,” Wright says in a flat voice. “I won’t allow the rest of the students to be held back by you.”

“Fine. Whatever.” I grit my teeth and stare down at my feet, tuning out until he claps his hands and tells us to get started.

Across from me, Adrian smiles. His side is going first, so he pulls magic into his hands and whispers a few words before tossing his spell in my direction. Instinctively, I dodge out of the way, and the spell flies past and hits the wall behind me.

Wright walks over to me. “This is not a class on dodging. If you cannot counter your opponent’s spell, you’re supposed to—”

“Stand there and let it hit me? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why can’t I use any skills I have to my advantage? In a real fight—”

“This isn’t a real fight,” snaps Wright. He twists his hand through the air, mutters something that sounds vaguely like German, and tosses whatever spell he cast at my feet. Locking them in place. “You’ve missed your turn since you decided to spend it arguing with me.” He tilts his chin toward Adrian. “Go ahead, Mr. Dumont.”

Adrian calls up another spell and throws it at me. This time I can’t dodge and am so busy seething about Wright’s attitude that I don’t bother trying to counter the attack in any way. The spell hits my shoulder and knocks me sideways. At least the spell doesn’t hurt. Though, if I had any other partner besides Adrian, I’m sure it would have. My friend has enough sympathy for me to pull his punches.

“Your turn,” says Wright.

I call up a light spell, the only kind I can reproduce with any accuracy and not anything close to a combat spell, or even an offensive one. Who knows if I can even throw the damn thing . . .? I give it a shot, and the light blinks out before it’s more than two feet away.

The brown-haired girl next to me snickers as another one of Adrian’s spells hits me in the shoulder five seconds later. “How in the world did you make it past the first quarter if you’re this pathetic?”

“I’m not pathetic,” I snap. “I’m just new to all this, and it’s all the people like you who won’t even try to help me that make everything more difficult.”

She shrugs, unaffected by my harsh words. “Here’s a tip. You remember that first day when you got all pissed at St. James?”

“Yeah.”

“Until you can get a real handle on spells, putting that kind of emotion and intention behind a spell helps to make your casting stronger.” She narrows her eyes in concentration as she tosses a spell at her partner.

“Thanks,” I say, glancing at her from the corner of my eye and trying to place her face with a name.

“No problem.”

Adrian’s next spell flicks me on the nose, and I glare at him. I appreciate him pulling his punches, but now he’s just being an ass.

So, I take the girl’s advice and use my irritation, weaving it together with my magic as I say the words of the spell and then shove it toward Adrian. This time my ball of light makes it to him, barreling into his abdomen. He winces, and I mouth an apology.

We go on like this for another few rounds, tossing simple spells back and forth. I get into the rhythm of it, the draw and weave, the push and pull, until the point where my hands are moving as if on auto-pilot and I feel almost like I’m in a trance. My motions grow faster and sharper, and my little light spell grows brighter and brighter each time I cast.

On my next turn, the light appears with only the barest twitch of my fingers, and something inside me unlocks, each strand of the spell becoming visible to my mind’s eye. And I see where I can strengthen it, what I can change to make it more. So, I do. With only a thought, barely a conscious one at that, I turn the little light spell into something that buzzes with power.

And I throw it at Adrian, feeling the force of it as it pulls away from my hands. In that split second as the magic breaks away from me, my trance-like state disappears and all I feel is terror. The same emotion is mirrored in my friend’s eyes as my spell hits him dead center in the chest, lifts him two feet off the ground, and sends him slamming into the wall at the far end of the gym.

Sometime later—anywhere from twenty minutes to what feels like two hours—I’m sitting in Burke’s office. My hands are still shaking. Burke is . . . I don’t know. Not here. And I have no idea what’s going to happen to me now. Or if Adrian is okay.

Over and over, I replay the sight of my friend slamming into the wall and falling boneless to the floor. In the aftermath of whatever the hell I did, the girl next to me grabbed my arm—brave that one—and kept me from going to him. Everyone else swarmed Adrian’s limp form, but the girl pulled me away, brought me here, and left again.

I don’t even know her name.

Burke finally enters the office then shuts the door behind him and is in front of me in a few brisk steps. He stares down at me, studying me in silence, before moving to sit behind his desk and steepling his fingers in front of his chest. “What in the world possessed you to attempt a spell of that caliber? Was this another spat like you had with Tristan your first day? I was under the impression Dumont was your friend.”

All his questions run together in my foggy brain, so I concentrate on the last one. “He is my friend,” I say. “What happened was an accident. I don’t even know what exactly I did.”

He purses his lips. “I could murder Davis for allowing this. First-year students shouldn’t be messing around with combat spells.”

“It wasn’t Mr. Davis,” I say. “There was an OSA agent there, Wright; he’s the one who ran the exercise.”

“Even worse,” says Burke.

“And it wasn’t a combat spell,” I say. “Not the spell I used anyway. It was supposed to be a light spell, but it . . . I don’t know. Suddenly I could see it, how I could change it, and I just did.”

His nostrils flare. “Are you telling me you were able to alter a light spell to the degree you did on pure instinct?”

“I guess so?”

“Impossible.” He shakes his head. “There is no precedent for—”

I scoff, some of my confusion retreating to be replaced with anger. “Is there a precedent for anything about me? A witch raised by shifters? Not to mention, I think you and I both know there’s something different about me and my magic that has nothing at all to do with my upbringing. Helen was worried enough to hide me, and no one even knows who my biological father is. Maybe it’s time to face that fact and find some real answers?” I fling my hands out by my shoulders. “You know, before I accidentally blow someone up because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and people keep forcing me to do it anyway.”

“I agree we need answers about your past and your magic. However, OSA does not,” he stops, sighs, and then motions for me to sit back down. “OSA does not take well to things—or people—they cannot explain, and with all the turmoil surrounding what happened on the St. James estate, I am concerned they might take too much of an interest in you. They are already suspicious of you because of your relationship with Ms. Martin; you do not want to draw their attention any further.”

“How am I supposed to—”

Burke holds up a hand as footsteps sound from outside. “It was an energy ball,” he hisses under his breath. “Not a spell.”

“But—”

“An energy ball, Ms. Andras.” He gracefully rises to his feet just as the door opens and Agent Callahan comes storming in.

“What the hell kind of school are you running, Desmond?” bellows Callahan. “If the Dumont kid is permanently damaged, his father will have your head”—his gaze falls on me—“and probably hers too. Wright said she was insubordinate and completely out of control.”

What? I jerk backward in my seat.

Burke gives me the slightest shake of his head. “Adrian Dumont will be perfectly fine,” he says. Whether he’s telling the truth or trying to placate the guy, I have no idea. “The incident was merely an accident, a dangerous one yes, but an accident all the same. I was just now determining what Ms. Andras’s punishment should be.”

Callahan glares at me before returning his gaze to Burke. “I’ll let you handle it this time, but if anything like this happens again, it will be out of your hands.”

Burke dips his chin in a curt nod of acknowledgment, and then Callahan spins on his heel and leaves. Burke walks over to shut the door before returning to sit behind his desk. “I need you to keep a much lower profile while OSA remains on campus and the investigation is ongoing. You absolutely cannot let anything like today’s events happen again,” he says.

“No kidding,” I say. “It wasn’t like I was trying to draw attention to myself.”

“I did not think you were.” He leans back in his chair. “Tell me more about what happened in class.”

I explain about Agent Wright’s instructions, how he locked my feet in place, and how I kept doing the light spell over and over again until . . . bam, Adrian was down and everyone was yelling.

“Control has always been an issue for you, something you have struggled with even from the beginning, correct?” he asks, raising a brow.

“Yeah. Pretty much,” I say.

“Basil tells me you have plenty of raw power, more than he has observed in any witch in years.”

I shrug. “I have no idea if that’s true or not. I don’t exactly have a point of reference.”

“It is my understanding that in your time with the shifters you engaged in regular physical activity. Have you kept that up here at Ravencrest?”

“Not really . . . I think I ran around the lake once and then whatever we’ve done in PE,” I say. “Why?”

“It seems as if you might have pulled too much magical energy and that, combined with your lack of control and your frustration with Agent Wright, ended up in you blasting your friend instead of simply releasing the magic.” He pauses to study me before continuing. “Your difficulties might simply be a side effect of your powers being bound or being without them for so long. Younger witches and those first coming into their powers sometimes have similar problems. Many of them use physical activity to . . . I suppose burn off excess energy would be the best way to phrase it. I would recommend you do so as well.”

“I guess I could do that,” I say. The concept sounds simple enough, and I’m not adverse to exercise.

“It will be a start, and perhaps it will help you gain some much-needed control over your powers.”

“I don’t know if it makes a difference or not, but my control problem seems worse since Bernadette hit me with that paralyzing spell.”

He pauses and taps a finger against his chin, before asking, “How so?”

My mind flashes to that weird magical shield I created and the way I broke the spell Bernadette put on Tristan without really trying. “My magic is stronger and behaves kind of strangely. I find myself acting on instinct and doing things I’ve never learned, but if I think too hard about it, everything goes sideways. Like with the light spell earlier. Once I saw Adrian’s expression at whatever I did, my control was gone and I ended up blasting him across the room because I couldn’t rein the spell back in.” I pause for a second before adding, “And what you mentioned earlier about ‘releasing’ magic? I have no idea how to do that.”

His brows rise. “Then I will certainly request Basil work on that with you.” He pauses and rubs his chin. “Has Basil said much about the binding spell placed on you?”

“Not really.”

“I wonder . . .” He taps one finger against his lips absentmindedly. “Perhaps the binding spell was not broken completely, and the spell from Bernadette jarred it loose? Or maybe there was a second binding spell?” He’s not talking to me, more thinking out loud, so I don’t respond. Not that I have any more answers than he does. “I will talk it over with Basil and see what his thoughts are on the matter. Return to your dorm room for now. I imagine it has been an exhausting day for you.”

I am exhausted and would love nothing more than to crawl into bed and hide under the covers, but I’m sick of sitting on the sidelines of my own life.

“No,” I say, leaving Burke to blink as I continue, “I won’t go back to my room while you and Basil sit around and discuss me and my life. This involves me, and I deserve to be a part of it.”

“Another day, after I—”

“No,” I repeat. “Not when you’re telling me to lie to OSA. I understand being vague about the whole Penny thing, but wasn’t your whole spiel when I first came here that being under OSA jurisdiction was a good thing? That OSA would keep the Coven Council away from me and off my parent’s backs?”

“The situation is complicated.”

“Of course it is!” I throw up my hands. “But keeping me in the dark isn’t going to help anything.”

“You’re correct.” Burke pauses for a beat then sighs and takes his glasses off. Resting the hand with his glasses on the desk, he massages his nose with the fingers of the other hand then glances at me. “But the question is, how far can I trust you?”

Trust me? I gape at him, too stunned to find any words.

“You knew about Penelope, but you did not tell anyone. Why is that?”

I blink. “She asked for my help. I thought . . . I thought I was being a friend. And I couldn’t possibly have been the only person who knew. I mean, she was Nikiforov’s TA. How did he not know about her?”

Burke shakes his head. “Sergei has assured me he had no idea, and he would have no reason to hide the knowledge.”

“And I would? How am I the untrustworthy one in this scenario? I didn’t ask to come here. Basil practically had to drag me, and you sat there and told me how things were going to be without giving me any other options.” I rise to my feet. “Is this all some sort of messed up game to you people? Nothing you do makes any sense. At least my family, those shifters everyone here looks down on, didn’t try to hide things from me.”

“Except for the truth about your magic and your parentage,” he says, his voice flat and his expression bland.

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, except for that. But it seems like that whole mess was also created by a witch. Or, rather, two of them since I doubt mine was an immaculate conception. I didn’t ask for any of this, and the only reason I’m still here is to protect my parents from the Coven Council.”

He stares at me with an expression very reminiscent of my Uncle Connor’s ‘now think about that for a while’ look.

Realization washes over me, and I sit down. “And that’s why, isn’t it? Because I have no actual loyalty to Ravencrest? To you? To witches in general? So . . . I’m some sort of wild card none of you know how to deal with.” I lean across the desk. “I have no loyalty to OSA either.”

“Who do you have loyalty to, Ms. Andras? Perhaps the group Penelope was a part of?” he asks, his voice growing harder.

I lean away from him. “The group . . .? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You have heard, I am certain, of some witches being attacked over the past few months, correct?”

I nod.

“As far as OSA can tell, the violence has all been the responsibility of a single group, and Penelope was a part of this group.” He taps his finger against the desk. “OSA believes the group has recently escalated to murder. Five witches have been killed in the past two weeks, all of them mauled in such a way as to leave no doubt that shifters are responsible. A member of this violent group went unnoticed on campus for who knows how long, and she ended up biting and turning a prominent witch. It is all I can do to prevent OSA from locking down campus and using even harsher methods of locating any remaining traitors.”

When that gets him no response except for widened eyes, he continues, “I have not brought my suspicions to anyone’s attention, but it seems rather . . . convenient that Tristan was attacked when he left campus with you right after the two of you ran into Penelope.”

It takes a second for his words to fully register. “Are you accusing me of setting Tristan up? I rescued him. He told me to leave, and I still went after him. Not only that, do you know what that looked like to my family? Like I defended a St. James against shifters, put a shifter in the hospital for a person who would just as likely not bother to spit on them if they were on fire.”

And the memory of having to explain all that to Reid, my shifter cousin and best friend, makes me ill. I wouldn’t have changed anything I did that evening, and the shifters were the bad guys that evening, but I wish I’d never been placed in a situation where I had to take sides against shifters.

Burke’s watching my face closely, his eyes slightly narrowed, and his head tilted to the side. Finally, he nods as if coming to some sort of internal decision. “I believe you.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “My parents said I could trust you, that you were on my side. But what side is that exactly?”

“The side attempting to keep the peace,” he says. “I am on your side, provided you are being honest with me. You cannot blame me for questioning your motives when you called Ms. Martin a friend and you brought her to the St. James estate.”

“I didn’t ask her to come with me that night,” I say. “And I had no idea she was involved with any sort of group. How could I have known?”

I think over every interaction I ever had with Penny. Sure, that night at the St. James estate she looked malicious and vindictive, but I never got that impression from her before that. Something changed the night Isobel was kidnapped though. What was it?

“She was in the woods,” I say, still running over the memories. “That night. She found me outside after I made my way to the quad, still suffering the effect of Bernadette’s spell. She said she’d seen a light in your office, so she had to have been behind the building. I was too out of it then—and am just now realizing I clearly didn’t have all the pieces at the time—to notice the change in her, to question what the hell she was doing out there that night.”

Burke leans back in his chair. “Could she have been meeting someone? Another accomplice on campus perhaps?”

“Maybe? Probably? I don’t know.”

The two of us sit here, puzzling over that.

And there was something else weird that night . . .

“She said my eyes changed colors.”

Burke jerks backward. “Changed colors?”

“When I was fighting off the spell, she said my eyes flashed gold.” I pause. “She also seemed to know a hell of a lot more than she should’ve the night I manifested.”

“The night you manifested?”

“She was there. She was the shifter I stepped in to rescue or whatever.”

He gives me a blank look. “All Basil ever told me was that you were Helen’s child and she had left instructions for Basil to be contacted should the binding spell ever fail and your powers manifest.”

I explain about the party and the confrontation between Penny and the three witches that I stepped into.

“Interesting.” He rubs his chin. “There is definitely something unique about your powers, about you, and I think we need to figure out what it is. I will ask Basil to look further into the binding spell and your magic.”

“Which is exactly what Isobel was doing,” I say. “And I think that’s why she’s currently missing two weeks’ worth of memories, because she found something out that somebody didn’t want her to.”

Burke purses his lips. “I will tell Basil to be very discreet in his inquiries as to not draw any attention to what he is doing. I cannot guarantee he will find anything, or that what he does find will be helpful, but he has access to sources of information that you and I do not. You must promise me that you will have Ms. Cardosa stay out of it from here on. Any sort of magic that affects the mind is dangerous and unpredictable, and I do not want her to suffer any further injury.” Burke leans his elbows on the desk and rests his chin in his hands. “And until we know more, you need to keep your head down. I do not want any attention drawn to you if at all possible, especially since we have no idea what is truly going on.”

“Yeah . . . sure. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

Not.

When I get to my dorm, I find Isobel sitting at her desk and working on what looks to be some sort of sigil-related assignment. She glances up at me as I enter.

“You don’t look so great,” she says as she closes her textbook and gives me her full attention.

“I don’t feel so great,” I say as I plop down on my bed. “Today’s been . . . weird.”

“I heard bits and pieces around campus. Something about you throwing Adrian across the room with a light spell? What the hell happened?”

I lie back with my hands behind my head as I give her a brief rundown of what happened in PE with Adrian. “You know what it was like when I first started learning spells. My powers were never very cooperative to begin with, but now they’re all over the place. I think it might have something to do with the spell Bernadette hit me with. Everything’s been a little wonky since then. Burke suggested that it could also be related to the binding spell, that it wasn’t completely broken the first time or maybe there was a second one layered underneath, and Bernadette’s spell interacted with it in a weird way.”

Isobel stares into the distance and nods absentmindedly. “There aren’t many studies on interactions between spells because you can never be sure what might happen, but I can check the library and see if I can find any information on how a binding spell might—”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “I know you want to brush it off as something else, but I think it was your research into my past and my magic that led to you being dosed. We have no idea what information might have triggered someone to erase your memories. I don’t want you stumbling over it again if I can help it. Whatever information you found could put you in even worse danger, and I don’t want to be responsible for that.” I pause. “I don’t want you to get hurt, and I kind of promised Burke I’d get you to stay out of it. Let Basil do the research into the binding spell. I don’t think anyone’s going to be dosing him.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to argue but then closes it and shakes her head. “If that’s what you think is best.”

“I do.” I smile, hoping to soften some of the sting of telling her to back off. “Besides, there are plenty of other things you can help me with that won’t get you hurt.”

“Like?”

“Um, studying? Figuring out how to control my spells? Just because I’m more powerful or whatever now doesn’t mean I’m any better at most of this stuff,” I say.

She comes to sit down next to me on my bed. “And maybe deciding what to do about contacting your grandparents?”

“That, too, I guess.” I sit up so I’m resting with my back against the headboard. “I’ve always known I was adopted, but Mom and Dad are my parents; Uncle Connor and Reid are my family . . . What if Nikolas and Thea Andras try to take me from that? What if they expect me to be something or someone I’m not? Sure, I’ve embraced the Andras name here because I had to, but that’s not who I am. No matter how powerful I might get, I can’t imagine I’ll ever be some high-society witch when all I really am is Selene Monroe, a Blank.”

Isobel grabs my hand. “That’s not all you are, and getting to know your grandparents can’t change who your family is. Blood doesn’t make a family, people do. Remember when I told you about me and my little brother being raised by my grandmother after our parents died in a car accident? She’s not really my grandmother. Mateo, my little brother, is my half-brother. We only share a mother. My step-father came into my life when I was two, and he was the only father I ever knew. His mother is the one who took me and my brother in. My grandmother could’ve taken my brother and left me to the foster system, but she didn’t. Even though she isn’t related to me by blood, that doesn’t make us any less of a family. She chose me, just like your shifter family chose you.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime.” She grins. “Now, I need to try to get a little more work done tonight so I’m available to help you with your academic issues later.” She stands, winces, and then sways a little in place while rubbing at her temples.

I hop to my feet, moving to stand behind her and placing a hand on her lower back. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ve been getting these headaches on and off since yesterday. Sleep would probably help.” She casts a glance at her desk. “But I have a lot of work to catch up on. Well, not catch up on exactly since I already turned in the actual assignments even if I don’t remember them, more like I need to give myself a crash course in all the material covered in my classes from the past two weeks.”

“You don’t have to do it all tonight though. It’s only the first week of the new quarter. Surely—”

“I don’t have time to fall behind,” she snaps. A second later, she rubs at her temples again. “Sorry. I’m just so damn frustrated. Most of my classes have started brand new units. I don’t necessarily need the information from the end of last quarter, but in Advanced Wards and Sigils we’re working on combinations and the practical application of sigils. I don’t remember a single thing about sigils except they’re a pain in the butt and I hate them.”

“Actually, sigils are something I might be able to help you with,” I say.

She eyes me skeptically.

“At least with the basics. I think.”

“Not to be rude, because you know I love you and all, but sigils is pretty much the most difficult subject, and you’re . . .”

“Crap at everything else?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Well, I’m not crap at sigils. In fact, it turns out I’m actually good at something for once. Even Ms. Anderson was shocked.”

“In that case . . .” She gestures at the books spread out on the desk “I’m happy to get whatever help I can.”

I walk over to her desk, and the two of us go through some of the beginner exercises in her book. The problems are more difficult than simply drawing the sigils as each one has to be drawn with the lines in a certain order and direction, but they still come relatively easy, and as I write out each one, Isobel’s smile grows with wonder.

“I’m impressed. You really are good with sigils,” she says.

I laugh. “Too bad this one skill doesn’t make me any better at, well, everything else.”

I’m not sure how long we spend here, hovering over Isobel’s textbook, but at some point I return to my bed and leave her to work through the rest of the assignment as I shove a pillow over my face and try to get some sleep.

The next thing I know, it’s morning and Isobel’s shaking my shoulder to wake me up so I don’t miss breakfast. She needs to head to the library, so I’m on my own in the dining hall again. That is, until I spot Adrian sitting alone at one of the tables, picking at the tray of food in front of him. He’s pale, and there are dark circles under his eyes, but he’s here. And he’s in one piece.

I shoot him a tentative smile, and a wave of relief washes over me when he returns the expression. I couldn’t live with myself if I’d seriously injured him, and I don’t have enough friends here that I can afford to lose one. Plus, I legitimately like the guy and enjoy his company.

I grab some food and make my way over to sit next to him.

“Come to finish the job?” he asks, the corners of his lips quirking upward.

“Shut up.” I nudge him with my shoulder. Gently. Since he looks like he might tip over. “You are okay though, right?”

“Yeah,” he says in a soft voice. He chuckles. “I suppose I should count myself lucky that I only got a night in the infirmary instead of a binding spell like St. James did.”

“They wouldn’t have done that to you. What happened yesterday was an accident,” I say. “With Tristan . . . it was kind of on purpose.”

“Kind of?”

“Okay, it was completely on purpose, but he deserved it at the time. We both paid our penance for that.” I shove a few bites of French toast in my mouth.

“I take it you two haven’t exactly worked out your issues yet?”

“No.” I sigh, putting down my silverware. “At this point, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He’s an ass most of the time, but underneath everything he’s a decent guy, and there was something there between us. And the kiss was . . . wow. But there’s way too much working against us.”

“Wait a second. Kiss?” Adrian leans toward me. “You never said anything about a kiss.”

Now there’s a blazing inferno in my cheeks. I didn’t mention the kiss to Adrian at the time because I had no idea what it meant—hell, I still don’t—and afterward, Tristan pretty much acted like I didn’t exist, so I didn’t think mentioning the kiss was important.

“The night before the fall banquet, he kind of ambushed me and, well, kissed me.”

Adrian raises his brows expectantly, and I hold my hands up.

“That’s all there is to tell.”

“Interesting,” he says. “I realized you two had gotten close, but not that close.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really matter now. Thanks to Penny and all that.”

“Have you tried, you know, talking to him?”

I scowl. “Of course I have, but we always seem to end up arguing.”

“Hopeless.” Adrian lets out an exasperated sigh and then smirks at me. “Now, let’s move on to more pressing subjects. Like PE yesterday. A light spell? Really? Couldn’t you have knocked me out with something a little less embarrassing?”

And just like that, the two of us are back to normal. I fill him in on everything that happened in Burke’s office, and Adrian tells me about spending the night in the infirmary. Then we head off to another day of classes.

The next three days pass, and I fall back into the routine of school, study, homework, and sleep. By Friday, I’ve gotten quite good at staying under the radar and faking an effort in PE. Even though Wright hasn’t returned to PE, I’m not interested in doing anything that might draw attention. Or blow someone else up. We’re back to working with energy balls, so it hasn’t been too difficult, but I’m still left buzzing with too much magic when the class is over, and I’ve taken to making a slight detour into the woods afterward to get rid of some of the excess.

I’m doing surprisingly well in my other subjects, definitely much better than last quarter, and the effect of having at least a little competence is amazing for my mood. Something seems to have clicked into place, and I’m understanding things more easily, kind of like when Tristan taught me the trick of tracing wards with my magic and Penny taught me a different method of activating potions but . . . more. I hate to chalk it up to Bernadette, but it seems blasting me with that spell definitely gave my powers an extra oomph somehow.

Basil hasn’t found any new information about the binding spell, or not any he’s deemed important enough to pass on to me. Thankfully, Isobel is doing what I asked and staying out of that whole mess. She’s concentrating on getting caught up in her classes instead of worrying over the lack of answers about my magic.

I haven’t seen much of Tristan, only brief glimpses across the quad and once in the dining hall, but that doesn’t mean what Adrian said about Tristan mooning over me isn’t still on my mind. He’s at least ninety-nine percent asshole, but it’s that single extra percentage point, the one that kissed me, the one that apologized, the one that was my friend, that won’t let me get him out of my head.

But my love life, or lack thereof, isn’t something I have time to worry about right now. I need to focus on my classes as much as possible.

The entry test is only three weeks away, and I’ve yet to get a recommendation from Ms. Anderson. Which is why I find myself outside her office on Friday evening after dinner. I pace outside the door for a few seconds before working up the nerve to knock.

“Come in,” she calls from inside.

I blow out a breath and open the door, my lips forced into a smile.

Ms. Anderson sits behind a narrow desk with a small stack of papers resting in front of her. Her short, dark hair is arranged in chunky twists, and as she glances up to see who’s come in, she brushes one of them away from her face. Shock flashes across her features, but she schools the expression into something more like happily surprised.

I expected to walk in here and be faced with her regular attitude toward me, the one she displays in class, but this silent expectation without even a ‘why the hell are you here outside my office hours’ is slightly unnerving. My smile falters, and I blink at her.

“Selene, please have a seat,” she says, gesturing toward the chair across from her.

I sit, my hands twisting together in my lap as I struggle to figure out what to say.

“I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to come and see me,” she says after my silence has lasted more than a few seconds. She pushes a stack of papers to the side and focuses her full attention on me.

“I wasn’t so sure you’d want to see me,” I say.

“Is that so?” She cocks her head to the side then pushes away from her desk and grabs a folder sitting on a table off to the side. Quickly, she flips through the papers in the folder, pulls one out, and hands it to me.

A quick glance confirms I’m holding one of my earliest assignments, a large ‘F’ written in red in the top corner.

“I’m trying. I really am. And I need your recommendation to take the entry test,” I blurt out.

“I know you’re trying,” she says as she flips through the contents of the folder again. She hands me another sheet of paper.

Another assignment, this one marked with a ‘C’.

“The reason I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to come and see me about your entry test approval is because of this.” She removes another paper from the folder.

This one is yesterday’s quiz. On sigils. Marked at the top is an ‘A’ followed by the number one hundred.

“A perfect score?” How the hell did I manage that?

Ms. Anderson leans her elbows on the desk. “The next highest grade on that quiz was a seventy-one, and that was from one of the best students in the class, who is no slouch even though they’re in a basic level class.”

Still not sure where this is going, the words that find their way out of my mouth are, “I didn’t cheat.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know that. I’m not accusing you of anything other than being good at something.” She points at the paper in my hand. “This quiz is one I normally give to my second-year students. You’re a natural with sigils. The first one I’ve seen in almost my entire career.”

“Thanks?”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them again. “I may be strict, but I recognize effort when I see it. And potential. You have both. I know we got off on the wrong foot and I haven’t been the most encouraging instructor, but that’s because I can’t afford to coddle anyone. Not even a student who starts my class completely new to magic and the witch world.” She sighs. “It was a mistake not to encourage you more, and I apologize. There’s more to you than it appears, and your skill with sigils is something that needs to be nurtured.”

“Thanks?” I say again.

Another sigh. “To tell you the truth, I don’t want you in that tournament. I don’t want any of my students in it. The thing is dangerous and completely unnecessary.”

“What do you mean by dangerous? Shouldn’t an event put together by the school be, you know, safe?”

“Ravencrest doesn’t put it together. OSA does. They use the information gathered from observing the tournament to determine a student’s practical skill level. For most students, the tournament is the first time they’ll be using magic in an environment outside the classroom, which can make for some dicey situations without teachers there to intervene. Adding a bunch of first-year students into the mix makes things even worse.” She blows out a breath. “I heard what happened with Adrian Dumont. Things like that prove first-year students, for the most part, shouldn’t be messing around with spells of that caliber. They simply haven’t had enough time to develop adequate control of their magic. The same thing goes for many second-year students as well, which is why the tournament isn’t meant to be mandatory.” Her expression goes hard. “But with that damnable new policy from OSA, to not participate is to set yourself up for dismissal, no matter how hard you may work otherwise. I hate that OSA made the stupid competition for rank even more cutthroat.”

“Me too.”

She gives me a small, sympathetic smile. “I heard what happened to your roommate. The idea that such an intelligent and promising student could be dismissed is ridiculous, especially considering the fact that if her family was well off, there’s no possible way the school would let her go. Power is important, but so, unfortunately, is status. If OSA has a choice between a mediocre witch from a monied family and a superb witch with an unknown name, they’ll take the mediocre one. That is, unless the superb one sets themselves well apart from the competition. Even the witch world runs on money, and it takes lots and lots of it to keep OSA running. Government and corruption go almost hand in hand, and OSA is no better than any other governmental-type agency in that regards.” She pauses, simply staring at me with raised eyebrows, before pushing the stack of papers to the corner of her desk and leaning back in her chair. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”

“Yes,” I reply, my mind still reeling a bit from all of this. I stand. “Thanks again. For signing off on me taking the test. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome, Selene.” She smiles again. “Have a good weekend.”

I leave her office a little stunned, but also thrilled. I have all the recommendations I need. That means I’m one step closer to the tournament and keeping my spot here. Not that I’m exactly looking forward to the tournament itself, not after everything I’ve heard about it, and especially not after what Ms. Anderson just said. Even whatever boost I’ve gained by getting blasted with Bernadette’s spell might not be enough. More powerful or not, I still can’t control my magic very well, and keeping under the radar of OSA means I can’t practice working with my added strength in class.

And the other stuff Ms. Anderson said? Who knew she was so anti-OSA? Hell, who knew Burke was? Every time I think I have things at Ravencrest figured out, something changes to throw me off again.

Saturday morning is a bit dreary with cloudy skies and a light drizzle. The weather doesn’t make for great running, and it’s too damn early, but the magic buzzing in my veins from holding back all week in class barely let me sleep last night. So, I suppose it’s time to take Burke’s advice and add some physical activity into my routine.

I bundle into some warm athletic gear and lace up my running shoes before heading out to the lake trail. Since arriving at Ravencrest, I’ve learned there’s a whole network of trails through the woods, but I’m most familiar with this one, and I’m not keen on the idea of running into the unknown when it’s still pitch black out.

I eyeball the trail snaking into the dark woods and then glance at the lighted quad. I don’t exactly have a headlamp, so I’ll need to light my way with a spell. There’s plenty of magic buzzing around in my chest. I just hope I don’t turn an attempt at a light spell into something more like an explosion. I’ve been doing okay with the teeny tiny spells Basil has helped me cast during my tutoring sessions, but I haven’t tried anything larger since the day I blasted Adrian.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can do this. Ever so carefully, I gather enough magic for the spell and then cast it with a whisper of words. I wait a beat and, when nothing blows up or anything else completely unexpected happens, I slowly open my eyes to a small ball of light sitting in my palm. The light is a little uneven and keeps flickering, but it’ll do.

Starting off in a slow jog, I let the light bob out in front of me to illuminate the ground as my body quickly falls into a familiar rhythm. By the time I’m halfway around the trail, the horizon is tinted red with the coming sunrise, so I dispel the light and focus on my breath fogging the air in front of me. I’m almost two thirds of the way around the lake when I catch sight of someone running ahead of me. The sun coming up over the mountains has enhanced the streaks of gold in his dirty-blond hair, and he has major ‘keep away’ vibes emanating from him.

Tristan.

I knew before I left my dorm that I might run into him out here and, now that it’s happened, I can’t decide whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. Either way, the two of us need to talk.

I add an extra burst of speed to my pace to close the distance between us. He appears to be lost to the pounding of his feet against the dirt and doesn’t seem to notice me until I come up beside him. He startles and stumbles a couple steps before falling back into stride. The look he slides to me from the corner of his eye is not friendly.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he says as he increases his speed and pulls away from me.

I match my pace to his. “Is there going to be a time when you will want to talk to me? You can’t avoid me forever. I know you’re angry about the whole Penny thing and—”

He stops in his tracks, and I almost run into him. “Angry? You think I’m merely angry?” His hands curl into fists at his sides. “You knew what she was, and you didn’t warn me.”

“Penny was my friend. She’d never given me any reason—”

“Are you really that stupid?” he asks, the question cutting through me like a knife. “She was never your friend. She used you to get to me when I was vulnerable, to get to my family, and she bit my father.”

“I had no idea she was going to do that!” Ugh. I hoped to avoid any yelling, but I guess we bring it out in each other.

“You had no idea a shifter would bite someone? That’s the excuse you’re going with?” He blows out a harsh breath.

“I didn’t invite her to come. She volunteered. I thought she just wanted to help.”

“Oh, she helped all right. She helped my mother’s legislation become almost sure to pass, along with a rider regarding Bitten witches. After all, Bitten witches are unstable, Penny gave proof of that.”

“That’s not true. At all. How can she—”

“Do you think the truth matters to my mother?” he asks, his arms out wide at his sides, his breathing rapid, and his teeth bared.

“No,” I say quietly. “But it matters to me, and I thought it mattered to you.”

He tilts his head back as if asking the sky for patience. “It does matter to me, but that doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.”

“Of course there’s something you can do. We can—”

“You don’t get it, do you? She won. She cut me off. She’s not speaking to me. She won’t even let me see my father. I’m still here only because Desmond is kind enough to let me stay and there was a spot open in Dumont’s room. Eventually, she’ll try to force Desmond’s hand, and she’ll probably get her way.” His voice has lost that angry edge, moving closer to desperation and sadness. “Or, if she doesn’t get her way, she’ll find some excuse to pull me from Ravencrest.”

I can see Bernadette doing every one of those things except the last. “Why the hell would she take you out of Ravencrest?”

“Because if I’m not the best, then I don’t deserve to be here.” He sighs. “And she’s made sure I have no chance of climbing the ranks, not unless I do everything she wants.”

“What does that mean?”

He shakes his head and stares at his feet. “Nothing.”

I step forward and place a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t push me away. Instead, he leans ever so closer, and I wait for him to look at me. He does, his golden-brown eyes slowly coming to meet mine. He doesn’t bother with his typical mask, not out here with no one else around, and all the emotions swirling through his head are written on his face.

Anger.

Despair.

Confusion.

“You do deserve to be here,” I say. “Definitely more than I do, at any rate.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle.

“I know things have been stressful and weird between us, but I don’t want to fight with you,” I say.

He curls a hand loosely around my waist. “I don’t want to fight with you either.”

“I can’t do much about your mom or Ravencrest, but I might be able to help you get in to see your dad. If I could talk to Connor—”

“Your solution is to bring more shifters into this?” He jerks away from me, the vulnerable, open expression from before gone as if it had never been.

“Connor’s not just the regional alpha, he’s family. I’d trust him with my life, and he has a say in what happens with your dad, regardless of whether or not your mom wants him to,” I say, trying to hide the edge of heat entering my voice.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why don’t—”

“Oh my, look what I’ve found,” says a voice that makes me cringe. The last thing we need is Jason here to stir things up.

Tristan’s jaw tenses. He closes his eyes, swallows, then takes a slow, deep breath before turning to the newcomer with an emotionless mask back in place and a vicious smile twisting his lips. “Hello, Jason. Did you get lost? You aren’t much for . . . nature.”

Jason takes an exaggerated breath and chuckles. “Ah, but the air out here is so fresh.” His dark-blue eyes roam from Tristan over to me, and Jason’s mouth shifts into a smirk. “Lovely day for a run.”

I make a noncommittal noise of agreement.

“I heard an interesting story the other day,” says Jason. “The rumor is you’re not only a genius when it comes to sigils, but you threw a light spell powerful enough to knock Dumont across the gym earlier this week.”

Wonderful. Even if the rumors are true, I can’t afford for them to get back to OSA. At least my other secret—that I’m Helen Andras’s child and therefore the Andras heir—still seems to be safe.

I hold back a sigh and shrug. “It was an energy ball, and it was an accident.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Jerk he may be, Jason isn’t an idiot. It’d be good for me to remember that.

He makes a slow perusal of my body and then turns to smile at Tristan. “I think I’m starting to see the appeal, St. James. As unrefined as she may be, she is rather lovely.” Jason pauses, as if waiting for Tristan to make some sort of response as Jason’s gaze rakes over me again. “And according to everything I’ve been hearing, it turns out she’s actually rather powerful as well. There are rumors one of the lesser families might make an offer for her.” Another pause. “But no one is quite sure who to ask about that.”

My eyes narrow. Is he implying what I think he is? Adrian told me at the banquet that arranged marriages were a thing in witch society, something about combining and consolidating power, but I damn sure won’t be going along with that archaic practice, no matter who ‘makes an offer’ for me.

Tristan makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat and moves closer to Jason. “Do you have a purpose in being here or are you only here to mock me?”

“Mock you?” Jason smirks again. “I’m applauding your ingenuity for pulling the interest of a powerful Andras. It was certainly more than your father managed to do. It’s a shame that—”

“As you’re well aware, there’s nothing going on between Selene and me,” snaps Tristan.

Wow. That stings.

“Oh no, of course not,” says Jason as he makes another slow perusal of me. “Could I interest you in—”

“Piss off,” says Tristan, hissing the words through his teeth.

“Now, now, St. James, no need to be rude.” Jason grins at me. “Selene, if you would like more pleasant company for your morning run tomorrow, do, please, let me know.”

“No. Thank you.”

The smile on his face brightens, and his eyes light up to match. “So polite.” He winks. “But in all seriousness, when you become sick of St. James’s attitude, please come find me. I can be good company if you let me.”

“Not going to happen,” I say. Whether I mean becoming sick of Tristan or coming to find Jason, I’m not entirely sure.

Jason shrugs, gives Tristan a mocking salute, and then heads off down a side trail.

“Stay away from him,” snaps Tristan.

My brows rise. “Excuse me? Did you just give me an order?”

He huffs out a breath. “Barrington, he’s . . . not good news. I don’t . . . You shouldn’t . . .”

Emotional constipation, thy name is Tristan. The corners of my lips twitch into a smile. “So, you were trying to order me around for my own well-being?”

He won’t meet my eyes, and spots of red spread across his cheekbones. The embarrassed caveman thing he’s got going on would almost be cute if not for how quickly he’d denied there being anything between us a few moments ago.

“I want nothing to do with Jason. He’s already proven himself to be an ass,” I finally say.

“Oh,” he says, staring down at his feet.

“And even if he hadn’t . . .” I have no idea where I’m going with this.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” I repeat.

Why did this suddenly get so horribly awkward?

“Tristan . . .” I start. He still won’t look at me. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Okay.” He purses his lips and sends his gaze upward.

“If you want to . . . talk about it.” I place a hand on his arm, and the muscles under my fingers go rigid. “All you have to do is say the word. I want to help if I can. Or I could ask Connor to do something.”

His jaw tenses, and he sucks in a breath through his nose. “If you think turning to shifters is the answer . . .” He jerks away from me. “You’ve done enough helping.”

And then he runs off, leaving me here, staring after him with my mind struggling to figure out how things between us went so very wrong.

I still haven’t figured it out by the time I get to my dorm room twenty minutes or so later. Letting out a frustrated huff, I collapse backward onto my bed.

“Morning,” says Isobel with a yawn as she sits up in her bed and stretches her arms over her head.

“Hey,” I say, my voice flat.

“Didn’t go so well?” She shoots me a sympathetic look.

“Huh?”

“Talking with Tristan.” She cocks her head to the side. “You have on running clothes, and I might be missing two weeks of memories, but that time period does not include when you two were under the binding spell. And I know he goes running in the mornings. I assumed you’d gone out to find him.”

“I needed to burn off some energy and ran into him. It was a coincidence.”

Isobel rolls her eyes. “Of course it was.”

“Fine, maybe it wasn’t entirely a coincidence, but I didn’t go out there consciously looking for him.” I sit down on my bed and stare at my hands. “I don’t know if we’ll ever be friends again. He hates me.”

She scoffs. “He doesn’t hate you. I do remember the whole kiss thing too, you know?”

Heat fills my cheeks, but I shrug. “It was nothing. He was probably drunk or something. Besides, there are so many more important things for me to worry about in my life right now than Tristan.”

She comes to sit down next to me, putting one of her hands over mine. “Look, I know I’ve been out of it this week and that’s not going to stop for another week or so until I get caught up in all my classes, but I’m still here for you.” She sighs. “And I’m sorry I haven’t been.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re working your ass off, and I’m not going to hold that against you.” I flip my hand over so I can squeeze hers.

“How’s the spellwork coming? Are you getting any better?”

“Eh . . .” I see-saw my hand back and forth. “Kind of? I’m not sure. I managed to pull off a light spell this morning without blowing anything up.”

“Well, there’s that at least.” She laughs. “I think I should be free by next weekend if you want to study or practice or whatever.”

“I’d love that.”

“It’s a plan then.” She smiles at me and then gets ready for her day.

I’m not far behind. Even though I don’t have as much work to get caught up on that she does, I still have a lot to do just to keep my head above water. I might be a genius at sigils and doing okay in the rest of my classes, but that doesn’t mean I have time to slack off.

For the next week I run every morning, though sometimes just a couple laps around the outdoor athletic fields, and then go to class. My grades continue to improve, and I actually do pretty well on my tests. But . . . I’m still crap at wards, and when Basil has me practice spells they can be hit or miss. Worse, we’ve started using spellwork in PE, and OSA has suddenly decided I’m not allowed to participate in any spell-related activities after the incident with Adrian until Agent Wright gives the okay, something I don’t see happening anytime soon.

Surprisingly, Tristan appears to have decided we have some kind of truce despite how we left things the other day. He even smiles at me occasionally, and one morning he didn’t ignore me when we ran into each other on the lake trail. He didn’t talk to me either, but he at least acknowledged me.

By the end of the second week of the quarter, my roommate is almost caught up with her classes, but she’s still struggling with sigils. Adrian doesn’t have a very solid grasp on them either, so I’ve been drafted to help both of them, something that makes me feel useful, like I’m finally giving back to the two people who’ve stood by me ever since I started at Ravencrest.

On Friday evening, the three of us are in the library for a study session with Isobel’s textbook out in front of us as I walk them through one of the comprehensive practice exercises in the back.

“I think what this exercise is trying to show is that with Awak—Awareness, if you draw the lines from top to bottom, you can get a different result than if you draw them bottom to top,” I say in a poor attempt at paraphrasing the language of the somewhat technical textbook.

Isobel tilts her head to the side. “I understand what you’re saying, but I still don’t get how it all works. The text is very detailed on the possible uses for sigils, but not on explaining the technicalities behind them.” She points at a passage in the textbook. “Like, why does drawing this curve of Quiet first change the effect of the sigil?”

I bite my lip. “I have no idea.”

But what’s weird is I kind of do. I just don’t know how to explain my weird gut feeling when it comes to sigils.

Adrian grins. “Well, I think you’ve found your concentration area, Selene. You’re shit at wards, but sigils . . .”

“Is that an option?” I ask, straightening in my chair. “I mean, wards and sigils are always taught together, and I don’t think I’ll ever be very good at wards.”

“They’re only taught together because hardly anyone ever wants to concentrate in sigils,” replies Adrian.

“Or has enough skill with them,” adds Isobel. Her voice is low, thoughtful even, and she’s got that look on her face like she’s trying to remember something, as if the thought is right there but she can’t quite find it.

“What’s up?” I ask, studying my roommate.

“I’m not sure. I feel like there’s . . .” She sighs, shaking her head. “It’s gone now. I think it might have been a memory.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m not sure what triggered it. Maybe I was looking into sigils? That would make sense, I suppose. You said I told you I hadn’t found any binding spell strong enough to do what was done to you, but maybe if it was combined with a sigil of some sort.” Her brow furrows, and she scrunches up her nose. “But then you’d have a sigil on you somewhere since it’d have to be permanent, like a tattoo, and I think that’s something you would have mentioned.”

I shake my head. “Nope. No sigils here. Maybe it was just a coincidence?”

Her brow is still furrowed and her lips pursed. “I feel like it was more than that.” Her shoulders slump, and she lets out another sigh. “But what do I know?”

I reach across the table and rest my hand on hers. “You know plenty. You’re one of the smartest people here.”

“This memory loss is so damn frustrating.” She shoves her book across the table. “I never expected to stay at number one. Hell, I never expected to be there in the first place, but even though I’m mostly caught up, I feel like I’m still falling behind.”

“I could still ask—”

“I already said no,” she says, firmly. “You’re not doing that.”

“Not doing what?” asks Adrian.

“Not asking my grandparents for help,” I reply. “Burke gave me their contact info and said I was welcome to do with it what I wanted, but I’m not sure I want to reveal myself without knowing what type of people they are. Everything I’ve witnessed about the witch world has been . . . shitty.” I glance at my friends. “Current company excluded.”

The corner of Adrian’s mouth quirks upward. “Your current company is the best.”

I roll my eyes and laugh. “Whatever you say. Your ego certainly is the biggest I’ve seen.”

“That’s not the only thing—”

Isobel slams a hand over his mouth. “Nope. Stop. Not going there.”

His eyes dance with amusement, and he mumbles under her hand.

“Do you promise to behave?” asks Isobel.

Adrian bats his eyelashes at her and nods, and Isobel releases him.

“Your grandparents are Nikolas and Thea Andras, right?” asks Adrian.

I nod.

“And you’re not contacting them because . . .?”

“Because they might be assholes like . . . well, pretty much everyone else I’ve met besides you guys.”

Adrian tilts his head to the side. “Why didn’t you ask me? I might not be exactly welcome in more ‘polite society,’ but I have met most of these people. Your grandparents included. I’ve only met them a couple times, and the most recent time was a few years back, but they seemed like okay people. They were more polite than anyone else at that dumb OSA party.”

“OSA party?”

“Did Burke not tell you anything but their names?” he asks.

“Not really.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Nikolas Andras is the director of some department or another. I think something to do with legal records, but I’m not sure, and he might be retired by now. He’s pretty important either way. That’s probably why Burke insisted you use the name. The Coven Council wouldn’t dare try to come after an Andras.”

“I know that OSA has power over the Coven Council so OSA jurisdiction trumps everyone else’s, but aren’t the two like buddy buddy or something?” I ask.

Adrian makes a see-saw motion with his hand. “Sort of? How much do you know about how OSA and the Coven Council work?”

I give him a blank look.

“I take it you never had any supernatural government classes then.” He smirks.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” I say.

“What exactly does Basil teach you every morning?” asks Isobel.

“We mostly go over history and maybe a little spellwork. Basil thinks having a good basis in history is important, and my spell sessions with him are like Witch 101. At some point, we’re supposed to get into government, but we haven’t gotten there yet.”

“You at least know the basics of what OSA does, right?” asks Adrian.

“I guess. They take care of the laws, disputes between supernatural races, the registry, and the other bureaucratic type stuff,” I say.

“And you know the purpose of the Coven Council?” asks Isobel.

“Nope.”

Isobel shakes her head. “Well, first of all, the Coven Council, at least in the form you know it where the seats are inherited rather than elected, is mostly an American thing. The closest thing you could compare it to in the history lessons you’ve had so far is the ancient Roman Senate.”

“So, the Coven Council isn’t a group that represents the interests of all witches so much as a group that represents the interests of the rich ones,” I say.

“Correct,” says Isobel. Why am I not surprised? “And there’s also the fact that every representative can trace their lineage to at least the Revolutionary War if not earlier. The Coven Council is a very old organization.”

“But Bernadette St. James is clearly British,” I say. “And not American Revolution Era British.”

Isobel turns to Adrian.

He shrugs. “I don’t know the details, but the rumor is that the St. James family finances were in trouble, which is why Allister was supposed to marry Helen. Even that match would have been outside the norm since your grandparents immigrated to the US from Greece. I guess the idea of tying a powerful OSA family to a powerful Coven Council family was too tempting to resist for one or both parties. When that fell through, Bernadette somehow managed to weasel her way in. Her family, the Winthrops, are titled aristocracy in Britain with even more money than the Andras family. I imagine part of the deal was that Bernadette would get the St. James seat on the Coven Council. In essence, the Winthrops purchased the seat by marrying off their daughter to Allister St. James.”

I drag a hand over my face. “Ugh. Shifter politics are nowhere near this convoluted.”

They both laugh.

“Returning to my original point,” says Adrian. “The Coven Council is powerful, but OSA is bigger and more powerful. The Coven Council wouldn’t want to upset the balance by coming after you when you’re a member of the Andras family, even if they think you’re only some third cousin or something.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I say. “How do you know all this?”

“My family is also heavily involved with OSA, mostly in research and development. You know those fancy wards that protect the school and zap cell phones? Those were specially created by my paternal grandfather. They’re actually a combination of a spell and four different kinds of wards woven together. All the academies have them now,” says Adrian.

Isobel’s eyes go wide, a hungry gleam to them. “I didn’t realize you were related to Fabian Dumont. We’re studying the spell portion of the barrier right now, and it’s absolutely fascinating.”

Adrian gives her a pained smile. “And if my family had anything to do with me, I’d happily introduce you.”

“No worries,” says Isobel. “I find the spell fascinating, not the caster. He’s rumored to be rather . . .”

“Stuck up? Elitist? A complete asshole?” Adrian nods. “All true.”

The three of us share a laugh.

“This conversation does give me an idea for Selene though.” Adrian thinks for a moment, tapping his chin with one finger. “Nikolas hosts a holiday party every year at the Andras estate. It would be a good way to meet them without, you know, actually meeting them and announcing who you are.”

“You mean crash the party?” I ask.

“Well, they aren’t going to send me an invite,” he replies. “But I might be able to ask my brother the next time I have access to a phone. He isn’t quite as much of an ass as the rest of my family and could maybe take you as a plus one.” He eyes my outfit of yoga pants and a t-shirt. “The party would be black tie, though.”

“I did most—okay pretty much all—of the illusion work for Selene’s banquet outfit. On my own, my illusion work is almost perfect,” says Isobel. “I can create something for her no problem.”

“That won’t work. She’ll need an actual dress.” A mischievous glint enters his eyes. “But just because my family doesn’t have much to do with me doesn’t mean I don’t have the use of their money. I’ll order something and have it delivered to your room.”

“It better have plenty of coverage,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

He pouts out his lower lip. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Isobel rolls her eyes and nudges him with her elbow.

“What are the chances your brother can get me into that party?” I ask.

“About fifty-fifty,” says Adrian. He glances out the large window that overlooks the quad. “And I’d need to get off campus for a phone. The—”

“I could take you,” says Tristan from somewhere behind me.

Isobel and Adrian both send me wide-eyed looks as Tristan steps up to our table.

“Sorry. I overheard and . . . Well, I already have an invitation, and I could take you as my plus one.” Tristan stares down at his hands. “I’d like for us to . . . I don’t know. Be friends? And I hate attending these things alone.” He sighs. “I know I’ve been an asshole. I mean, no one’s completely blameless here, but I could have been more understanding. Things are just . . . I know I’ve said it before, but I’m sorry. Again.”

Huh?

Where is this all coming from?

I blink at him as my confused brain puts enough words together to respond. “Okay. I’d love to go with you. Thanks.”

I have to resist the urge to smack myself in the forehead. I’d love to? This isn’t a date. He’s doing me a favor.

If Tristan notices my internal freak out, he doesn’t show it. He glances at the floor before meeting my gaze with a soft smile on his lips. “You’re welcome.”

Tristan and I stare at each other a couple seconds before Adrian claps his hands.

“Now that we’ve got that settled, the three of us still have another chapter to go over,” he says.

An awkward silence falls over our group, and Tristan shuffles his feet. “Well, I guess I’ll—”

“Would you like to join us?” asks Isobel. “If you can believe it, Selene’s helping us with sigils to prepare for the entry test.”

“Tristan’s probably busy with his own studying,” I say. “Besides, he won’t have to take the entry test. The top fifty students are in automatically.”

Isobel inhales sharply, and Tristan’s jaw tenses.

What’s going on? What am I missing? I share a look with Adrian, and he shrugs.

Addressing the words to his feet, Tristan says, “I bombed a couple quizzes in Feng’s class last week.”

What the hell? Mrs. Feng teaches the Advanced Spellcasting class that Isobel is in. Tristan must be in the same class. For him to do poorly on not one but two quizzes is . . . disconcerting. And if Isobel is suggesting he needs to practice for the entry test, does that mean he’s not even in the top fifty anymore? I can’t help the shocked noise that comes from my mouth.

“How . . .” I’m not sure what question I want to ask.

Adrian springs into motion, throwing an arm over Tristan’s shoulders. “No worries. Welcome to the land of mediocrity, roomie. You’ll like it here. We have cookies.”

“Or at least stale potato chips,” says Isobel.

Tristan cracks a smile. “Yeah. I’ll join you guys. Thanks.”

He sits down in the chair beside me, his arm brushing against mine, and the four of us spend the rest of the evening studying, Tristan just as shocked as my other friends at how skilled I am when it comes to sigils. Tristan and I are still a long way from that comfortable sort-of friendship on the verge of more we were at before that night at his parent’s house, but for the first time since I think there’s hope we could find our way back there.

The following day is Saturday, and since I spent all last week sitting on my ass with my textbooks in PE instead of actually practicing or learning anything, Isobel decides to drag me out of bed early to try and get some actual spell practice in. Spells is her concentration area, and we’ve worked well together on other subjects, so her help might be exactly what I need to finally get a handle on casting.

Neither one of us has asked for permission, but no one specifically said we weren’t allowed to practice outside of class time. Though something about the idea of newbie witches throwing random spells around without supervision tells me we probably aren’t allowed to do this, so Isobel makes sure we’re out of view on the far side of the athletic field near the woods.

She’s also recruited Adrian in this endeavor, but other than him, we’re alone out here. All the better, considering I’m sure to embarrass myself somehow.

“So why are we out here at the ass crack of dawn again?” asks Adrian, covering a yawn with one hand.

“Between the two of us, we’re going to get Selene’s spellwork under control,” says Isobel.

Adrian cocks his head to the side, clearly skeptical of Isobel’s overly optimistic statement. “Really? I don’t know if I’m qualified for that.” He slides his gaze to me and smirks. “But I suppose as long as I’m not here for target practice, I’m down.”

I shake my head. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Nope,” he says, grinning.

Isobel claps her hands, going into teacher mode. “First, tell me again what happens when you try to cast.”

“I’ve always struggled with spells. Sure, I’m awful at wards, but I understand them. Mostly. But spells have never seemed to work right for me. I either pull too much magic or not enough or I don’t shape it right or my intention isn’t right or . . . I don’t know. I’m pretty sure my biggest problem is pulling too much magic, and I’m having more trouble controlling that magic since Bernadette’s spell hit me.”

Isobel nods. “I remember something about you blasting a hole in the quad when you were trying to do your spells homework last quarter.”

“That was you?” Adrian laughs. “The groundskeeper thought for sure we had a giant groundhog infestation.”

I roll my eyes. “Laugh it up. Maybe I will use you as target practice.”

Isobel bites at her lower lip. “That time on the quad you mentioned not being able to get rid of the magic except for in PE when you were throwing energy balls.”

“Yeah, and you said if I was having trouble with spells, then it should be that I’m not able to pull enough magic, but I apparently have the opposite problem,” I say.

Adrian glances back and forth between us. “That sounds an awful lot like what might happen to a witch whose powers were awakened early and didn’t have a focus, like whatever pathway your magic is supposed to take to form a spell is throttled or whatever, so unless you send a big blast of magic through it, you can’t cast. Could be an unexpected effect of the binding spell.”

“Or even an expected one,” says Isobel. “The truth of it is that we can’t know for sure what that spell was meant to do without knowing who placed it or why. I can’t help but think this is all tied together somehow. And I’m not supposed to be looking into it anymore.” She sends me a pointed look, and I roll my eyes. “So, moving on . . . You have no problems with manipulating magical energy alone, right?”

“Yeah. It goes along with that whole strength but no finesse thing I’ve got going on.”

Adrian laughs. “Better to have to learn finesse than be lacking in strength.”

I shove him with my shoulder, and he laughs.

Isobel’s brows draw together as she thinks. A couple seconds later, she nods to herself and turns her attention on me. “I know Basil has gone over the basics of spellcasting with you, but his office is too small for real spellwork. So, every time you’ve done something with spells, you’ve been expected to constrain yourself in some way, even in learning them.” She purses her lips. “Maybe that’s what’s holding you back, the fact that you can’t go all out with it, at least during the learning portion. Like what Adrian said about needing a big blast to clear the block.”

“You could be right,” I reply. “So, what do we do? I’m willing to try just about anything. I’m clearly miles behind everyone else in this area and need to catch up.”

“Miles behind in controlling it maybe,” says Adrian. “I have firsthand experience that tells me you have no problem actually casting.”

“Shut up. I already apologized.” I elbow him in the side.

He grins. “Yeah, and I’ve already forgiven you. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to milk it for all the sympathy I can.”

Isobel makes a circular motion with one hand, and I can feel her drawing magic from the air. “Let’s go back to the basics for a second,” she says. “Go ahead and pull enough magic for a small spell, but instead of doing anything with it, just hold it as an energy ball.”

I follow her instructions, gathering a tiny bit of magic into the palm of my hand and letting the power rest there. Well, as much as buzzing with energy can be called resting.

Isobel releases the magic she’s holding and steps closer to me. “Now, pass it to me.”

“Pass it?”

She nods. “Just hand it to me.”

Adrian raises his hand. “I’m not so sure that’s a good place to start.” His gaze darts to me, almost furtively. “As I said, firsthand experience.”

Isobel scoffs. “It’ll be fine.”

Will it though? I swallow hard and eyeball the bundle of magic in my palm. Since it’s only an energy ball, it isn’t actually visible, but I can tell it’s there.

My roommate reaches toward me, one hand extended, an encouraging look on her face.

A tremor vibrates in my fingers, and the intensity of the magic increases along with my agitation. “Is this dangerous?”

“No,” says Isobel.

“Maybe,” says Adrian at the exact same time.

I point my palm upward and direct a blast of energy toward the sky. A flurry of singed leaves hits the ground a second later.

Adrian gestures pointedly toward the fallen leaves.

I wince. “Why don’t we try something else? I’m all for learning, but not at the expense of your safety. My magic is too unpredictable to do things the normal way.”

“I can definitely agree on that,” says Adrian.

Isobel sighs, but she drops her hand and nods. “Fine. How about we start with how to properly release the magic instead?” She makes that circular motion again, pulling magic into her open hand. After a beat, she closes her fingers and moves her hand to face the ground in a slow, graceful movement. “Pull.” She draws on the energy again. “Release.” She repeats the hand closing motion. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Um, if you say so.”

I’ve done something like this . . . once. The time Isobel found me out on the quad I was able to release a small energy ball, but when I tried to release the magic I pulled for a spell, that’s when I ended up blowing a hole in the ground. And I haven’t tried it again since. No time like the present, I guess.

I gather magical energy into my palm then attempt to copy Isobel’s movements, closing my fingers and then moving my palm to face downward. The blast of energy hits the ground, and a shower of dirt cascades around me. I blink dust from my eyes as I try to blow it off my lips.

“That could’ve been your hand,” I say, giving Isobel a pointed look.

“I don’t understand it. You should be able to simply release the magic, but . . .”

The sound of her words fades out as a black bird flies across the clearing, pulling my attention away from my roommate. There’s something off about the bird, a feeling of ‘other’ that brushes against my senses. The bird lands in a tree on the far side, well away from us. From the little I know about birds, I can tell this one is either a raven or a crow, but I won’t have any idea which unless the thing starts quothing “nevermore.”

The bird opens his beak and caws at me, and the sound breaks me out of my weird fascination with the creature. I give my head a brisk shake. Getting a handle on spells is what I need to concentrate on, not some stupid bird.

“. . . do it that way, and it should work,” finishes Isobel.

Was she talking the entire time my attention was on the bird? Oops.

“Can you repeat that?” I clear my throat. “Sorry. I got distracted by the bird.”

“The bird?” Adrian tilts his head to the side. “What bird?”

I cast a glance to the branches, but the bird is gone. A chill moves down my spine. What the hell?

“Maybe we should—”

“What is going on here?” I spin around to find Agent Wright stalking his way toward our little group.

“Practice,” says Adrian in a confident voice.

“And who gave you permission to do this outside of class?” asks Wright. When none of us answer, he looks to me. “I see. You thought to work around your punishment and give yourself an unfair advantage.”

“Unfair advantage? OSA refuses to let me learn in PE, and I don’t have a separate spellcasting class, so having my friends help me is my only option. What part of that gives me an unfair advantage? The part where my teacher can’t teach me or the part where the only people who can are not that much more experienced with all this than I am?”

Wright’s upper lip curls. “None of that is my problem.” He glances at my friends. “One of your practice shots registered with the school wards, and the incident needs to be logged. Which one of you did it?”

No doubt he’s talking about that blast of magic I sent up into the air, but admitting to doing that probably isn’t a good idea. My friends and I stay silent, and Wright’s eyes narrow.

“If no one will admit to it, I suppose all of you will just have to—”

“I do apologize, Agent Wright,” says Dr. Nikiforov as he steps out from between the trees. “The most recent spell belonged to me.”

“And who are you?” asks Wright.

“Dr. Sergei Nikiforov, Potions teacher.” Stepping closer to the OSA agent, Dr. Nikiforov holds out his hand as a light breeze kicks up.

Wright ignores the outstretched hand as his gaze darts over Nikiforov from his long, silvery blond hair loose around his shoulders to his dusty clothes and finally to his shoeless feet.

Nikiforov smiles and gestures at himself and then pats the messenger bag on his hip. “I apologize for my casual attire. I was gathering ingredients for next week’s classes, and the woods can be unkind to clothing.”

Wright nods absentmindedly. “Very well then. You three are free to go.”

That was a little too easy. What’s going on here? Is Wright going to let us go and then turn around and accuse us of running off? I open my mouth, but Nikiforov sends a hard look in my direction, the words ‘shut up you bozo’ all but written on his face. I close my mouth.

Once Wright has disappeared, Nikiforov turns to me. “I could not help but overhear part of your conversation. Is it true that OSA has forbidden you from participating in the spells portion of PE class?”

“Yes, I think it’s some kind of punishment for what happened to Adrian when I, um . . .”

“Blasted me across the room with a light spell?” prompts Adrian.

Nikiforov’s eyes widen. “Truly?”

“Something like that,” I say a little hesitantly. The rumor is already all over campus, but admitting it to be true feels strange, especially to someone I’m not entirely sure about. But Burke trusts the potions teacher. Sort of. So, I guess I can too. “My powers are a little out of control, and my spellwork is . . . lacking.”

Nikiforov cocks his head to the side. “I’m surprised spells give you so much trouble, Selene. You do quite well with potions.” He moves his attention to my friends and studies them before turning to me. “I may not be a spells instructor, but I, of course, am more than capable of performing them. I could tutor you if you’d like, and if I’m supervising you, I don’t think OSA can find anything to complain about.”

When I don’t answer right away, Isobel elbows me in the side. “Sure,” I say. “That sounds great.”

Nikiforov smiles. “I will need to change and take a shower, but I could meet you in my office later this afternoon so we could work out a schedule. How about three?”

“Okay.”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you then.” He flashes another smile, this one strangely sharp edged, then walks off toward the quad.

Isobel turns to me with her hands thrown out to the sides. “Dr. Nikiforov may teach Potions, but he has a double concentration in Spells. I’ve read some of his papers, and he’s really good. Maybe not Basil’s level, but still very talented. Why would you even think of turning that offer down?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. And I really don’t. The whole thing feels weird even if I can’t explain why. “Burke told me to stay under the radar, and I’m not sure that letting yet another person in on the weirdness of my powers is doing that.”

“You’ll be fine,” says Adrian. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I show up at Nikiforov’s office five minutes late, but all he does is smile and gesture for me to enter. The space is larger than Basil’s, or maybe it just looks that way since everything is so perfectly tidy and Basil’s office is a scattered mess. Bookshelves cover three of the walls, the books neatly arranged, not a one out of place, and the fourth wall is taken up by more shelves, these filled with various glass bottles and tiny labeled boxes. Nikiforov’s desk is at the far corner of the room, and the messenger bag from earlier is slung across the back of the chair.

I glance around, biting at my lower lip. I’m still not entirely sure if I should be here. I need the practice—there’s no doubt about that—and OSA can’t possibly complain about a teacher offering to tutor me privately—not that I’m planning on telling them. But no matter what Isobel says or Adrian’s strangely optimistic attitude, this feels too much like letting someone in on all my secrets.

Nikiforov walks to the desk, but instead of sitting down, he leans against the top and crosses his ankles. His expression is open and inquisitive, and the similarity of his actions to how he is in class relaxes me enough to finally return his smile.

“Tell me about your magic,” he says, staring at me intently. “And the problems you’re having.”

Everything comes pouring out. I tell him about my problems with spells and give him an overview of my other struggles: my lack of control, my inability to grasp wards, and even some of my early issues with potions.

He cocks his head to the side. “You had problems in my class? I was not aware of this.”

“Penny helped me before it got too bad,” I say after a pause.

“Such a shame. Penny, I mean. She was a good student, a great TA. If she had only trusted me, I might have been able to help her.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, then glances at me, his gray eyes flashing. “And you? Would you have helped her?”

“I did help her.” The words are out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think about what to say. Thankfully, my statement is general enough that it doesn’t give away exactly how much I helped Penny by not reporting her at the beginning of last quarter.

Nikiforov nods. “Good, good. I am happy to hear that.”

“She was my friend,” I say. “At least I thought so.”

I bite my lip. Burke knew Penny as a student, but all he seems to hold toward her is anger. Isobel and Adrian only knew Penny in passing. And Tristan . . . hates her with good reason. Nikiforov might be the only person here who knew Penny well and the only person I can ask about my fears without my questions feeling like some sort of betrayal.

“Do you know what’s going to happen to her?” I ask quietly.

“Most likely? She will be executed,” he responds.

And there it is, the thing I hadn’t wanted to think about. Penny may—or may not—have used me, but she doesn’t deserve to die, especially considering Allister isn’t dead and I’m at least ninety-nine percent certain she didn’t kill anyone. The little information she revealed about her family and her upbringing make me think she had her reasons for doing what she did, even if they’re a mystery to me. But there’s nothing at all that makes me think she’s a murderer.

For that matter, I find it hard to believe that the rogue shifter group suddenly decided murder was a good idea.

“Is there any way we can help her? Testify on her behalf or something?” I ask.

Nikiforov raises a brow and studies me closely. “And if there was? I was under the impression you were involved with Tristan St. James. Would that not have a negative effect on your relationship with him?”

“Tristan and I aren’t . . .” I let my words trail off and then shrug. “We aren’t together. Just kind of friends.”

“I see.” He rubs his chin. “Unfortunately, I am fairly certain there will not be a trial as she already confessed.”

“Oh.” I stare down at the floor and huff out a breath.

He pushes off the desk and walks to me, placing a hand on my arm to get my attention. “But let us not dwell on unpleasant things. We are here to work on your spellcasting, and to start with, I would like you to attempt a casting so I can observe some of the issues you are having.”

I glance around the office, my gaze landing on the shelf filled with bottles and boxes. “Something small I hope.”

His brow furrows. “Has Mr. Kostis not had you working with any sort of containment?”

I shake my head. “Not unless you count the walls of his office. There was a talisman I had that my birth mother left with me when she gave me to my parents that Basil said could dampen my powers, but he stored it away, and I haven’t seen it since I arrived here.”

“Your birth mother?” he asks.

“Yeah. I’m adopted.”

His eyes narrow in a pensive expression, and he cocks his head to the side as he studies my face again. This goes on for a second or two before he briskly shakes his head and then starts talking. “Ah well, the method I use will prevent any damage to your surroundings should the magic get out of control.” He paces to the bookshelf and presses his hand against the edge of the wooden paneling. A narrow and previously undetectable drawer pops out from the shelving.

Interesting. I wonder how many little hidey holes he has around here.

Nikiforov removes a box from inside before returning to me and presenting me with the box. I open the lid to find a simple braided silver chain. The necklace is so thin it looks as if it would break under the slightest pressure.

“A talisman? It looks too puny to have much power. Are you sure it’s strong enough?”

He smiles. “The object is more powerful than it appears.” He lifts the talisman from the box. “May I?”

I nod and turn around so he can fasten the chain around my neck. His fingers brush over my skin as he pulls away, and static pops between us. Other than that, I feel no different. I shoot him a skeptical look. “Are you sure this will work? I don’t want to destroy your office.”

“Positive,” he replies. “Now, please perform a spell. A light spell will do.”

I shrug. If he wants to risk his stuff based on only this necklace, then that’s his business. Like the other morning, I call up the tiniest bit of magic I can and allow it to form a small glowing ball in the palm of my hand.

“Now make it bigger,” says Nikiforov.

I eyeball him. “Are you absolutely sure that—”

“Just follow the instruction,” he snaps. A beat later, he winces. “I apologize. Please, continue.”

Okay then . . . I pull more magic and push it into the spell until the ball of light is nearly as big as my head, making this the biggest light spell I’ve ever attempted. But unlike other times when I’ve cast spells, that overwhelming feeling of ‘too much’ is missing, and the difference is reflected in my casting.

Nikiforov walks around me, observing the spell from all angles. “Now release it.”

And there’s the issue. I stare at the huge ball of light as I try to recall Isobel’s instructions from earlier.

Okay.

Close my hand.

Turn.

And let go.

The ball of light ricochets off the floor and zooms up toward the ceiling. Before the spell gets there, Nikiforov makes a sweeping motion with his hand and disperses the energy of the spell.

He looks at me, the hint of a smile on his lips. “You need to cut off the flow of magic into the spell before you release it.”

“Oh.” That sounds simple enough, stupidly so. Which is probably why no one has thought to tell me that before because it’s meant to be common sense.

I try again, this time cutting off the magic before attempting to release the spell. To my delight—and utter surprise—it works.

“Wonderful.” Nikiforov grins. “Now that I know what I’m working with, I will be better able to tailor my instruction to what you need.” He glances at the ceiling. “And what type of containment you need.”

“So, do I have to wear this necklace all the time now?”

“No,” he says, giving a sharp shake of his head. “You will wear that item during our spellcasting sessions. The existence of that particular piece must remain between you and me. It is not an item I am meant to have. But I have the makings of a potion that may help you when you and I are not working together.”

As long as something helps. I reach up to undo the clasp, but the thing is stuck fast. “Can you help me with this? The clasp is stuck.”

“Of course.” Nikiforov deftly removes the chain and gently places it in the box before returning it to the hidden drawer. He moves to one of the other shelves and sorts through the contents. “Ah, here we are.” He pulls a few ingredients down and combines them in an empty bottle then walks to his desk and sets the newly mixed potion down. “I need one more thing.”

He uses a small key he’s wearing around his neck to unlock one of the desk drawers and then pulls out a small, translucent packet filled with bright-purple powder. When he turns to find me watching, he says, “Like the chain, some of my ingredients are things I must keep hidden and secure lest they fall into the wrong hands.”

The wrong hands? Whose hands would those be?

He places the bag of powder on his desk, opens the potion bottle he retrieved before, then sprinkles a dash of the purple powder into the potion. After shaking it thoroughly and holding it up to the light, he tosses the bottle to me. “This should allow me to help with your control issue.”

I stare down at the small stoppered vial filled with silvery liquid, almost like mercury but thicker. The sludgy fluid sticks to the sides of the bottle as I spin it around. Any sign of the purple powder has disappeared. “What is it?”

“A potion for circumstances like yours.” He walks to me and takes the bottle from my hand, holding the glass up to the light again before handing the potion back to me. “Some of the ingredients can cause a bad reaction, nothing I’m too worried about, but you must avoid taking any other potions while the effects of this one are still active.” My face must have a hell of a skeptical expression on it because he chuckles and shakes his head. “Come now, Selene, do you honestly think I would give you something that would harm you?”

He’s a teacher for goodness sake, and he’s trying to help. “No, not really.”

“Bottoms up, then.”

I remove the stopper and tilt the bottle to my lips. The potion has a metallic taste and leaves a tingling sensation on my tongue that’s uncomfortable enough to be on the verge of painful. It takes me three tries to swallow all of the nasty liquid and, even afterward, I can feel it coating the back of my throat and lingering in my sinuses.

“Blech,” I say, sticking out my tongue. “That was decidedly gross.”

Nikiforov studies my face, his gaze intense. “But you are well?”

“Well enough, I guess.”

“Perfect.” He leans closer to look directly into my eyes for a second. Then he pulls away and walks to his desk, resuming his leaning pose from earlier. He’s paler now, and there’s an edge of worry to his expression, but he tries to hide it with a small smile. “I think this arrangement will work out well. Are Saturday afternoons convenient for you? That is when I tend to have free time. Does 3:00 p.m. work for you?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Perfect.” He walks toward me and then gently squeezes my shoulder. “I will see you in class on Monday.”

“Yeah. Monday. See you then.” Along with the awful taste in my mouth, the potion seems to have left my mind a little foggy.

As I walk out the door, he calls after me, “And, Selene, be careful involving your friends in things you don’t understand. Someone could have gotten hurt today.”

The words hurt even though they’re said without any tone of censure, and it’s not as if I hadn’t had the exact same thought earlier. If nothing else comes of today, I’ve learned I shouldn’t risk my friends just so I can practice. I’ll stick to working with Basil and Nikiforov. That would be safest for everyone.

The next two weeks leading up to the entry test fly by as the tension among the first-year students rises. Wards continue to be a struggle, but the Saturday sessions with Nikiforov are paying off. I’ve made a lot of progress with spells. Even outside of his office, my spellwork is better and seems to be mostly under control thanks, I assume, to the potion he gave me. Sometimes a sort of phantom of that metallic taste will pop up, and I’ll be a little foggy and tired, but I haven’t had any more outbursts of uncontrollable magic, and using my powers seems to be somewhat easier.

Confidence is an amazing motivator, and I’m almost excited about showing off what I can do during the entry test.

Testing Friday arrives cloudy, rainy, and cold, which hopefully isn’t some sort of bad omen. There are no classes today, and my testing appointment isn’t until 1:00, so I spend the morning sleeping in before going to the library for a few hours and then heading to the gym where the test is being held.

There is a set of tables right at the entrance, and the rest of the space is divided into six narrow aisles that span the length of the gym with four testing stations in each section, most of which currently have students in them. Only five people are ahead of me in the registration line—all but one of them fidgeting with their fingers and shuffling their feet—so it doesn’t take long before I reach the front.

“Name,” a male OSA agent says as I step up to the check-in table.

“Selene Andras.”

His gaze darts up from the tablet before him, and he compares my face to the picture I’m assuming is somewhere on there. He checks something off then hands me a slim metal band. “This talisman serves as your identification and will also track your progress through the tests. You are required to wear it at all times while you are in the testing area.”

“Okay.” I slide my hand through and adjust the band to sit loosely on my wrist.

“The talisman will turn red if you fail any portion or if it senses you are cheating in any way. You are not permitted any outside help. No wards, sigils, potions, or spells except for those you are being tested on and only during each particular part of the test.”

I nod, but I’m eyeing the bracelet with apprehension. What if the bracelet registers Nikiforov’s potion? Would that be an automatic failure? And what is the policy on using non-standard methods like the one Penny taught me. “What—”

“Next,” says the man as he waves me away impatiently.

I guess that’s all the instruction I get. My stomach twists with nervousness. Here goes nothing.

I walk to the first testing station in my assigned section. The woman sitting there checks my wrist band, taps on the screen of the tablet in front of her, then pulls out a small basket filled with various substances. Potions is first then?

“Fertilizer potion,” is all she says before pushing the basket across the table to me.

“What—”

“No questions,” the woman says as she stares at me intently, waiting.

Okay then . . .

I glance around. No beakers. No centrifuge. No lab supplies at all. Am I supposed to identify the fertilizer potion and then activate it? I don’t see what else I could possibly do. If I remember correctly, the fertilizer potion we made in class had to sit for a while before we activated it.

I start taking the little bottles out one by one, looking for the greenish-brown of an inactive fertilizer potion. There are three potential candidates, and I wrack my brain trying to choose between them.

One potion has a bit of gold in it, and the other two do not. I’m pretty sure fertilizer potions don’t have gold in them, so I put the first potion off to the side then pick up the other two, one in each hand. Now I have a fifty-fifty chance of picking correctly. Will I get another try if I activate the wrong potion? Probably not.

But how do I figure out the right one?

Tasting them probably isn’t a good idea, but smelling them could help.

I gently pull the stoppers out of the bottles and wave each one under my nose. One has a distinct earthy smell, and the other something more chemical. The earthy one then. I put the other bottle back in the basket and place the one I picked on the table in front of me.

This is a potion I’ve successfully activated before, so that’s good. But it was only once, and I had Dr. Nikiforov there walking me through it step by step.

I glance at the tester and then down to my wristband. Damn I wish I knew if I could use the method Penny taught me. She said it was a normal method, just more advanced, so it should be safe, right? I curse myself for not working any harder on learning the method I was taught in class. After I realized how much easier Penny’s method was for me, I stuck with it, and it’s never mattered before now.

I suppose I don’t have much choice though, do I? If the method I know isn’t good enough to get me through the entry test, I can’t imagine I’d do very well in the tournament itself.

I pick up the bottle and take a deep breath, focusing on the liquid sloshing around inside. Tugging gently at the magic in my chest, I let it flow out through my fingers and into the potion. At the same time, I pull a little magic from the air, sending a little of that in to mix with my internal magic. Hopefully that will look close enough to the normal activation method.

A few seconds later, the potion flashes bright green and then fades into a deep-hunter green. The color looks right, but I’m still not completely certain.

The tester pulls out a small pot filled with dirt from under the table. She pushes the pot across the table to me and jerks her chin.

I guess I’m supposed to use the potion. Taking a deep breath, I pull the stopper and tilt the bottle until a few drops land in the dirt. And wait.

Nothing happens.

My stomach twists. Maybe I didn’t use enough? I tilt the bottle again, this time getting more of a splash than a drip into the pot.

Still nothing.

My body goes cold as fear crawls into my stomach. This can’t be it. I can’t fail the first damn test put in front of me. Potions is one of my better subjects. If I can’t pass this section, do I even have a chance at the others? I have to pass all four portions to get into the tournament.

What if I don’t make it into the tournament?

I glance up at the tester, looking for direction, anything, but her expression is blank, offering me nothing at all. But . . . my bracelet hasn’t turned red, and she doesn’t seem to have failed me yet either.

My hand is shaking now as I move to pour a little more potion into the pot.

This time the result is immediate. An orange daylily shoots up from the dirt, coming into full bloom within seconds. Thank goodness. I release a slow breath of relief.

The tester checks something off on her tablet and then reaches across the table. “Your wristband please.”

I extend my arm so she can reach the band, and she runs a finger over it while she mutters what must be a spell under her breath. The band flashes green. Well, that’s good to know. Even if I fail a testing portion I won’t know until the tester checks my band, so failing won’t be an automatic thing if I take one wrong step. Maybe that means I would have other chances if I get something wrong?

“You may move to the next station,” the woman says.

I give her a shaky smile. “Thanks.”

No response, but then again, I didn’t really expect one. I move on to the next station.

This time, my tester is an older man. He’s in the same generic black suit that screams OSA, but at least he has a tiny smile for me. He checks my wristband, taps his finger on his tablet, and then says, “Light spell.”

I let out a small sigh of relief. A light spell is easy enough and doesn’t require any sort of props or supplies. Plus, I’m intimately familiar with light spells at this point.

I pull up some magic as I whisper the incantation, and a small ball of light appears in my hand.

“Now hold it,” the man says. He makes a motion with his hands that I recognize from the spellbreaking book Basil gave me. Am I supposed to hold the light against him trying to break it? Or is he just looking for seams or something like that?

The man’s brow furrows in concentration, and I can feel his magic creeping along the edges of my light spell. Interesting. His magic jabs at the spell, looking for weak spots, but my light holds steady. My magic, however, is not so steady and is itching to lash out at the strange magic wrapping around the spell in my hand. I grit my teeth and force the power back. I’m sure blowing up the tester would definitely fail me.

After about thirty seconds, the man withdraws his magic. He studies the light in my palm and waits. For what I’m not quite sure.

Five minutes later, he makes that motion with his hands again. This time, he closes his eyes as he comes after my spell. The attempted intrusions are stronger, steadier, but still my light never falters even though every bit of my mental strength is tied up in preventing my magic from retaliating against his attack.

He smiles at me. “Very good,” he says. “You may release it.”

I release the spell—and a relieved breath—into the air and extend my arm toward the tester. If the first one needed my band, this one will too.

He runs a finger over the band, and the band flashes green again.

“You may move to the next station,” he says.

I release another slow breath. Two down, two to go.

The next tester is another woman. She gives me a warm smile and gestures to the seat across from her. “Please, have a seat.”

Did they arrange the testers in order of improving attitude? I return her smile and sit down.

She checks my band, checks her tablet, and passes a sheet of paper that’s folded in half across the table to me.

“You’ll need to place a locking ward on this paper so that it cannot be unfolded,” the tester says. She tilts her head toward a cup filled with pens and pencils. “You may use any writing utensil you feel comfortable with.”

And here’s the true test for me. Can I make a ward on the first try without making any mistakes? I can’t imagine they’re going to let me erase anything and start over, so I might as well use pen since they make thicker, smoother lines.

I select a black one with a medium-point tip and twirl the pen between my fingers a few times as I stare down at the paper.

Locking wards have plenty of variations since they’re the most common type of ward, so what’s the simplest one I can think of?

The one from my first day of Wards class appears in my head. I suppose I can’t get much simpler than that.

I take a deep breath and steady my hand against the paper. A circle is the base of every ward, so I start with that. Of course, circles aren’t difficult, but next up comes the lines, and if the angles aren’t just right, my ward won’t work. I let a tiny, tiny bit of magic flow into my hand as I picture the angles I need to draw in my mind. I’ve never tried to let my magic guide me when drawing a ward, only traced one afterward to see if I did it correctly, but I’m hoping this will work. I let the magic guide my hand as much as possible, and the lines form quickly under my pen. They look good enough. I trace over them. The magic says they’re right.

Now comes the hard part: infusing it with power.

I release a little magic into the center of the ward, letting it fill the figure from the inside outward. The ward holds. It feels right, but I don’t know for sure. I glance up at the tester. “I think I’m done.”

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything as she pulls the now warded piece of paper toward her. First, she studies the ward, and then she picks at the edge of the paper trying to unfold it. Her efforts are unsuccessful.

The ward is good. I did it!

The tension in my chest releases, and I let out another slow breath. This entry test is a lot more nerve wracking than I expected.

My band flashes green again as the tester runs a finger over it before she marks me off. “Please continue to the last testing station.”

I can’t help the smile on my face. I’ve gotten past the difficult ones. All that’s left is the sigil test, and sigils are almost as natural as breathing to me. I’m still smiling when I sit down at the next station.

The last tester is a scrawny, grumpy looking man, his expression the worst of the bunch. His lips are pursed and his nose wrinkled as if in disgust. He looks like a weasel. He goes through the same motions as the others and then shoves a piece of paper across the table. “Awareness,” is all he says.

I grab a pen from the cup and sketch out the sigil in strong, bold lines. No hesitation. No second guessing myself. A smile rests on my lips as I draw the final line of the sigil, and its true name echoes through my mind.

Awaken.

The corner of the paper flutters as if caught in a gust of wind then settles again. Weird. I push the paper toward the tester.

His eyes are narrowed, and there’s something in his face that I don’t like. He studies the sigil, his eyes tracing over the lines, then purses his lips and nods. “Very well, then.”

I reach across so he can register my band. He runs his fingers over it, muttering under his breath. The band does nothing. No flash of green. Nothing at all.

The tester’s gaze darts up to me and then back to the band. He performs the spell a second time with the same result.

“Have you tampered with your band?” he finally asks.

“No,” I say. “It worked just fine at the other testing station, and it’s not like I had a ton of time walking between there and here.”

He scowls and goes through the spell for a third time.

This time the band does light up.

In bright, bright red.

“You cheated,” the tester says.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in Burke’s office with Burke, the tester guy whose name I still don’t know, and a female OSA agent I don’t recognize. Not surprisingly, no one is smiling, including me. I’m more pissed than anything. I may be crap at some things, but definitely not sigils. There’s no way I could have—or would have—cheated on that stupid test.

Most of the attention in the room is focused on Burke where he sits blank faced with his elbows resting on his desk and his fingers steepled together. I guess that means he’s the one who gets to make the call which should make me feel relieved. It doesn’t. His position is already precarious, and things could get so much worse for him. Is he going to be willing to take the risk of going against OSA on this?

“I didn’t cheat,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I wait for Burke to meet my gaze. “I have to be in the tournament to get my rank up, to stay here. I wouldn’t jeopardize that, and you know it.”

The tester speaks up. “Her band flashed red. There’s no mistaking what that means.”

The female OSA agent shares a look with Burke and holds up a hand. “Now, Agent Hill, we’ve had instances of faulty bands before. Perhaps the spell wasn’t anchored correctly?”

My eyes widen. Nice to know someone from OSA is on my side.

“Not possible,” replies Hill. “My station was the last, and she made it through the others without issue.”

Burke doesn’t say a word, not to defend me, not to interject, not even to question. I glare at him. Whatever his issue with OSA and with me, he knows I wouldn’t do this. Why isn’t he saying anything? He almost looks like he’s waiting for something . . .

Raised voices sound from the outer office as Seth tries to prevent someone from entering. He’s not successful. Seconds later, Agent Callahan comes barging in, his face stormy.

“I warned you, Burke,” he says. “If you can’t control your students, then—”

“Oh do shut up,” says Basil who stomps in behind Callahan, hair wild and eyes sparking with anger. I’ve never seen an expression like that on my tutor’s face. Ever. He’s normally so happy and composed, and right now he’s just . . . not. “What is the meaning of all this? Why wasn’t I notified of this meeting? As Head of Admissions, I—”

“Consider this your notification,” says Callahan in a snide voice. “One of your first-year students was caught cheating during the entry test.” His gaze goes to Burke. “We’re here to discuss her expulsion.”

Expulsion? I swallow. Loudly. My anger drains away to be replaced by a bleak kind of fear. If I get kicked out, what will happen to my parents? To me?

“Selene didn’t cheat,” says Basil. “It’s simply impossible. Your talisman must be defective.” He sends a scathing look at Hill. “Or the reveal spell was performed incorrectly.”

“Now, Mr. Kostis . . .” starts Callahan.

“This can all be settled very easily. A truth spell. I have the necessary components in my office. Shouldn’t take much more than ten minutes to whip one up,” says Basil. He walks over to stand behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Selene is a bright young woman who has earned her place here. You there . . .” He points at Hill. “The test you administered before the malfunction, she passed it correct?”

“Yes,” says Hill almost hesitantly. “Her sigil work was quick, efficient, and she drew a perfect representation of the required sigil.” He pauses. “But that doesn’t negate the fact that her band flashed red.”

Basil huffs. “Aren’t your talismans set to flash during the test if cheating is involved?”

“Well . . . yes,” says Hill.

“And did that happen?”

“No. But there was an . . . oddity,” replies Hill.

The female OSA agent raises a brow.

“Right after she finished, a breeze lifted up the edge of the paper, but there was no breeze in the room,” continues Hill. “I believe it could have been the product of whatever spell she used to cheat.”

Basil scoffs. “So, it is your opinion that a spelled breeze of some sort assisted Selene in drawing a sigil? How exactly do you propose that worked?”

Hill crosses his arms over his chest. “I, uh, I’m not sure.”

“Of course.” Basil rolls his eyes. “Rather than bother with a truth spell, we should have Selene retake the test right here, right now. With all of us in the room she couldn’t possibly cheat.” He glances at Callahan. “Would that satisfy you, Agent Callahan?”

Callahan narrows eyes but gives a stiff nod.

Burke withdraws a piece of paper from his desk drawer and then pushes the paper across to me. I grab a pen and start the first line of the Awareness sigil.

Basil grabs my wrist. “Quiet. Draw the Quiet sigil.”

“But the test required that she draw Awareness,” says Hill.

“No,” says Basil. “The test requires that she demonstrate proficiency in drawing a sigil. It doesn’t matter which one. Besides, if she did cheat, she won’t be able to do it again if she’s drawing a different sigil.” He nods toward the paper and squeezes my shoulder with one hand. “Go ahead, dear. Draw Quiet.”

I sketch out the sigil, again with long, bold lines. Once I finish the last line, I set the pen down and then rest my hands in my lap.

The female OSA agent moves closer to examine the paper. “She draws without hesitation and with good rhythm.” She looks to Callahan. “I don’t believe she cheated. I think it’s best that we declare the band malfunctioned and allow her to pass.”

“You’re certain?” asks Callahan.

She nods.

“Very well, then,” says Callahan. He turns his attention to me and narrows his eyes. “I’m watching you, Ms. Andras. I think you’re hiding something. Do not think that today’s events mean that I will be lenient with you on other matters.” He glances pointedly at Basil and then Burke. “No matter who’s protecting you.” Callahan signals Hill. “Go back to the testing center to observe the other tests. Hopefully, there won’t be any more issues today.”

Hill leaves the room, followed by Callahan. The female agent stays behind, leaning against the wall and eyeing me with curiosity until the door closes behind the other agents. “Vivian Ramirez,” she says, holding her hand out as she walks toward me. “I’m one of OSA’s sigils specialists. Tina Anderson has mentioned your name to me, and Desmond requested that I be here for this, and now I can see why.” She tilts her head to the side. “Have you always had such an affinity for sigils? How old were you when you started studying them?”

“I drew my first sigil about three weeks ago,” I say, immediately wanting to take the words back. Burke told me to stay under the radar with OSA, so I’m not so sure telling this woman the truth is the way to go.

Vivian’s eyes widen slightly as her gaze darts to Burke.

He inhales, jaw tense, as if he’s debating. After a few more seconds of silence, in a voice stripped of all inflection he says, “She’s the Andras heir. Helen’s child.”

He’s giving up the pretense that I’m a distant relation? Why? What the hell is going on here?

Burke meets my gaze, an apology written in his eyes.

“Impossible,” says Vivian. “Helen Andras had no children.”

Burke walks around his desk, sits in his chair, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is a disaster.”

Vivian glances back and forth between us. “What the hell is going on, Desmond?”

“If you had any love for Helen at all, what I’m about to tell you cannot make it out of this office,” he responds.

I study the woman more closely. Does this mean she was friends with Helen?

“Don’t tell me,” Vivian says as she sends a pained look in my direction. “I can’t guarantee I can keep your secrets, so don’t tell me anything I can’t bring back to my superiors. I’ll need to be able to answer their questions if I’m to handle the fallout of this.” She massages her temples. “If she’s the Andras heir, where has she been?”

“Helen left her to be raised by shifters, the pack she was friends with as a teenager. She left instructions with them to contact Basil if Selene ever manifested, which she clearly did.” He pauses. “You know what the Coven Council would do were they to find out shifters had raised a witch, particularly one from a prominent lineage. It was best that Selene be admitted here so she could be under the protection of OSA while we figured out a more permanent solution.”

“And the reason the Andras family hasn’t been notified, the reason she’s listed only as a distant relation given permission to use the name?”

“It is a delicate situation. I was not certain what Nikolas would do,” replies Burke.

She sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll do what I can, but I have to notify them. I don’t have a choice.”

“I understand. Do what you need to.” He sends a sad smile my way. “I do apologize that this could not be done on your own terms, but after today’s events, it is for the best.”

I nod stiffly. I understand why he’s doing this, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make my own request. Turning to Vivian, I ask, “Can you give me until the end of the quarter? Before saying anything to them I mean.”

“I suppose I could wait,” she says. “But why? I understand that it might be awkward for a bit and you might receive more attention than normal for a while, but isn’t knowing your family a good thing?”

“I already know my family,” I say in a low voice. “George and Aileen Monroe are my mom and dad. Nikolas and Thea Andras are strangers.”

“But the monetary benefits alone—”

The door opens again, and Ms. Anderson rushes in. “So sorry I’m late.” She glances at Burke. “I saw Callahan storming through the halls. Did everything go okay?” He nods, and Ms. Anderson lets out a sigh of relief. Her gaze falls on Vivian. “Selene is every bit the wonder with sigils as I said she was, right?”

“She is, yes.” Vivian gives Ms. Anderson a small smile then nods at Burke. “I’ll make sure Callahan doesn’t try to push this any further.” To me, she says, “And I’ll delay for as long as I can, but if I’m asked a direct question, I can’t lie for you.”

I nod in acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

Vivian links arms with Ms. Anderson. “I believe you owe me a tour. That was the agreement for me rushing over here to save your star student, right?”

The slightest bit of pink appears in Ms. Anderson’s cheeks. “That I do.” She darts a glance back at Burke. “Will everything be all right if we go?”

Burke waves a hand toward the door. “Go ahead. Basil and I will work something out.”

Vivian and Ms. Anderson leave the room, and the door’s barely shut behind them before Basil turns to me, his stare intense. “What do you see when you look at sigils?”

“Um . . .” My gaze darts to the sigil on the paper and then to Basil. “The form of it?”

He shakes his head briskly. “No, no, no.” He taps at his chin with one finger. “I’m not phrasing that correctly. Tina said you asked about the names of the sigils in class. What did you mean by that? What do the sigils say to you?”

I point at the sigil I drew earlier. “This one is Silence.”

Basil’s mouth drops open. “There hasn’t been a witch who could read the true names in decades.”

“The true names?” I ask.

“Sigils are written in the language of the fae. There are some who can read them, but most cannot.” Basil shakes his head. “But the books . . . You never showed any inclination, any ability . . .”

“What point are you trying to make, Basil?” asks Burke.

But Basil’s full attention is on me, and he appears to not even hear Burke’s question. “The books I gave you last quarter, none of them ever . . . spoke to you like the sigils?”

I think back to the stack of books he gave me, trying to remember anything at all special about them, and draw a blank. “No?”

He nods to himself. “She’ll need special instruction. Extra lessons in sigils. And I can’t trust it to . . . no . . .” He seems to be speaking to himself more than to anyone else in the room. “We’ll need to . . . no . . . I need to do some research. I had some suspicions, but this doesn’t fit, not if she can’t read the books.”

“What suspicions?” asks Burke.

But Basil has gone off on one of his tangents, half mumbling to himself.

“Basil, pay attention,” says Burke.

The old man startles, his eyes going wide, before smiling. “Sorry. Sometimes I get lost in my own head.” He taps his knuckles against his temple. “Too much information, not enough space.”

Burke gives him a fond smile. “So . . . your suspicions?”

“One of my original theories was that Selene’s birth father may be from one of the fae-touched family lines, though they live almost exclusively in Europe or Asia,” says Basil. At my blank look, he explains, “Remember I mentioned some influxes of fae blood into witch lines around three centuries ago? Witches from those families are more likely to be able to read the language. They have a natural affinity for it, but if you can’t read the books . . .”

A realization hits me. Basil gave me the stack of books after I’d been particularly pushy about asking questions about my birth parents. They weren’t anything special besides being old and were mostly about history Basil and I had discussed in class, but there were a few of them in languages I couldn’t read.

The books must have been some sort of test.

That I apparently failed.

Basil shakes his head and pats my hand. “It was only a guess, dear. I didn’t want to get your hopes up at the time.”

I shrug. “It’s okay.”

“But Basil does bring up an interesting point,” says Burke. “I believe our search for information about your powers should start with identifying your birth father. Even knowing his family line might answer some questions.” He presses his lips together. “There is, perhaps, an opportunity for you to find some more information. I, uh, have heard you are attending a party at the Andras’ estate.”

“The only people who know that . . .” I blink at him and cock my head to the side. “Tristan told you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Burke clears his throat awkwardly. “Tristan . . . watches over you. At my request.”

What the hell?

“For how long?” I ask in a flat voice.

Burke’s gaze falls to his desk as he rubs the back of his neck. “It was for his benefit as much as it was for yours. I thought he could do with some interaction with someone outside his normal social circle.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Well—”

“Since the beginning,” says Basil. “I told Desmond I thought you and Tristan would be good together.”

“So, you two were playing matchmaker or something?” I stare at Burke with widened eyes.

“I was putting someone I trusted in a position to watch over you,” says Burke in a dry voice. “I admit I underestimated the . . . volatility of your reactions to each other.”

Basil beams. “I was playing matchmaker.”

I rest my forehead in my palm. Tristan was spying on me twice over last quarter, for both his mother and Burke. What am I supposed to do with that information? It certainly explains a lot, but not everything, certainly not the kiss. And apparently he’s still spying for Burke. Is that why Tristan was so hot and cold and then suddenly all anxious to be friends? The idea that his awkward little speech wasn’t genuine stings. Was all of his recent friendly behavior faked?

“So . . . what? You told him to take me to the party so I can poke around my grandparents’ house?”

“No,” says Burke. “He came up with the idea for taking you to the party on his own. It was not until he told me about it that I considered the idea of asking you to take a look around during the party. Nikolas and Thea will be busy with their guests and . . .”

My jaw drops. “Seriously?”

Burke’s lips thin, and his expression tightens. Clearly the prim and proper director isn’t used to asking for something so ill-mannered as using the distraction of a party to snoop through the host’s things.

“The party is an ideal situation,” says Basil. “If Helen left any information behind, this would be our best chance at retrieving it.”

“So, you want me to drag Tristan around to—”

“No,” says Burke. “I would prefer he not be involved in that portion of the evening. In fact, I would prefer he not know about it at all. Were you to be caught . . . Well, you are their granddaughter. But if Tristan were to be caught, I am unsure what his family would do, not to mention what your family would do.”

He has a point. Playing dumb or even using the ‘long lost family’ card would work for me, but definitely not for Tristan. Knowing what I do about the witch world, I imagine the repercussions for him would not be pleasant, no matter which family they came from.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but fine. I’ll do it. I’ll search the Andras’ house to see if I can find any information that might be helpful.” I sigh. “How will I know where to look though? If their house is anything like the St. James estate, it probably has a million rooms.”

“Don’t worry,” says Basil, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I’ll take care of that problem.”

A little over a week later, the Saturday of the party arrives. The second I wake up, nerves take over, and now that stupid party—the one my idiotic self agreed to go to—is only hours away, and I have no idea what I’m doing.

What the hell was I thinking? Why did I agree to this?

Basil still hasn’t told me how I’m supposed to know where to look for things.

I don’t have anything to wear. When I asked Adrian about the dress he promised, he only winked and said it would be here. It’s very much not.

And I haven’t really said much to Tristan since finding out he was spying on me for Burke. Well, nothing beyond general greetings and stuff about classes. I’m not exactly mad at him, but since the idea that he may have faked everything hurts more than I’m willing to admit, and I’m never quite sure if I should kiss him or punch him . . . I’ve kind of been avoiding him.

Which might make tonight a teeny bit awkward. As if it wasn’t going to be awkward enough . . .

This is a fancy party attended by the elite of witch society. I’ll be surrounded by power and money and attitude . . . What have I gotten myself into?

I’m going to make a complete idiot out of myself. That is, if anyone does more than mistake me for a servant, because there’s no doubt in my mind, my level of class is probably below those of any employees of my grandparents’ household.

Of course, that’s only a worry if I make it to the party and not something I should bother worrying about right now.

The best thing for me to do is concentrate on the one thing I might be able to do something about: my wardrobe issue. An illusion spell isn’t an ideal solution, especially since Isobel isn’t here to help, but it’s the best option I have. Anything at all would be better than showing up in jeans and flip-flops.

I think.

I eye the pathetic clothing options I have spread out on my bed. This is never going to work. Even if I was skilled enough to cast the illusion spells, nothing I have is anywhere near good enough for an event like this.

Maybe I should just back out . . .

Isobel returns from lunch to find me pacing back and forth across our dorm room, still in my pajamas with every item of clothing I have strewn across my bed. She tosses an apple my way.

“You need to put something in your stomach or you’re going to make yourself sick,” she says.

“Too late,” I say. “My stomach is a no vacancy zone. It’s completely filled with nerves.”

“You have nothing to worry about. If you don’t like it, if something goes wrong, I’m sure Tristan will be willing to leave. I get the impression these parties aren’t exactly his cup of tea either.” She grabs my shoulders to stop my pacing. “You’ll be fine.”

“I will not be fine.” I fling my hand toward the bed. “I don’t even have anything to wear. Adrian promised me a dress, and it’s not here. How the hell am I supposed to fix that problem?”

“He said—”

Someone knocks and Isobel walks over to open the door. She lets out a sigh of relief when she sees the girl standing there with two boxes: one large and rectangular, and the other looks like it might hold shoes. “I knew Adrian wouldn’t let you walk into the lion’s den without the proper armor.”

“He cut it a little close though,” I say.

She thanks the delivery girl and takes the items before shutting the door and turning to me with glee in her eyes. “Let’s see what he picked out.”

I grab the box from her and take it over to my bed then slide the top off. Holy crap. Tucked within semi-transparent sheets of tissue paper is a dress in a shimmering deep, dark gold color with an intricate black lace overlay on the bodice. I gently lift the dress from the box so I can see the whole thing. The fitted top flows into a full, floor-length skirt, and the lace from the front extends to the rear where it stops almost indecently low and leaves the entire back of the dress open.

Isobel sucks in a breath. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” I hold the dress up to my body, forcing a smile onto my face. “I’m going to look like an idiot. I’ve never worn something like this.”

“Nonsense,” she says. “Stop thinking about things like that. Where’s the confident, in your face roommate I’ve come to know and love?”

“I don’t even want to look at the shoes,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time I wore heels.”

Isobel rolls her eyes then opens the shoe box and pulls out a pair of strappy heels in a matching gold color. Thankfully, the heels are short enough that I might manage to not break my neck in them.

“Well, that’s better than I expected.” I release a slow breath. “And one less thing for me to worry about.”

Isobel sets the shoes down, takes the dress from me, and gently places it back into the box it came in. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I let out a dry chuckle. “Really? What if my powers act up? What if I get caught snooping around?” I pause. “What if they hate me?”

“You’ll be there as Tristan’s date, not as their granddaughter. You can blend into the background and ignore everyone if you need to.”

“I somehow don’t think it’s going to be quite that simple,” I say, letting out a sigh.

There’s another knock at the door, and both Isobel and I straighten and share a confused look. Who could that possibly be? Isobel opens the door to reveal Basil on the other side.

He beams at us as he shuffles into the room. “Oh good, I was hoping to see your dress before I did the spellwork.”

Spellwork?

Basil leans over the open box and brushes a finger over the shimmery gold fabric. “Yes, I can work with this color.” He removes a pendant from his pocket and moves it toward his mouth as he whispers. When he pulls the necklace away and holds it up, the pendant is a matching gold color shot through with narrow veins of black. “Perfect.”

Neither Isobel nor I respond, and he smiles at us again before holding the necklace out to me. “Go on, dear. Take it.”

I take what must be a talisman from his hand. “What does it do?”

“The spell on it will help you find what you’re looking for,” he says.

“That sounds awfully vague,” I say. “What exactly does that mean?”

He closes my fingers around the talisman. “The spell’s purpose is meant to be a little vague since we cannot be sure what you’ll find. It will help direct you where to go based on what you most need in a particular moment. Just rub your thumb across the stone to activate it. This spell is temporary and you will only get two, maybe three, uses out of it, so make them count.”

I nod.

“The underlying permanent spell is the dampening one. I don’t think you should be away from the school wards without something to hide your powers in case you attract the attention of the wrong people. A party full of OSA employees would most certainly contain the wrong people.”

I let the necklace dangle from my fingers. “So, this is like the talisman you made for Helen?”

“It is the talisman I made for Helen,” he replies. “I merely changed the color to match your dress so the talisman wouldn’t stick out. I wouldn’t have had time to redo the permanent spellwork on a completely new talisman. They aren’t particularly simple to make, you know.”

I don’t actually know, but a glance at Isobel and her quick nod confirms it for me. “Okay. Well . . . thank you?”

Basil pats me on the shoulder. “No need for thanks, dear. Just be careful.”

“I’ll try.”

Basil smiles at me before bustling out of the room, and my roommate shuts the door behind him.

I spend the next hour getting ready. Isobel helps me with my makeup and twists my hair into a style that looks effortless but is really held up with so many bobby pins I might set off a metal detector. She takes the dress out and helps me step into it then carefully pulls the fabric into place and zips up the back before fastening the talisman around my neck.

The dress fits perfectly and the shimmering fabric combined with my smoky eye makeup makes me look like some sort of femme fatale from an old school James Bond movie. The effect is . . . wow.

Isobel grins. “You look amazing,” she says. Her face shifts into a more mischievous look. “I can’t wait to see what Tristan thinks.”

Me either.

Someone knocks at the door, two quick taps, and my heartbeat goes into overdrive. Whether from the idea of where I’m headed or the fact that Tristan is on the other side of that door I don’t know. I thought I was ready for this, but maybe not. Swallowing back my nerves as much as possible, I open the door and give Tristan my best not-nervous smile.

“Hi, Tristan,” says Isobel from behind me. “You look rather dashing this evening.”

Yes, he really does. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything more than a rented tux for a high school dance, so seeing this tailored version of the formal attire is something else. Every line looks cut to flatter Tristan’s form, from broad shoulders to narrow waist, and the effect is jaw dropping, much like the boy himself. He’s clean-shaven, his dark-blond hair tamed into a style that’s close to slicked back, but a few errant strands escape to fall over his forehead and soften the look. Add it all together with the wide, dimpled smile and bright, golden-brown eyes and I’m stumped for words.

“Yes, well, thank you?” says Tristan. He appears unsettled, and he’s fidgeting with his hands. “The dress suits you, Selene. You look lovely.”

Heat rises in my cheeks, and I avert my eyes. “Thanks.”

“I wasn’t sure on the sizing, but—”

“Wait,” I say, my gaze darting up to meet his. “The dress was from you?”

“Yes?” His brows draw together. “Who did you think it was from?”

“Adrian . . .”

“Oh.” He stares down at the floor. “Well, it was Dumont’s idea anyway.” His gaze comes back up, and he flashes me a strained smile. “Are you ready?”

“As I’m going to be,” I say. I call out a quick goodbye to Isobel before Tristan and I make our way outside.

When we reach the quad, Tristan tucks my hand into his elbow and leads me toward the parking lot and to a silver Mercedes, which is definitely not the car he had before. I give him a questioning look.

“Mother . . . She took away my car.” His gaze goes everywhere but to me. “Dumont volunteered his.”

“That’s . . . uh . . . nice of him?”

Tristan laughs. “Believe me, I’m sure I’ll be paying for it in the end somehow. Besides, he did it for you, not for me.” He pauses as he opens the passenger side door and waits for me to get inside. “You two are . . . close.”

That’s an odd comment. Is Tristan jealous? There’s absolutely nothing like that going on between me and Adrian, and there never will be. He’s fun and he’s my friend, but he’s a little too wild for me.

“I find it hard to believe that anyone who takes the time to get to know Adrian isn’t close to him,” I finally say. “He’s one of those people who’s like a force of nature. Once you’re in the inner circle, you’re stuck with him.”

Tristan nods absentmindedly and glances down to check to see if my dress is all the way in before shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s side. He starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot, smoothly shifting gears as he exits onto the main road. An awkward tension hangs heavy in the air between us, and I have no idea how to dispel it.

I chuckle nervously. “I don’t know why I didn’t ask this before, but how far is it to the party?”

“About an hour’s drive,” he replies. “The estate is in Western Albemarle County.”

I nod and then reach out to fiddle with the radio. Finding a generic pop station, I settle back in my seat and watch the trees go by outside the window as I digest the information he just gave me.

My grandparents live maybe twenty minutes from where I grew up. Do my parents know that? Does Connor? They knew who my birth mother was all along, so I find it hard to believe that they know nothing of my biological family. But why keep it from me? I was a happy kid, and I love my parents. Were they scared to lose me? I wouldn’t have gone running off to some people I don’t even know.

Connor mentioned something about Helen wanting to hide me for my own protection. But protection from whom? Am I going against everything Helen wanted by becoming involved in the witch world? Even more than earlier, I wish I’d had the time to talk to my parents about this. Burke knows where they are, or at least has their number. I could have asked him to get in touch with them.

But I didn’t.

I jumped into this and—

“Everything will be fine,” says Tristan, pulling me out of my thoughts. “I—” He breaks off and glances at me from the corner of his eye. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I can promise you that much.”

That is . . . not what I expected and somehow not as reassuring as he seems to think it is. What are the bad things that could happen?

He releases the gear shift and grabs my hand, the one that’s pulling at my dress. “You’ll ruin the fabric.” I huff out a laugh, and he slides his fingers in between mine. “Everything will be fine.”

“If you say so . . .”

“I do say so.” He gives me a small smile and squeezes my hand.

I return the smile, but mine is strained. I want to believe he’s right and that the sincerity in his voice is real, but I don’t know what to believe about him anymore. How much of the feeling between us is real? How much is faked? And how do I tell the difference? I can’t trust my instincts on this when so much of me wants to believe in him. When so much of me simply wants him.

I go back to staring out the window.

The rest of the ride passes in a companionable silence with nothing but the soft sounds of the radio playing in the background, and soon Tristan pulls to a stop in front of a large gate. I expect him to use an intercom or something, but the gate actually appears to be controlled by a ward. I’m not sure how the ward knows who’s invited or who’s allowed in, but I imagine it’s somewhat similar to how a blood ward works.

The gate opens on silent hinges, and Tristan slowly makes his way up the long driveway. The path to the house is twisty, and I expect to see it come into view after every curve, but this driveway is longer than Ravencrest’s, longer even than the one at Tristan’s parent’s residence, and it takes ages for the house to come into view.

I suck in a sharp breath. The place is huge. Bigger than Tristan’s parents’ and near to the size of one of the Ravencrest dorms. Perfectly maintained lawn space spreads out behind the house in gently rolling hills before ending at a short stone wall with woods on the other side. There are even some of those shaped bush things . . . What are they called? Topiaries? Yeah, those.

If I didn’t know it before, it’s obvious now: I’m in way over my head.

Fancy cars line the drive leading up to the wide walkway in front of the house. Each car stops, passengers get out—with assistance from an attendant, of course—and those who don’t have drivers switch places with valets. We’re the sixth car in line, and as the cars ahead of us deliver their passengers, we inch closer and closer.

And my dread grows stronger and stronger.

Tristan grabs my hand, squeezes, and when that gets no response, he gently turns my face toward him with a finger on my chin. “You’re better than this. You have more fire than this. You had no problem telling me exactly what you thought of me that very first day. Don’t let the grandeur or the jewels or anything else make you forget these are simply ordinary people. No matter what they say or do tonight, they can’t affect you. This isn’t your life unless you choose it.”

This is one of those times I very much want to believe the warmth in his words and the sincerity in his eyes. When he says things like that it makes me want things I shouldn’t.

Like him.

I say nothing, just give him a grateful smile, thanking him for the kind words whether he means them or not.

And now it’s our turn.

The attendant opens my door and reaches down to assist me from the car. He waits with me until Tristan has exited the vehicle and walked around to take my arm. Tristan places my hand in his bent elbow then rests his other hand on top of mine as we venture up the wide walkway to the double doors leading in to the house.

But first, we get to go through another line. As each group of people or couple approaches the door, a gentleman there speaks with them, and then gestures for them to enter.

At our turn, the guy at the door raises an eyebrow.

“Tristan St. James,” says the boy at my side. “And guest.”

The door guy dips his chin and sweeps his hand toward the front door. “Welcome, sir, madam.”

Tristan leads me through the door, his shoulders back and his steps sure. In this moment, I am so very glad he’s here with me. I would have never done this on my own. Or, if I had, I would have run at the sight of the topiaries.

We’re in a large . . . hall? Room? I’m not sure what to call it. Maybe it’s because I never saw the main part of the St. James house, but this place seems levels above the stuffiness of that one. Would I have grown up here? From what I’ve heard, it’s common to share residences in the more prominent families, and this place is much too big for only two people. At least ten people could live in this house and still never see each other.

We find ourselves in another line, this time making our way toward a second set of double doors that lead into a large room, seemingly where the party is being held.

There’s a couple standing outside the doors, greeting guests as they pass and, as we draw closer, I inhale sharply.

The couple is them. Nikolas and Thea. My biological grandparents.

And behind them . . . A large portrait of Nikolas and Thea and a little girl with my dark hair, my olive skin, and my nose. The little girl must be Helen.

Why didn’t anyone tell me how strong the resemblance was? Certainly I have plenty of features courtesy of my unknown father, but I don’t know how my grandparents will miss my resemblance to their daughter.

The sudden urge to run strums in my veins, and I even take a stutter step backward, as if it’s midnight and I’m Cinderella and my coach is about to turn into a pumpkin.

Tristan’s hand brushes against the bare skin of my lower back, and he gently urges me forward. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “It will be fine. The odds they’re paying attention to anything but greeting their guests is slim.” He laughs softly against my neck, a bare whisper of breath, sending chills down my spine. “That is, if you relax. You look like a hunted animal.”

The tension drains out of me as he rubs small circles on my lower back. I can do this. I can.

And we’re next.

I plaster a smile on my face as Tristan leads me up to them.

Nikolas quirks a brow, and his gaze goes from Tristan’s feet to his face. “Bernadette sent you?”

Tristan offers a tight smile and half a nod, I’m assuming because Bernadette didn’t actually send him. “Always a pleasure, Nikolas.” He dips his chin in Thea’s direction. “You look lovely this evening, Thea.”

“Thank you, Tristan,” says Thea. My grandmother’s expression is a tad warmer, her smile small but there, and she doesn’t give him the disappointed look my grandfather did. Her attention moves to me, her brow furrowing as she openly stares at my face. She tilts her head to the side, thoughtful.

“May I introduce my guest, Selene . . .” Tristan’s eyes widen a fraction, and I realize what the problem is. He can’t exactly give them the Andras name, and he doesn’t know the name I grew up with.

What do I do? Is it bad form to introduce myself? Is that worse than letting them think he doesn’t know my last name?

Ignoring Tristan’s dangling introduction, Thea smiles warmly as she reaches down to grab my hand. She squeezes it in between two of hers. “A pleasure to meet you, dear.”

“Oh, um, you too.” I flash a strained smile in her direction and then one at Nikolas. “You too, sir.”

Nikolas barely spares me a glance, just gives a noncommittal nod, his gaze already focused on the couple behind us.

Tristan’s hand again presses against my lower back, and I allow him to usher me past my grandparents and into an area that reminds me of the ballroom at Ravencrest, though maybe not quite so large and bright. There are alcoves along the walls, and the room is lit by a similar chandelier, but this one is more intricate, more ostentatious.

Waiters in black pants and white shirts move throughout the crowd of people carrying silver trays. A waiter with a tray full of glasses passes near us, and Tristan snags two of them, handing one of them to me. He downs the liquid in a few quick gulps and then deposits the empty glass on another server’s tray.

I take a hesitant sip, and the slightly dry, bitter taste of champagne hits my tongue. No doubt it’s some fancy vintage, but champagne isn’t really my thing. Shifters don’t drink and, despite the fact underage drinking seems to be expected and maybe even encouraged in the witch world, alcohol in general isn’t my thing either. I lower the glass and hold it at my side, twisting the stem between two fingers. I send a nervous glance at Tristan from the corner of my eye, looking for what I don’t know, but whatever it is, I don’t find it.

The hastily tossed back glass of champagne appears to have had no effect on him. He’s got a fake smile on his face, the armor he uses with ninety-nine percent of the population. The only crack in his demeanor is the quick and very visible way he swallows, like he’s choking back his actual personality so he can survive here.

“I’m aware you didn’t sign up for the schmoozing portion of the evening, but if Nikolas is under the impression my mother sent me as a representative, I need to . . . make the rounds, such as it is.” He glances down at me, his gaze softening slightly. “You can wait here if you want?”

My gaze darts around the room. Wait here? In this pit of vipers? By myself? I shake my head. “I’d rather not.” I pause. “Monroe. That’s the name you can introduce me by. If it comes up again.”

The corners of his lips lift in an infinitesimal smile, and he nods in acknowledgment.

And then we’re off. Tristan leads me from one side of the room to the other, one group of people to the next, his hand a constant presence at my waist, brushing against my arm, pressing against the small of my back. He makes introductions, but most of the names go in one ear and out the other. Not that it matters. Once whatever people we’re—he’s—talking to realize I’m no one of any real import, at least not as far as they know, they somewhat blatantly ignore me.

An hour later, we’ve barely made it halfway around the room, every group we pass pulling Tristan into long-winded conversations on subjects I couldn’t care less about.

Tristan and I are standing with five other people, me off slightly to one side and barely part of the conversation, and my boredom at this point has led to me finding my taste for champagne. Or at least my thirst has led to it. There’s not a single other drink I can see, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask for something else or what . . . so I drink the champagne.

Not my best idea. I’ve only had two glasses and my face is warm, my toes a little numb, and my head a little foggy. Why did I drink all that champagne again? Even worse than the fact that I’m more than a little buzzed and bound to make a fool out of myself, I really, really have to pee.

And I have no clue what the procedure is. Or is it etiquette? I don’t freakin’ know.

Tristan is so involved in his conversation with these people that I don’t want to pull him out of it. He looks like he might even be enjoying himself. He’s animated, his hands punctuating his words and his eyes bright. He looks . . . like he belongs here. The contrast between us has never been clearer, because I definitely do not belong here.

And I don’t want to be here.

At the same time, I don’t want to take Tristan away from the party when he’s so clearly in his element. So, I slink away. Like a coward. I let myself fade into the background of the conversation and ever so slowly remove myself from it, moving to one of the alcoves along the wall.

Stepping into the alcove doesn’t completely cut me off from the room, but the space feels private somehow, like I can stand here and observe with no one knowing. Of course, that doesn’t solve my bathroom problem. The talisman might solve my issue, but I don’t think finding a bathroom is the use Basil had in mind for it, and I don’t want to waste the spell.

I toss back the last few drops of champagne in my glass and look for one of the waiters carrying an empty tray. The closest one is across the room. Maybe I can ask him about a bathroom when I pass off my glass. Like, low-key whisper it or something.

Or what if I slid my way into one of these groups, waited for a break in the conversation, and then asked?

Someone chuckles behind me, and I spin around, almost losing my balance, but the man grabs my arm and holds me steady.

“You look lost,” he says with a glint in his eyes that he really shouldn’t be aiming in my direction since he’s at least forty.

I squint at him as I tilt my head to the side. Dark curls, brown eyes . . . Why does he look so familiar?

The guy must take my intense studying of him as some sort of positive signal because he grabs my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles. What is with rich people and doing that? It’s so weird.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he says.

“Nope. Don’t think so,” I reply.

He waits. For me to offer my name? Am I supposed to go first?

His lips curl into an amused smile, and once again I’m struck by how damn familiar he looks. “Charles Dumont.”

Dumont?

“You’re related to Adrian,” I blurt out. “That’s why you look so familiar.” And also, why I should maybe be a little wary of this guy. Besides saying his brother isn’t quite as much of an ass as the rest of them, Adrian has never had anything good to say about his family members.

Charles’s smile turns knowing. “You know my nephew? Does that mean you are a student at Ravencrest?”

“Yes, I’m Selene,” I say, holding out a hand.

Another amused tilt of his lips as he takes my hand for a second time, this time in the more traditional greeting. “I haven’t seen you at one of these parties before. Is it your first time?”

“Yes. I—yes.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?” His expression is so open and his smile so warm and, well, familiar that I find myself answering honestly.

“Not really. I’m bored out of my mind,” I say, leaning a little closer. Why risk making a bigger fool of myself and asking a stranger, when I have someone right here? “And can you, please, tell me where I can find a restroom?”

He laughs, head back, mouth open. “I am certainly capable of helping you find the restroom.” He pushes open a door I hadn’t noticed in the back of the alcove and gestures toward the hallway behind it. “Take your first left, and it should be the second room on the right after that.”

Without even thanking him, I rush into the dim hallway and the door closes behind me, taking all the noise of the party with it.

I follow Charles’s directions. Or I think I do, but the room I find is some sort of sitting room, definitely not a bathroom.

Could Charles have given me false directions? What would be the point? Maybe just to be an asshole like Adrian says all his family members are.

Glancing up and down the hall, I take stock of my surroundings. There has to be a bathroom around here somewhere.

I take slow steps, eyeballing each door I pass. They all look rather . . . stately? Ornate? None of them look like a bathroom would be behind them. I turn a corner only to find myself facing another long hallway. This place is like a freaking maze. Even if I find my way to a bathroom by myself, how in the hell am I going to find my way back?

I guess I’ll have to leave that problem for ‘later me.’

It takes another fifteen minutes, but eventually I locate a bathroom tucked into the far end of a narrow hallway and find some relief. I wash my hands, exit the bathroom, then glance up and down the corridor. Lovely. I have no idea where I am. Apparently ‘later me’ isn’t any more equipped to find my way back to the party, not unless I want to use the talisman, something I’d rather save as a last resort.

Finding a large, noisy group of people can’t be that difficult even in a house this big, right? I walk to the end of the hall and look to either side, then pick a direction and start walking—I think—back the way I came from.

A few more turns have me in yet another hallway, but in this one I’m not alone. About halfway down, there’s a woman standing and staring up at a painting on the wall. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask for directions.

“Hello? Excuse me?” I call out.

The woman turns and I recognize Thea Andras, her expression undecipherable. There’s everything from anger to guilt moving across her features like a slide show. Much like Tristan, she pushes away the emotions and settles on an expression blander and more composed.

“Guests are not supposed to be in this part of the house,” she says.

I cringe. I wasn’t even snooping around yet and I’ve already gotten caught. “Yes, I, uh, realize that. I got a little turned around and . . .”

She arches an eyebrow.

“I was looking for the restroom, which I found. And now I have no idea how to get back.” My gaze goes to where she was looking when I first came over, and I have to stifle a sharp inhale. Another portrait, this time of Helen by herself, maybe in her late twenties, which if my math is correct, isn’t too long before she got pregnant with me.

“She’s beautiful,” I blurt out, my still somewhat champagne-loosened tongue not giving me time to get my brain fully in gear with this conversation.

“This is the last picture I have of her,” says Thea absentmindedly. The blandness drops from her face to be replaced with a flash of pain. She reaches a hand out to the painting and trails a finger along its edge.

“It’s your daughter, right? The picture?” Curse my stupid, stupid mouth.

She narrows her eyes, suspicious—or maybe just curious and I’m being paranoid. “You’re here with the St. James boy, yes?”

“Yes,” I reply, not entirely sure what that has to do with anything.

“Are you a student at Ravencrest as well?”

“Yes.”

Her gaze passes over me, assessing. “Are you a scholarship student?”

Well, if I had any doubts as to whether or not I was fitting in here, I guess I have my answer.

“Something like that.” I eye the painting. “My birth mother arranged for me to go to Ravencrest.”

She nods, thoughtfully. “You are not someone I would expect Tristan to associate with. Or, perhaps, not someone Bernadette would allow him to associate with.”

I barely conceal a snort. “Oh, she doesn’t. But Tristan . . . he’s . . . we’re . . . I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Yes, well, be careful. His family has quite an interesting reputation, and I’m not certain if his is much better.” She smiles, a small, secret thing. “Are you enjoying the party?”

I don’t manage to conceal my wince. “It’s not really my type of thing . . .”

“These parties were never Helen’s thing either. She much preferred to be out in the woods, surrounded by nature.” A sad look passes over Thea’s face, but she wipes the expression away with a strained smile. “If you would like, I can show you to the library so you can have some time to yourself before returning to the party?”

“I’d like that. Thank you,” I reply. The urge to identify myself is on the tip of my tongue, but it doesn’t feel right yet. Not completely. At least my grandmother seems like a normal person and not a crazy woman like Tristan’s mom.

As I follow Thea to the library, she gestures to various paintings or pieces of furniture along the way, giving me a brief history or bits of trivia about them. I can’t say I find it all that interesting, but I smile and nod anyway.

She finally stops in front of a set of large double doors and opens them, revealing a library straight out of Beauty and the Beast. The entire room is bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and there’s even one of those rolling ladder things.

“Wow,” I say.

“Helen helped design this place. It was my daughter’s refuge from our parties—and the world in general. If she wasn’t running the grounds, this is where she would be, curled up in front of the fire or the window with a book in her hands.” She pauses, studying me from the corner of her eye.

“It’s lovely, really. I mean, I like books.” I internally wince at the idiocy coming out of my mouth.

She smiles softly and nods. “When you’re ready to return to the party, all you need to do is follow this hallway down to the end and take a right. That will bring you out into the foyer where you arrived.”

“Uh, thanks,” I say.

She waits for a beat, as if expecting me to say more, then smiles again before quietly shutting the door behind her and leaving me alone to the massive library.

I trace a finger along a row of book spines, letting my mind wander. Did Helen ever do this? How with all these books to choose from did she ever pick one to read? Did she have a favorite? Maybe a classic or a steamy romance?

I love my parents, and I’m glad Helen gave me up. I wouldn’t be who I am if she hadn’t, but there’s still this sense of loss when I think about her. I’ll never know what types of books she liked or what her favorite color was or what type of mom she would have been. Because I’ll never know her. My eyes burn, and I have to swallow back a lump in my throat.

There’s another painting at the back of the room and I make my way toward it, continuing to run my finger over the books as I go. This portrait, another one of Helen alone, is taller than I am and takes up most of the wall. She’s shown in profile sitting in a window seat with a book propped up in her hands and her gaze directed out the window. She looks around my age, and the resemblance between us is strong enough to make me wonder if Thea might not have realized exactly who I am. She was awfully nice to me for thinking me a stranger.

And there’s also something else about the painting that I can’t quite put my finger on . . .

I wander closer, my head tilted to the side. When I reach the picture, I extend a hand and brush a finger over the canvas. Leaning closer, I examine the scene outside the window and recognize one of the topiaries I saw by the side of the house earlier. So, the painting was done here at the house, in a place she looks quite comfortable. Where might this window seat be?

The sudden urge to be where she was, even separated by decades, washes over me, and I instinctively reach for the necklace at my throat and brush my thumb over the stone. Nothing happens. A rush of disappointment floods my stomach. So much for Basil’s spell.

There’s a soft click, and part of the wall on the other side of the portrait moves inward. A door. I gently push it open on silent hinges, revealing a small room tucked into the space behind the wall.

The room is some sort of study or office with a lower ceiling and a cozier feel than the library outside. There are fewer books here, but the shelves are still filled. A little roll-top desk sits against the wall to the left of me, and the center of the room is taken up by a comfy-looking chaise stacked with pillows. The room is clearly unused, because unlike in the library itself, there’s a layer of dust over everything. Weird.

I move inside and shut the door behind me.

There are heavy curtains across the room in front of me, and pulling them back reveals the deep-set window seat from the painting. Does that mean this room was Helen’s? Is that why it isn’t used anymore?

Like outside in the library, something about that window seat calls to me, drawing me forward. A cloud of dust puffs out when I settle onto the cushions, resulting in a mild coughing fit. Once my lungs are back in working order, I stare out over the grounds of my grandparents’ house.

There’s nothing particularly special about the view. The lawn extends toward the large line of trees I saw when we arrived, but it’s too dark outside to see much more than that. Everything is pretty enough, but an instinct tells me that’s not what was important to her here.

I rest a hand against the cold glass, and a shiver runs through my body. Weird.

Or maybe not . . .

My hand still on the glass, I glance down at the bottom of the pane, half-hidden under the cushions, and see a single sigil, one we’ve only glossed over in class, but I know it all the same.

Conceal.

I brush my fingers over the sigil, getting that same shivery feeling I did from touching the window. Could it be a way to keep people outside from seeing in through the window? But sigils don’t work on inanimate objects . . . right?

The feeling of the paper fluttering under my fingers at the entry test flashes through my mind. Maybe the rules of sigil usage aren’t quite as straightforward as I’ve been told.

I hop out of the seat and pull the cushions away so I can get a closer look. Definitely Conceal. But what is it hiding here? Could there be more?

I walk the perimeter of the room with my hand trailing along the wall. When I reach the door, another sigil flares into sight. Conceal is drawn across the back of the door. I look over my shoulder at the rest of the room. Could that be why this place is empty and covered in dust? Can no one else find it? Could the sigil make people forget this room is here altogether or just make them unable to find it?

But then who painted the portrait? And what was Helen trying to hide?

Walking to the bookshelf, I take a closer look at the titles. The books seem normal enough. They’re on a variety of subjects, and none of them stick out to me as particularly odd.

I walk over to the roll-top desk and use the knob to open it. A stack of blank papers. A couple envelopes. A few old stamps. Once again, nothing that appears out of the ordinary.

I run my hand over the wood, and another sketched Conceal flares into sight, this one over a tiny drawer I’d either missed or hadn’t seen at all because of the sigil. I gently tug at the drawer. Stuck. I tug again, this time putting a little more effort into it. There’s a cracking sound, and the drawer flies out, nearly pulling completely away from the desk and landing on the floor.

The first thing I pull out is a slim notebook that looks like a journal. Blue leather cover, lined pages. But completely empty and unused. Why hide a blank journal?

Any other questions I might have get lost when I spot the stack of pictures that were underneath the journal. The one on top shows Helen standing between Uncle Connor and Mom, an arm flung over both their shoulders. They’re young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and all three of them are grinning. And Connor . . . his eyes are warm with a glint of something more as his gaze focuses on Helen.

Could Connor be . . .?

No. He wouldn’t keep that big of a secret from me, and these pictures were taken at least a decade before Helen got pregnant.

I flip to the next picture. This one is of Helen and Mom, looking thick as thieves. And gloriously happy.

I do some quick math in my head. These were taken before George and Aileen got married. Was it before Helen went to Ravencrest? It must’ve been. Helen looks too young for it to have been after.

The next picture is of Connor and Helen. He’s kissing her on the cheek and their arms are wrapped around each other’s waists.

Where . . .

How . . .

Connor is a Born wolf, so he’s always been a shifter. How in the world did he come to know Helen so well? How did they meet? Is this what Burke meant when he told Vivian that Helen left me with the pack she was friends with when she was a teenager?

Why the hell didn’t Connor tell me? Hell, why didn’t Mom? All they said was Helen was a friend of the pack. They gave no indication at all that they were this close with Helen.

More pictures. Mom jumping off a rock into a lake with Helen close behind. The three of them lying on the ground with the picture taken from above. Connor and Helen, foreheads resting together, her hand on his cheek in an intimate pose that leaves no doubt in my mind that at one point they were much more than friends.

The next few pictures are of woods and forests and lakes and plants and trees. Close ups of flowers. The ice over a creek. More artsy. Then the pictures get weird. Plants I’ve never seen. A lake with water such a deep, dark blue that it’s almost purple. There’s something alien to them, as if they’re one step off from the world.

I reach the end of the pictures and set them to the side to pull out the last two things in the drawer: an envelope and a pressed purple flower.

Moving the flower closer, I hold it to my nose, the fresh floral scent a pleasant surprise. I twirl the stem between my fingers. The bright color isn’t the least bit faded and, except for the bloom being pressed almost flat, it could have been freshly picked an hour ago. Strange.

I set down the flower, and my attention moves to the envelope. Sliding my finger under the flap, I break the seal and then pull out the sheet of paper within. The lines written on the paper look like they might be a spell, but not one in any language I recognize. Even weirder is the sigil drawn at the bottom of the page, one I haven’t seen in any textbook, but that the place deep inside me recognizes.

And, combined with the strange spell, I don’t have much doubt as to one of the uses of a sigil called Seal. Could this be the binding spell used on me? It seems almost too simple of a spell to have such a big effect, and didn’t Isobel already discard the idea of a sigil being used because . . . I glance at the door, then the window, and then the tiny hidden drawer. Maybe there’s more to sigils than people realize.

If this is the binding spell then—

“This is not the time, Zeke,” says a muffled male voice from somewhere in the library on the other side of the wall. “We’re only here to observe, get an idea of security and defenses. We do not have approval to take any action.”

Zeke? Why is that name familiar?

“I know that, Teegan,” says a voice I recognize as it moves closer to where I’m standing, and the power of an alpha shifter tickles against my senses. Zeke. The shifter from the bonfire party. “I just hate being here and watching them flit around in their fancy clothes, with their perfect hair and vapid smiles.”

“You volunteered for this mission. You knew what was involved.”

“But I didn’t expect the St. James brat to be here,” says Zeke, his voice dripping with rage. “That’s the part I can’t stand. He’s out there chatting away, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world while Penny is stuck in a cell somewhere.”

I startle at the sound of my former friend’s name. Zeke knows Penny?

“And it won’t do her any good if you go around acting like a hotheaded idiot,” says Teegan. “Waiters might be practically invisible to these rich assholes, but not waiters who shoulder check a guest. You’re lucky he believed it was an accident.”

“I don’t get the point of all this subterfuge,” says Zeke. “We know the targets. Why can’t we just take care of them tonight?”

Targets? My breath stops in my chest, and my body goes cold. Are they talking about killing people?

“You know it’s not that simple,” says Teegan. “Acting impulsively is what got Penny caught. If she hadn’t—”

“You shut up about her,” snarls Zeke.

Someone growls, and then there’s a loud bang as one of the shifters is slammed against the wall—the one I’m standing right behind.

I jolt, and my heart races in my chest.

The two shifters have gone quiet, talking in hushed whispers I can’t make out. Maybe they’re leaving.

I inhale sharply as someone thumps a fist on the wall. Shit. This isn’t good.

Whoever is knocking on the wall does so in a line to the corner and back again, this time ending with a solid thump against the door to the hidden room.

“I told you I heard something,” says Zeke. “The wall is hollow here.”

“And I smell magic,” adds Teegan. He pauses. “Do you think someone’s back there?”

I slam my hand over my mouth to try to quiet my rapid breathing and slowly back away from the wall. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I don’t know, but we need to get in this little hidey hole and find out,” says Zeke.

I glance frantically at the room around me. What the hell am I supposed to do? They can’t find me here. I somehow don’t think Zeke would be quite as friendly to me in this situation—nor would he stand there and let me hit him if I needed to fight my way out.

One of the shifters crashes into the wall behind me, and some of the books topple from their shelves. I’m running out of time.

My gaze lands on the window. The thing probably hasn’t been opened in years, but I don’t have any other options.

I slide the pictures, the letter, and the flower inside the blank journal and tuck it into the bodice of my dress. Or I try to anyway. The action that looks so simple in the movies leaves the top of the journal poking me in the chin because the form-fitting dress doesn’t allow the book to go any lower. I remove it from my bodice and hold the journal in my hand instead.

The window is one that slides to the side rather than up and down, so I grab the edge and push against it as hard as I can. The damn thing won’t open. I shove against it again, and this time it makes a cracking noise as the side of the window pulls away from the frame.

Just in time. Another crash cracks the door, the sigil destroyed.

“What the . . .” one of the shifters says. “Where did this door come from?”

That answers my question then. The sigil hid the door completely so apparently sigils can be used on inanimate objects, but figuring out how all that works will need to wait for another time. There are constant thumps coming from the direction of the door, and that wood didn’t look strong enough to hold up to shifter strength for long.

I slide the window open as far as it can get and swing my legs over the sill, my stomach twisting when I see how much open air is between my feet and the ground. I may be on the first floor, but this section of the house is on a slope, and the drop to the ground is at least ten feet.

A loud cracking noise echoes through the room, the door finally giving up.

Tucking the journal under my arm, I push off the windowsill and jump to the ground.

Pain flares up my leg as my stupid, stupid shoe rolls under me and my ankle twists in a direction it’s not meant to. There’s no time to baby the injury though, I have to get moving. Clutching the journal tightly, I press my back against the house directly under the window.

The shifters are moving around and talking quietly back and forth in the room I just escaped from. I can’t make out anything they’re saying, but they don’t sound as worked up as they were when they were breaking into my hiding spot. One of them moves closer to the window.

“Maybe it was just the wind,” says Zeke from right over my head.

I swallow and take deep, even breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse.

Teegan says something I can’t hear, and Zeke leans out over the windowsill.

“Nope. No one,” says Zeke as he pulls his head back inside.

There’s more shuffling around above me, but then all goes quiet. I wait to be sure they’re gone, then I hobble-hop along the outside of the house, praying I’m headed in the right direction. Well, at least in any direction that includes a door I can enter so I can find Tristan and get the hell out of here.

At best, those shifters are casing my grandparent’s house. At worst . . . I don’t know.

Either way, I need to talk to Connor. This particular piece of property isn’t on pack lands, but it is in his region. He needs to know there are shifters around who clearly aren’t planning on living peacefully, shifters who may or may not be responsible for deaths. With the way things are right now, if Zeke and Teegan and whoever else they’re working with were to get caught, if the witches had irrefutable proof that there were shifters working against them . . . It would be a disaster.

Moving as quickly as I can on my twisted ankle, I edge around to the back of the house where I find a large slate patio. Adrenaline and the pain in my ankle have burned away any lingering effect of the champagne and any warmth it provided, so I’m grateful for the heat lamps lining the edges. The space is most likely an overflow area for party goers, but there’s only one person out here, a dark-haired guy with a glass of champagne in his hand.

I smooth my hair away from my face and walk as not-limpingly as I can manage. “Hello,” I call out. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find Tristan St. James?”

The guy turns to face me, the glass of champagne at his lips, one dark eyebrow arched, and the corner of his mouth twisted with amusement. “I believe he’s inside somewhere.” He glances at the journal in my hand, and then his gaze goes down to my feet before coming up to meet mine. “Have you injured yourself? Do you need assistance?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “I twisted my ankle when I was walking the grounds.”

That sounds innocent enough, right?

“And your date, he let you do that alone?”

“He’s not my date,” I say quickly, almost automatically. “He’s a friend. A classmate.”

“Ah, Ravencrest.” He smiles, and his tongue darts out to catch a drop of champagne on the edge of his glass. “You might know my brother then.”

“Your brother?”

“I’m Louis Dumont.” He smiles again.

“Adrian’s brother?”

“Yes.” He smirks, and now I can definitely see the resemblance. “I’m the older and much more interesting Dumont.”

And there’s the Dumont ego.

I grin as I hold my hand out. “Nice to meet you. I’m Selene. Adrian’s a friend of mine.”

“You poor, poor thing,” says Louis, chuckling. “I suppose my dear brother has had much to say about me.”

“Well, he said you weren’t too awful, and I guess I can agree with that.”

Louis laughs, the sound putting me at ease as he takes my hand. “Glad I can live up to your expectations.” He pauses. “If you and my brother are such good friends, how did you end up here with St. James?”

“Well, Adrian was going to ask you to bring me here, but Tristan offered, so . . .”

He studies my face before nodding slowly. “I see.” He threads my arm through his bent elbow. “Let me escort you back to the party.”

“Sure,” I say, following him as he leads me in the direction of the house.

Five minutes later, I find myself in the noisy, crowded room from before. My nose wrinkles.

“Not a fan?” asks Louis, an amused smile on his lips.

“Not particularly,” I reply.

“I have just the thing then.” He releases my arm and strides over to a server, grabbing a glass of champagne off a passing tray and then turns to hand it to me.

I wave the drink away. “I think I’ve had enough of that.”

He gives me a mischievous grin and presses the glass into my hand. “This is different. Just try it. I’m certain you’ll enjoy it.”

He stares at me expectantly and, not wanting to insult him, I take a small sip. My eyes widen as the taste hits my tongue. This drink tastes much different than the earlier champagne, sweeter and thicker. The liquid flows down my throat, warming me all the way down to my toes. It tastes of honey . . .

I take another sip and before I know it, the glass is empty. My tongue flicks out to lick the excess from my lips. I lean toward him, suddenly unsteady on my feet. “What was that?”

“They call it fae wine. It’s how most everyone under the age of thirty makes it through these boring parties,” he says. “I mean, champagne is fine and all, but magic makes everything better.”

Magic? What does he mean by that? I blink at him.

“You looked like you enjoyed it,” says Louis. He moves closer to me, his dark eyes sparking with . . . something.

“Yes,” I say, my head starting to spin as heat fills my limbs. I grab Louis’s arm to hold myself steady.

“Are you okay?” he asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Yes. I’m just . . .” I give my head a brisk shake. “That was . . . I wasn’t . . .”

My fingers dig into his arm, and he winces.

“Perhaps an entire glass was too much for your first time.” He studies me as I sway in place. “Ah well, nothing to be done about it now.” He places a hand on my lower back, the point of contact between his skin and mine almost burning. “Why don’t we find St. James? Perhaps he can look after you.”

I nod, the motion making my head spin in the most delicious way. My lips still taste of honey as I smile, and the image of honey-colored eyes flashes through my mind.

Yes. Let’s find Tristan.

Louis leads me deeper into the room, and the crowd parts around us. Or at least it feels that way. My ankle no longer hurts, and I feel almost as if I’m walking on air, floating through the party on a cloud.

And there’s Tristan, standing in front of a large window, framed by the night sky. He’s alone, his back to me with his arms braced against the windowsill. His shoulders are tense, but as he hears us approach, he takes a deep breath, and the tension drains away. He turns, a smile plastered on his face, but with weariness in his golden-brown eyes. He catches sight of me, and those pools of honey brighten then darken again as they swing to Louis at my side. Tristan’s eyes narrow, and his mouth twists into a scowl.

I guess he’s not a fan of Louis.

And Louis knows it. At my side, Louis’s grin has gone from friendly to predatory, and his gentle guidance turns into a hard press against my lower back.

Tristan strides toward us. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

His hair is mussed, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, and I’m dying to smooth it away from his face. To touch him. I sway forward, but Louis’s hand catches my arm, holding me in place.

“Aren’t you going to thank me for finding your date, St. James?” Louis’s fingers dig into my arm. “Though it’s not like you to pick up my little brother’s cast offs.”

My cheeks are hot now. In fact my whole body is hot, and this dress . . .

“Go on then, pet.” Louis shoves me in Tristan’s direction.

I fall against Tristan, my cheek resting on his hard chest, my nose inhaling the most delicious scent. Of mint and pine and him. A noise makes its way from the back of my throat, and I nuzzle against him. He swallows. Audibly. And I watch the path of his throat, the desire to lick it nearly overwhelming.

Tristan inhales sharply, and his whole body goes rigid.

I giggle. I guess the desire to lick him was more overwhelming than not.

Tristan pulls me away from his chest, moving me to his side with a steadying hand on my waist.

I melt against him with another giggle then slide the journal into the pocket on the inside of his coat. “Hold this for me.”

Tristan ignores my actions, his attention solely on Louis. “What did you do, Dumont?”

Louis laughs, a bright sound so very similar to Adrian’s. “Only a little fae wine.”

“You didn’t . . .” Tristan’s gaze flicks down to me.

Louis shrugs then taps a finger against his chin. “I am curious though. How did you come to be here with a little nobody who didn’t even know what fae wine was?”

My brain ponders those words, and my mouth speaks up. “I’m not a nobody. I’m—”

“Selene, hush.” Tristan’s hand tightens on my waist.

“But—”

“Unless you’re prepared to have a very awkward conversation, you need to close your mouth and be quiet,” says Tristan into my ear, his breath a delicious heat against my skin.

I shiver and try to catch his mouth with mine.

Louis lets out a chuckle “You might want to take her elsewhere before she embarrasses herself.” He smirks, a vengeful look in his eyes. “Or yourself. You wouldn’t want Bernadette hearing about any misbehavior.”

I don’t know if I like Louis so much anymore. People who upset Tristan make me angry. I scowl at Louis and open my mouth to tell him so, but Tristan’s hand on my waist tightens.

“Please,” he says. “Let’s just go.” He pulls me away from Louis and out of the room into an empty hallway. Picking a door seemingly at random, he opens it and pushes me inside.

“A bedroom?” I ask.

He lets out a slow breath as he closes the door behind him and then rests his forehead against the wood for a couple seconds before whirling on me, the heat of anger sending sparks through his eyes. He’s magnificent.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he whisper yells.

So, maybe he’s not so magnificent when that angry fire is directed at me. I tilt my head to the side. “When?”

He throws his hands up in irritation. “I don’t know. Maybe when you wandered off on your own, maybe when you decided to talk to Louis Dumont of all people, or maybe when you took a drink from a stranger. Don’t you know anything?”

I wrinkle my nose and pat him on the cheek. “Louis was nice. Mostly.”

He scoffs. “Louis gave you a spelled cocktail.”

“Yes. And it was very good.”

He lets out a huff, yanks away from me, and paces to the other side of the room. “Do you know nothing? I would have thought that shifter cousin of yours you’re so fond of would have warned you about taking drinks from strangers.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous!” another whisper yell, his hands opening and closing at his sides.

“Shifters don’t drink.”

He rolls his eyes and curls his hands into fists as if holding himself back from grabbing my arms and shaking me. “You don’t take drinks from people you don’t know. Ever.”

“Why are you so mad at me?”

“Because I was worried, dammit!” He’s inches from me now, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths, his jaw tense, and fire in his eyes.

Okay, maybe angry Tristan is hot too.

I dart forward, pecking him on the lips. When he doesn’t pull away, I lean forward again, this time working my lips against his. He’s still rigid, non-responsive. But his eyes close, and he takes a shaky breath through his nose. And he does not pull away.

“Tristan . . .” I nip at his lower lip and place a hand on his chest, slowly pushing him until his back hits the wall.

I press my mouth against the pulse in his throat, run my tongue over it, and inhale deeply. The smell of mint and pine and magic floods my senses as I lick a line up the side of his neck. He tilts his head back, a low groan vibrating in his throat. I take the sound as an invitation, pressing kisses to his neck and nibbling on his ear.

His eyes are closed, his hands at his sides, every bit of him under careful control. Control I want him to lose.

I grab his lapels and pull his mouth down to mine. A second. Two. Three. Four. That’s how long it takes for him to give in, for his lips to respond, for him to finally release his hands from the fists they were in and curl them around my waist. I push closer to him, my arms coming up around his neck as I run my tongue along the seam of his lips and then slip it inside his mouth.

Another pained noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers tighten on my waist, tugging my lower body closer, closer, closer . . . He yanks his head away.

“I can’t . . .” he pants out.

“You can.” I press myself more firmly into his body, wanting as much contact as possible, wanting to relieve this fire in my blood, wanting him to be against every part of me. Magic sparks at my fingertips as the heat between us rises, and my veins buzz with power.

“Selene. Stop. Selene.” Tristan shoves me away. He’s panting for breath and looking at me like he has no idea who I am. Or maybe like he has no idea what I am. “Your eyes . . .” he whispers, his tone either fear or wonder. I can’t tell.

The force of the magic in my chest continues to grow and I panic, my breath coming in short bursts. This shouldn’t be happening. Nikiforov’s potion was supposed to take care of this problem, had been taking care of this problem.

“What do I do?” I ask, holding my shaking hands out in front of me.

He grabs my hands, his gaze locked on mine. “You need to calm down. It will be okay. All you have to do is let it go.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” The talisman. I fumble for the necklace with one hand. The original spell is supposed to dampen my powers, but they don’t feel very dampened, so I need to use the other, the one that helps me find what I’m looking for. Well, what I’m looking for is a way to safely get rid of this magic. I rub my thumb across the stone.

And then Tristan kisses me and everything around me fades until there’s only him. He cradles my face as he moves his lips against mine, as if I’m something precious that he can’t bear to part with, and I fall into the kiss. Something in my chest loosens, opens, and reaches for him, my magic wrapping around both of us as his lips work against mine. Power flares in my center, and the talisman around my neck grows hot as the wave of magic crests, falls, and then slowly drains away.

He gently brushes his thumbs along my cheeks, still kissing me even though that out of control feeling is gone and whatever lingering effects of that stupid drink have been burned off. Pulling back, he rests his forehead against mine, his breaths—and mine—coming in short, sharp bursts. His gaze meets mine and bright, pure gold flashes in his eyes, the moment so brief I’m not entirely certain it wasn’t some kind of reflection.

I let out a shaky laugh. “Well, that was . . .”

“Sorry. I wasn’t sure how else to get you to calm down,” he mumbles. He ruffles a hand through his already messy hair, and his cheeks redden.

So, he only kissed me to keep me from blowing something up? After I . . . my face suddenly feels like it’s on fire as my brain catches up enough to replay the last few minutes. I’ve never had a sense of absolute mortification make me want to vomit, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything. Though, this roiling nausea could also be another side effect of that stupid drink.

I cough, fighting back the embarrassment clogging my throat so I can speak. “Sorry. For accosting you. And, um, losing control like that.”

Tristan huffs out a quiet laugh. “I can’t complain, I suppose.” He pauses, as if debating. “Are you . . . sober now? I’ve never seen anyone have quite that strong of a reaction to the stuff, and it normally takes longer for the effects to wear off, but you seem a little more coherent.”

“I think so?” I shrug. I certainly hope so. “What the hell did he give me?”

“A potion,” says Tristan. “Basically, he activated the champagne, turning it into what everyone calls fae wine. It’s like a party potion.”

“It’s that easy?”

“Most alcoholic beverages can be considered potions, something about the fermentation process.” He shuffles his feet.

“Well, I’ll know better next time,” I say.

“I’d hope so.” He releases a slow breath. “Are you ready to go back to campus now? I think this night needs to be over.”

I wince. “I need to go talk to Connor before we go back.”

“Why?” He draws out the single word as his eyes narrow.

“There are two shifters here disguised as waiters, and I overheard them talking in the library. They mentioned a mission to check out security and something about targets. They’re planning something,” I reply.

“Planning something? Like what?” The muscles in his jaw tense.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “But the fact that they are here at all is something Connor needs to know about.” I blow out a loud breath and let my shoulders slump. The events of the night are finally catching up to me, leaving me exhausted and confused and simply done with everything. “I don’t want to debate this. Can you please just take me home?”

“Back to campus?”

“No. Home. I want my family,” I say, my voice breaking. “I really do need to talk to Connor about the shifters, and we’re so close anyway.”

His face softens, and he brushes a stray tear away from my cheek. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea . . .”

“Please.” The word is a whispered plea, barely audible. But he hears it.

“Fine. Let’s go.” He grabs my hand and leads me from the room. “But if I end up murdered, it will be all your fault.”

Tristan is silent as he drives, his attention focused on the road in front of him. His face is pale, the scattering of freckles across his nose standing out against the pallor, and I’m pretty sure if he wasn’t gripping the steering wheel so tightly his hands would be shaking.

I want to reach over and take his hand, but I don’t want to startle him, so I settle for words. “I know you’re uncomfortable around shifters, but nothing’s going to happen to you at Connor’s.”

He gives me a weak smile and nods, but I can tell he doesn’t fully believe me.

And back to silence we go . . .

Almost twenty minutes later, I direct Tristan to turn onto a narrow gravel road. He drives slowly, either unfamiliar with gravel roads in general or in an effort to not send any rocks pinging around to damage Adrian’s car. Or maybe trying to make the drive last as long as possible.

On the left, we pass the driveway to my parents’ house, and I press my hand to the window. I can’t see the house from the road, but I know it’s up there, dark and empty, and the thought is enough to bring a lump to my throat. I miss them so much.

The next driveway on the right is Connor’s. I point out the turn, and Tristan takes a deep breath as he slowly drives around the bend and up to the large farmhouse. The entire place is brightly lit, both inside and out, and the edges of the yard and the driveway are filled with cars. What are all these people doing here? Did Connor call a pack meeting or something?

If it’s possible, Tristan’s face loses more color as he takes in all the cars. And even more color fades away when two shifters step onto the wraparound porch at the sound of our car pulling up.

Tristan puts the gear shift in park and sits there, staring blankly at the windshield, no emotion on his face—but oh so much in the lines of his shoulders and hands. Tension, fear, and everything in between. The one emotion that’s completely absent is anger. I’d always thought he was angry at shifters because of what happened to his sister, but he’s terrified of them.

Still, I can’t leave him out here alone, not when I don’t know why all these other shifters are here.

“You need to come in with me,” I say softly. “You have nothing to fear from Connor. He’s my family.”

Tristan’s only response is a flare of his nostrils and a jerk of his head before he opens the driver’s side door and steps out. I follow suit, moving to walk beside him as we approach the house. As we draw closer to the porch, a growl rumbles up from one of the shifters standing there.

“What are you doing on pack lands, witches?” The woman is unfamiliar to me, and her defensiveness is understandable. She wouldn’t recognize me, and both Tristan and I no doubt reek of magic.

I let my arms hang loose at my sides, body relaxed, eyes looking at her but not directly meeting her gaze. “I’m Selene. Connor is my uncle.”

The guy standing next to the woman stares at us, his eyes narrowed with suspicion as he sniffs at the magic in the air. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Leave her be,” rumbles a voice from inside the house. A very broad man with dark skin joins the other two on the porch. He spends a couple seconds glowering at me before breaking into a large grin. “Welcome home, little bit.”

Darren is Connor’s third. If my mom is the brains as beta, Darren is the brawn. Yet, the big man is as happy and cheerful a person as I’ve ever seen—unless you get on his bad side, something I’ve never done. He ambles off the porch and sweeps me into his arms, hugging tightly.

I thump on his back. “I’d still like to breathe here, Darren.”

He chuckles and releases me before turning his gaze on Tristan. “I understand why you might be here, but who’s this you brought with you?”

Tristan’s whole body is absolutely rigid, his face frozen in what I think he believes is his typical bland smile but is really more of a grimace.

I take a step backward and place a hand on his arm. “This is Tristan. He’s . . . a friend from school.”

My turf or not, my uncle’s house or not, I’m not going to risk throwing around Tristan’s last name. It doesn’t matter that Darren is my friend or at least an acquaintance, the St. James name would not go over well here.

Darren holds a hand out. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Tristan’s lips contort further, and I almost wince at the expression. He holds a hand out. “Sir.”

Darren lets out a full out belly laugh. “I’m no sir, kid. You can call me Darren.”

Tristan manages a nod, and his expression softens the slightest bit.

Until the woman on the porch speaks up again. “What the hell’s going on here? We weren’t told this region treats with witches.”

Interesting. The shifters on the porch aren’t from Connor’s region. So, who are they and where are they from? And why are they here? Connor doesn’t typically invite outside shifters into his territory without a damn good reason.

Darren turns to them, his arms crossing over his chest as he steps in front of me and Tristan. “Back off. I know you’ve heard the rumors going around about Connor’s sister kidnapping a witch. This here is the so-called victim. She’s on our side and we’re on hers, not the side of the witches.” He looks over his shoulder and grins at me. “Always.”

“No matter what my blood says, Connor is my uncle,” I say. “And the Blue Ridge beta is my mom.”

The woman squints at me, and her nose twitches. She tilts her head toward Tristan. “And the other one?”

“He’s with me. Under my protection.” I take Tristan’s hand in my own. If the action surprises him, he doesn’t show it.

But it certainly surprises Darren. His brows rise, and he runs an assessing gaze over Tristan.

I can’t help the way my cheeks heat. I know what’s going through Darren’s head, because I know exactly what I’ve implied right now. Thank goodness Tristan doesn’t because I sort of claimed him as something one step below a fiancée in front of these shifters.

“I need to see Connor,” I say, my attention solely on Darren. “It’s important.”

Darren rubs at the back of his neck and shuffles his feet. “He’s in the middle of something right now.” A long pause. “But I can take you inside.”

I nod and move to follow Darren, tightening my fingers around Tristan’s as he tries to pull his hand away.

Inside, the house is filled with shifters. Not filled in the way the party at my grandparents’ was, but there are way more people here than normal, and the air isn't a jovial one. The shifters are on edge, their muscles tensed as if waiting to pounce, and they get even more so as their noses twitch against the scent of mine and Tristan’s magic.

Tristan himself is practically vibrating with tension, and I want to tell him to relax since the shifters will sense that too. More tension is never a good thing when shifters are involved. But mentioning it will only bring more attention to it.

Some of the shifters appear to be local, and I nod greetings at the few I know personally, but there are at least ten faces I don’t recognize, most of them with alpha level power. What have we walked into?

Darren leads us to Connor’s office then taps a knuckle against the door.

“Yes?” says Connor from inside.

“Selene’s here,” says Darren. “Says she needs to talk to you.”

A second later, the door flies open and Connor stands there, his face stormy. “What are you thinking?”

His blatant—and uncalled for—anger calls up mine. “I’m thinking there’s something big going on that you aren’t telling me about and—”

“You can’t be here,” he says, his voice lower with a menacing edge.

“But I am and—”

“Go. Back. To. School.” The words are laced with an alpha’s command, but I’m not a shifter, and I’m not inclined to listen right now.

I step forward, glaring up at my uncle. “If you wanted that to work on me, you should have given me the Bite when I asked for it.”

Neither one of us miss the sharp inhalation from the boy at my side. And I don’t miss the way he drops my hand like it just burned him.

Connor’s eyes narrow in on Tristan, studying his face intently. My uncle goes rigid and he turns an irate gaze on me. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you’re smarter than that.”

I remain silent.

Connor curls his hands into fists at his side. “Tell me you weren’t stupid enough to bring that boy here.”

Darren’s gaze goes to Tristan, and the big man’s brow furrows as he thinks over what his alpha just said.

“The St. James kid?” Darren’s voice is laced with disappointment.

A low growl rumbles up from Connor’s chest, and his voice goes quiet with rage. “The St. James family is—”

I step in front of Tristan and shove Connor in the chest with both hands. “Is his family. Not him. He’s risked his life for me, and you will not disrespect him.”

Connor and I hold each other’s gazes for a long while, both waiting to see if the other backs down.

Finally, Connor takes a deep breath. “You’re right.” He glances at Darren. “I need to speak with my niece. Take the boy . . . somewhere and watch over him. If anyone asks, he’s a friend of Selene’s and under my protection.”

“Of course,” replies Darren. “Come on, Blondie, we’ll go hang out with the little ones.”

Tristan swallows and, with visible effort, turns the corners of his lips into a pleasantly bland smile. His gaze goes to me, his eyes begging me for reassurance. Or maybe just begging me to not make him go off alone with Darren.

I brush a hand down Tristan’s arm. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

He nods and gestures for Darren to lead the way. The two of them disappear down the hallway, and I turn my attention back to Connor.

He steps to the side and gestures for me to enter his office before walking behind his desk to settle in the chair. “What are you doing here, Selene?”

I blink back the burn in my eyes. He’s looking at me like I’m an unwelcome stranger, and it hurts. “I had no idea you had something going on tonight or I would have waited.”

He sighs. “The ‘something’ going on tonight is a meeting with every regional alpha in the state, a meeting I called. Do you have any idea the position you’ve put me in by coming here?”

I open my mouth, unsure what to say. This wasn’t the welcome I expected. At all.

“Violent incidents between witches and shifters have increased at least fifty percent in the past two months. I’m supposed to be working with the other alphas on a solution, but in light of what happened at the St. James estate a few weeks ago, I’m not sure there’s a solution to be found.” He shakes his head. “I heard you were there that night.”

“Bernadette kidnapped my roommate. I only—”

“Took off without thinking and ended up leading one of the rogue shifters to her target?”

“Her target? You knew about Penny?”

“No. Not until afterward,” he says. “But because of your actions—inadvertent as they may have been—the Coven Council is coming down harder on us than ever before. The St. James woman’s legislation now has almost all the support it needs to remove all protections from pack lands, leaving many shifters vulnerable to the whims of witches. Not only that, but the Coven Council also wants to strip all the alphas of control. And all of this on top of the incident last month where you injured a shifter on behalf of a witch and—”

“You mean the guy that tried to kill me? That one?”

Connor takes a deep breath. “I know what it looked like that evening. It—”

“What it looked like? Are you kidding me?” I leap to my feet. “I was there. They would have killed Tristan if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“They would have scared him. That’s all.” He clasps his hands and places them on top of his desk. “You escalated the situation unnecessarily.”

My brain is blank. My tongue stuck. What the hell am I hearing right now? Connor doesn’t think . . . No. He couldn’t.

“Are you suggesting that what happened was my fault?”

“No,” he says quickly. A pause, then a wince. “I don’t know. Your actions have made things difficult for me.”

“Difficult for you.” I shake my head. “Difficult for you. Do you even know what I’ve been dealing with? Do you even care?”

I pace to the other side of the room, my head spinning. My entire life I’ve thought Connor has all the answers. I’ve thought him wise and all-knowing, and all this time he’s just . . .

“Do you already know about the shifters at the Andras’ estate tonight?” The question pops from my mouth before I have much of a chance to think about it.

“What shifters?”

“I was at a party. At the Andras’ house. Checking out the grandparents you didn’t bother to tell me were still alive and lived not too far from here.”

His jaw tenses, but he says nothing.

“I overheard a couple shifters talking about targets and gathering information about security, like they were casing the place.” I study his face closely, watching for a reaction. “I knew one of them. Sort of. His name’s Zeke, and he was at the party Reid took me to, and Reid mentioned he had met Zeke once before. Zeke’s also an alpha level shifter, so he’d have to be reporting to another alpha. Is that one of the alphas here tonight?” I pause. “Is it you?”

“No,” he says firmly. The fact that he gives no further answer tells me what I need to know.

“But you did know about him or at least know of him, right? He’s been in your territory for a couple months now. You had to have known he was around and . . .” I inhale sharply. “You know, don’t you? That he’s part of the rogue shifter group.”

Connor presses his lips together then glances at me, holding my gaze. “What would you have me do about it?”

I gape at him. I hate thinking my uncle was aware of any of this, but for him to completely ignore his responsibilities? “You’re the regional alpha. Can’t you turn him in to OSA or something?”

“It’s not that simple. Handing a shifter over to OSA who, as far as you know, hasn’t even done anything besides be in my territory without my permission would open the door to all sorts of other problems. If I were to turn him over to OSA, what precedent would that set? Maybe OSA would decide the legislation the Coven Council is pushing wouldn’t be that big of a deal to us. If we don’t exercise the rights we have, then we will lose them.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t betray my oath as alpha to uphold shifter law and protect our lands.”

Anger flares in my stomach. “Do you know why Bernadette St. James hates shifters so much? Because I do.” When he doesn’t respond, I continue, “Have you ever heard the name Cecily St. James?”

Connor’s brows pull together, and I almost let loose a sigh of relief at the obvious confusion on his face. At least not everything I thought about him was a lie. He’d never have anything to do with something like that.

“She was Tristan’s older sister, and she was kidnapped by a group of shifters when she was on a picnic with her six-year-old brother. They left Tristan wandering in the woods by himself.” I twist my hands together. “I thought . . . I thought . . . there was no way that story could be true, but after everything you’ve told me tonight . . . I don’t know anymore. The kidnapper sent her fingers back, and because the shifters were under the protection of pack lands, the alpha refused to let OSA get involved.” I look up, meeting Connor’s gaze with harsh eyes. “If that alpha had been more concerned with justice than the sanctity of pack lands, probably none of this would be happening. I understand your position, but you need to be better than that alpha. People are dying, and it’s only going to get worse if nobody does anything.”

He closes his eyes and releases a breath before holding my gaze with his. “I can’t make you any promises, and I can only speak for the Blue Ridge region, but I will do what I can to mitigate the problem.”

“Thank you. That’s all I can ask.” I stare down at my hands then straighten in my chair as an idea takes shape in my head. “I know a big portion of the problem is how tense relations are between shifters and witches. What if there was someone who could act as an intermediary?”

Connor shakes his head. “It won’t work. The other alphas wouldn’t accept you. For one, you’re too young and—”

“Not me. Allister.”

He makes a choking noise. “St. James?”

“He is Bitten,” I say. “He’s from a prominent witch family, but now he’s also a shifter. I don’t know the details, but Tristan said Bernadette is going to be requesting more restrictions on Bitten witches along with everything else. That affects Allister too, and it probably wouldn’t hurt to ask him about it. I know he’s a St. James, but . . .” My gaze drops to my hands. “Tristan isn’t so bad; maybe his dad can be reasoned with.”

“I’m not going to hold my breath, but I’ll float the idea to the other alphas and see what they think,” he says. He blows out a breath. “But you can’t be involved. The other alphas don’t know you, and with the actions you took against that shifter—”

“He was going to kill someone,” I say in a flat voice.

Connor holds up a hand. “I understand that’s how it appeared to you, but not everything is so black and white.” He sighs. “My defense of you has already ruffled some fur, and I can’t protect you if the other alphas decide you don’t have the best interests of shifters at heart. I need you to do your best to keep your nose out of any of those sorts of altercations going forward.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Unlike your proposed intermediary, you were raised by shifters and know our secrets. You have intimate knowledge of shifter culture, customs, and laws, knowledge that could be turned against us.”

“But I wouldn’t do that,” I say, my face twisting with disbelief.

“I know that,” says Connor. “But the other alphas don’t. If enough of them were to make an issue of it, you could be banished from the pack.”

“You mean . . . never see Mom and Dad again? Never see Reid? You?” My whole body goes cold.

He nods, frowning with sympathy.

“I’ll stay out of it,” I say.

“That means you say nothing and do nothing in any matter involving shifter/witch relations.” He presses his lips together. “Or at least run it by me before you take any action.”

“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.”

We sit in silence for a few moments as I twist my hands together in my lap and let my mind digest everything he just threw at me. The longer I dwell on things, the more my eyes burn.

Time for a subject change.

“There’s something else I wanted to ask you about,” I say, my voice low and quiet. “I went to the party not just to check out my grandparents, but to do a little snooping. There’s some stuff going on, and Burke thinks it’d be helpful to figure out who my birth father was. I found some things . . .” I pause, wishing I hadn’t left the journal with Tristan. “You said my birth mother was a friend of the pack, and I assumed you meant in an official capacity, not that she was actually friends with you and Mom.”

“What exactly did you find?”

“Some pictures. You and Helen were looking pretty cozy in a few of them,” I say.

He nods, wistfulness flashing across his face. “She and I were a bit more than friends at one point.”

“I know you aren’t my birth father, so what happened?” I ask.

“A witch and a shifter?” He gives me a wry smile. “No, more than that. An Andras and a shifter? It was never going to last. But we were still friends enough that when she found herself pregnant and alone, she turned to me.”

“Do you know who my birth father was?”

He shakes his head. “I have no idea, and I wouldn’t even know where to start looking. You have to understand Helen and I were together when we were teenagers and almost a decade passed by the time she contacted me about you. In that time, she’d attended Ravencrest and worked for OSA. She was an adult by then, not the young girl I knew. She never told me who your birth father was, only that he was someone who made her fear for your safety.”

“Like, he was violent or something?”

“No, I never got the impression that Helen was afraid of him, just what him being your father meant.” He reaches across the desk and takes my hand. “I wish I had more to tell you. I wish all of this was easier.”

“Me too.” I give him a shaky smile. “I think I should go collect Tristan so we can get back to campus. I have a lot of stuff to think about.”

The rec room at Connor’s house takes up the entire basement, a good 2,000 square feet of couches, games, toys, and TVs. The place is basically a kid’s dream, and it’s where all the little ones hang out when there’s a pack gathering or a meeting like this.

This is not a place I could ever picture Tristan being comfortable, especially considering the circumstances, but when I reach the bottom of the stairs, he’s sitting on the floor, bow tie hanging loose around his neck, and the top few buttons of his shirt undone as he helps a little boy with light-brown hair build a tower of blocks.

Even Connor pauses in shock as he takes in the scene, his brows darting upward.

Tristan is smiling. He’s relaxed. He’s open. He’s patient. Seeing him like this makes me realize how he hides that kind heart of his behind enough armor that hardly anyone ever sees it. I’m pretty sure that armor is his mother’s doing, and I hate her for it.

The little boy lifts another block, placing it on top of the tower. The structure wobbles but then steadies.

Tristan grins. “Good job, Xavier.”

The little boy grins back, all golden-brown eyes and dimples. He grabs another block and shoves it into Tristan’s hand. “Now you.”

Tristan eyes the tower and makes an exaggerated thinking face, looking up at the ceiling and tapping a finger against his cheek. “I don’t know. I might be too clumsy.”

Xavier rocks back and forth and claps. “Do it! Do it!”

“Okay. I’ll try.” Tristan winks. “But don’t be too upset if it falls this time.”

Tristan lifts the block to the top of the tower and ever so gently sets the piece down. The tower wobbles, much worse than it did before, and Tristan’s lips press together in a look I recognize. Concentration. I glance down at his hand resting on the carpet, his fingers turned toward the tower, tension in his wrist. He’s holding the thing up with magic.

The blocks stop wobbling and Tristan relaxes, but then another kid stumbles, jostling Tristan’s arm, and the tower goes down with a crash.

Xavier’s lips immediately start trembling, and his eyes go big and glisten with the start of tears. Tristan only smiles and presses a finger to his lips. And then, ever so slowly, he begins stacking the blocks again—using only the magic he’s weaving together with his hands.

Xavier looks dumbfounded, his little jaw dropping open. He stares, his brown eyes growing wider and wider as the tower grows taller.

Connor and I are so enthralled by the sight—well, at least I am—that neither of us notices the adult shifter coming down the stairs behind us until Xavier’s eyes light up.

“Daddy! Look!” The kid points eagerly at the block tower. “Magic!”

The dark-haired shifter scowls and rushes over, snatching Xavier off the ground and holding him close. The adult shifter bares his teeth, and a low growl rumbles in his chest. “What are you doing with my son, witch?”

The tower crashes to the ground, and Tristan scrambles backward, wide-eyed and pale, putting as much distance between himself and the shifter as possible.

Xavier’s dad whirls on Connor. “What is this? I trusted you, and you bring witches here?”

Connor holds his hands up at his sides. “Oliver, he’s no threat to us. He’s a friend of my niece.”

Oliver snarls and takes a step toward Tristan.

Xavier yanks on his father’s beard. “Don’t growl. Tristan is nice.”

A slide show of emotions passes over the shifter’s face, none lasting long enough to truly register. He stares at Tristan, head cocked to the side, and the man’s nostrils flare. Mouth dropping open, he gives his head a brisk shake before rushing out of the basement, his son snuggled tightly in his arms.

“I was only playing with him,” says Tristan, still on the floor but no longer looking relaxed at all. His whole body is tense, his knuckles white where his fingers are digging into the carpet, and he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on his feet.

Connor gives my friend an assessing look as if trying to determine his trustworthiness. Which is probably exactly what Connor is doing. He clears his throat, and Tristan finally looks up.

“I won’t claim to like this situation, but I’m going to trust Selene’s judgment when it comes to you,” says Connor as he holds out a hand toward Tristan.

Tristan stares at the hand, not moving, not doing anything.

I try to send a message to him with my eyes: For the love of everything holy, take his damn hand, Tristan. It would be considered an insult not to, and you absolutely cannot afford to insult him.

Tristan takes Connor’s hand, and Connor heaves Tristan to his feet. Brushing off the seat of his tux, he gives Connor a weak smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Connor.

I grab his hand. “Thank you, Connor. Really.”

Connor grunts. “You two need to get out of here. I don’t know some of these shifters very well, and it’s been pure luck so far that no one knows your friend here.”

I grab him into a hug, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I miss you.”

My uncle runs a hand over my hair. “I miss you, too,” he whispers. “Take care of yourself.”

I squeeze a little harder. “I will.”

Tristan and I use the basement door to make our way out of the house and back to the car. As Tristan hits the unlock button and the lights flash, a man’s voice yells out, “St. James!”

The action is pure reflex, I know it is, but I can’t help but wince as Tristan turns his head toward the voice. Someone here knows who he is. I glance around, searching for the source of the voice, but see no one.

“Say nothing. Get in the car,” I mutter under my breath as I get into the passenger seat. Any shifter within fifteen feet of us would hear me, but I’m hoping to avoid Tristan giving away any more than he already did.

Tristan listens without comment. He slides into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and heads down the driveway, waiting until we’re ten minutes into the drive before speaking.

“About earlier . . .” he starts. “At the party . . .”

My cheeks heat. “We don’t really need to talk about that, do we? I know I was way out of line, and I’m so, so sorry for jumping you. I—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He chuckles, and his cheeks redden.

“Oh?” Real smooth, Selene.

“I’m sorry for ditching you. I should have stayed with you, watching to make sure things like what happened didn’t. This evening was supposed to be about you, and I made it about me.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mother . . .” He swallows. “Do you know what a focus is?”

“You mean the talisman some witches have when their powers are awakened early? Kind of. Adrian told me a little about them.”

“Remember how I mentioned earlier in the quarter that my mother did something to make sure I couldn’t climb the ranks? Well, as part of my ‘punishment’ for helping you, my mother took my focus. I’ve had it since I was seven, and she’s always used it as something to hold over my head. Be the best or I take it. Do this or I take it. Don’t do that or I’ll take it.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Most witches only need the focus to help with control, but, for me, simply using magic was extremely painful when I was younger. My body wasn’t ready to manipulate magic at all, and the focus was the only thing that helped. She made me practice without it as well, of course, but I think, now, that was more punishment than practice. Or, if it was practice, it was to teach me to work past the point of pain in order to achieve my goals.”

That bitch.

If Tristan got his focus at seven, that means his powers were awakened then too. After Adrian’s description of what happened when he was thirteen, I can’t imagine how painful the process must have been for such a young child. And forcing Tristan to use his magic when it hurt him . . . If I didn’t hate Bernadette before, I certainly do now.

He sighs and ruffles his hair with one hand. “I always knew I’d have to get rid of it eventually, wean myself off it. OSA would never allow a witch dependent on a fucking focus to hold any position of real power, and there’s no place for me in the Coven Council since my mother holds the family seat. I didn’t even realize how dependent I was on the damn thing until she took it away.”

“I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”

“My classes . . . By taking my focus, my mother guaranteed my grades would fall because I practically have to learn how to do things all over again.”

“Can’t you get a new one somehow?”

He laughs under his breath. “They’re rare. And expensive. And they’re specific to the witch who they’re created for, so I can’t use just any focus. It has to be the one used when awakening my powers.”

“So, what does this have to do with what happened at the party?” I ask.

He sighs again. “My mother has been in contact with me, and she told me if I did well tonight, made an impression on some of the important attendees . . .” He pauses, and his next words are softer. “If I spoke in support of her proposed legislation with the right people, she might return my focus.”

A sense of betrayal crashes over me. I took him home with me, stood up for him with Connor, and now I find out Tristan spent half the evening spreading propaganda for his mother? And that’s on top of spying on me for Burke?

“I didn’t do it,” he says quickly. “Well, not the campaigning for her part. I was trying to make a good impression, be seen by the right people. But then you disappeared, and I had no idea where you went or if you were okay, and none of it seemed to matter anymore. I’ve been her puppet since the day I was born. I’ve let her manipulate me, let her convince me I was doing the right thing, the only thing I could to ever have a chance at being the perfect witch I’m supposed to be.” He pauses. “And she had me so tied up with her head games I thought I wanted to be that perfect witch.”

“And that’s not what you want anymore?”

His gaze darts to me. “No. It’s not.”

“Then what do you want?”

He sighs. “I don’t know anymore.”

We lapse into silence, him concentrating on driving and me working through everything he’s told me tonight, and the rest of the ride passes with each of us lost in our own head. Once we reach campus, Tristan parks the car, turns it off, and stares out the windshield with his hands still wrapped around the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry about all the crap I gave you last quarter,” he says.

“It’s okay. I wasn’t much better,” I reply. “And I’m sorry about that day in the cafeteria, what I said to you. And that I didn’t say anything about Penny.” I pause. “It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you or was deliberately trying to hide what Penny was from you. I didn’t tell anyone about her. I thought she was, if not a friend, at least someone who wasn’t a bad guy.”

“Okay,” he says with a nod, not exactly the forgiveness I was hoping for but maybe something close to acceptance. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “I still don’t trust shifters, but being there at Connor’s was . . . not what I expected. Thank you. For showing me that.”

“Thank you for trusting me enough to come with me.” Tristan might not be too pleased when he finds out I talked to Connor about Allister, but I’m not going to worry about that right now.

The two of us get out of the car, and Tristan walks around to my side. Before I step away from the car, he grabs my arm.

“You asked me what I want . . .” His gaze darts up to meet mine. “That night before the banquet, when I kissed you, Desmond already knew what the rankings were going to look like when they were posted. He told me what was coming, and it felt like I was losing everything I’d worked so hard for, and there you were, this thing, no, this person who never backed down, who never gave up no matter what everyone else threw at you, no matter what I threw at you. And I wanted that. That confidence. You. Selene, I—”

“What are you kids doing out here at this time of night?” asks an OSA agent as he walks up to us with a deep scowl on his face. “Didn’t you hear everyone is supposed to be in their dorms by 10:00 p.m.?”

A curfew? Since when?

Tristan shifts into the smiley, schmoozing mode he activated at the party. “My apologies, sir. My friend and I have just returned from—”

The guy tilts his chin up. “I don’t give a damn where you’re coming from. I want to know why you’re still out here.”

Tristan sends a heated look in my direction, and warmth floods into my cheeks at what he’s implying. “You see, we—”

“Names?” the man asks in a clipped voice.

Tristan’s smile grows strained, and he extends a hand to the agent. “Tristan St. James.”

There’s no reaction from the guy beyond a bored tilt of his chin. He looks to me. “And you?”

“Selene,” I stutter out. “Andras.”

Now that name he recognizes. He jolts then studies my face, and in that second I’m beyond grateful for Burke telling me to use the Andras name since it obviously has some effect.

“You two may go. Back to your dorms.” The man dips his chin toward me and then walks off.

I wait until he’s disappeared before speaking. “I think that is the first time I’ve seen my name have more clout than yours.”

Tristan snorts. “And knowing you, I somehow doubt it’s the last.”

By the time I drag myself inside my dorm room, it’s sometime after two. Isobel is fast asleep, a softly murmuring lump under her covers. I could wake her to get her take on tonight’s events, but she was probably up late studying, and I’m too tired to puzzle out where things are between Tristan and me, much less figure out the meaning behind all the stuff I found in Helen’s office. All of that can wait till morning. There are no classes, so there will be plenty of time.

Eying my bed, I sigh and drag the dress over my head and let the fabric fall to the floor before pulling on some pajama pants and a t-shirt and falling face first into my pillow. Sometime later, Isobel shakes me awake with a hand on my shoulder.

“Let’s get those bobby pins out or you’ll end up with a rat’s nest on top of your head,” she says.

I crack one eye open to the soft morning light filtering through the window then push myself up to a sitting position and drag a hand over my face. Patting at my head, I locate and remove as many bobby pins as my fingers can find, and the mess of my hair falls down around my shoulders. Isobel hands me a ponytail holder, and I pull my hair back into a messy bun. I’ll deal with a more permanent fix in a little while after a long, hot shower and maybe an aspirin or two.

“So . . . You got in pretty late. How’d it go?” asks Isobel as she hands me a cup of coffee.

I take a long sip, enjoying the steam on my face. Isobel is the best. “I guess it went well? My grandparents seem okay if kind of stuffy, and my little spy mission had some results.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I glance around the room, confused, as I try to remember what I did with the journal. “Oh. Right. I left the stuff I found with Tristan. Remind me later to get it back.”

“Stuff like what?”

“Well, the most interesting thing I found was something that might be the actual binding spell along with a sigil that’s not in any of our textbooks.”

“Not possible,” says Isobel. “The textbooks list all the sigils.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be too sure of that. The sigil was called Seal, and I’ve never even heard it mentioned. Have you?”

“Seal?” Her brows draw together. “What would that be used for?”

“Um, maybe ‘sealing’ my powers for one thing,” I say.

She sits down on her bed, facing me as she thinks. “I suppose you’re right. The binding spell must’ve been really strong, and I’m still not sure how it worked, but an unknown sigil might be the missing piece.” She taps her fingers against her chin. “But that still doesn’t solve the issue of you not having a sigil on you anywhere.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m not so sure all the information we’ve learned about sigils is correct,” I say. “I found a hidden study off the library, which isn’t strange in itself, but a sigil was used to conceal it, not a ward.”

“But sigils don’t work on inanimate objects,” says Isobel.

“Exactly, but this one did.”

“So, someone just took a marker and drew a sigil on the wall or whatever? How did it even last this long?”

“No,” I say. “The sigil looked like it was carved by a blade of some sort directly into the wood. And there were others, one on the window and one on the hidden drawer in the desk where I found the possible binding spell.”

Isobel walks over to her desk and pulls one of her textbooks out of the stack. She comes to sit next to me on my bed as she flips through the pages of the book. Once she finds whatever it is she’s looking for, she runs a finger over the page as if skimming the words.

“Here it is,” she says. “Due to the natural healing process, a sigil made by carving is unstable and unsustainable. Even a tree’s growth process can alter a carved sigil, and, as alterations of any kind are dangerous, there is no acceptable situation in which a sigil should be carved.”

“Maybe it was carved into the wood and then the tree was cut down so it wouldn’t grow anymore?”

She shoots me a skeptical look. “That doesn’t make any sense. The wood would still dry and it would have to be processed and preserved or whatever, all things which could change the shape of the sigil. Maybe it wasn’t a sigil at all?”

“It was definitely a sigil,” I say. “I wish I’d had a way to take pictures so you could see what I’m talking about.”

“Well, maybe you could go back? If your grandparents are okay people, what’s stopping you from announcing yourself?”

That is the question, isn’t it? I ponder over that while I continue to sip at my coffee. I can’t say much for Nikolas besides the fact that he’s very regal, but Thea was nice, and it certainly seemed like she misses my birth mother.

“So, what else did you find? Anything about your birth father?” asks Isobel.

I shake my head. “Nothing on bio dad, but there were some pictures of Helen when she was our age with Uncle Connor and my mom.”

Isobel’s jaw drops. “You don’t think Connor is . . .”

“No. Not a chance. They wouldn’t have kept something that big from me. Plus, I talked to Connor about it, and the pictures were from well before she got pregnant with me. He hadn’t seen her in a very long time before she contacted him out of the blue.”

“Wait . . . you talked to Connor? When?”

“Last night.” I blow out a breath then give her a brief overview of the two shifters in the library, what I overheard, and my subsequent trip to Connor’s house. I leave out the other things Connor and I talked about since I have no idea how to explain me being persona non grata to the other alphas and what that means.

A mischievous glint appears in her eyes. “Anything else interesting happen that I should know about?”

My cheeks heat at the memory of the kiss. Or kisses, actually. “Sort of . . .”

“You have to give me more than that,” she says, raising her eyebrows and shooting me an expectant look.

I sigh. “I don’t know. Things started off kind of weird, and he sort of forgot about me because he was so busy schmoozing, but then there was the whole thing with Adrian’s brother and the fae wine and—”

“Adrian’s brother?”

“Yeah, Louis. I ran into him outside after I went out the library window to escape the notice of the shifters.”

“And he gave you fae wine? And you drank it?”

I huff out a laugh and shake my head, heat gathering in my cheeks. “Believe me, Tristan already read me the riot act on accepting it.”

“How did he know about it?”

“Besides the fact that Louis told him . . .” Now my cheeks are a blazing inferno. “I kind of jumped Tristan and begged him to kiss me. Multiple times.”

“That’s quite a drastic effect for only one glass.” She raises her brows. “So, did he? Kiss you, I mean.”

“Yes.” I press my lips together, holding back a smile.

“And how was it?”

My fingers brush absentmindedly against my lips. “Kind of amazing.”

She claps her hands once and bounces where she sits. “Does this mean you two have worked things out now?”

“I guess so? I’m not entirely sure how we left it last night, but . . . I think there’s something worth exploring at least.”

“I’m so glad.” She hops up and bustles around the room, looking for her shoes. “Let’s go down to breakfast.”

I groan. “But that requires me getting out of bed. I didn’t get in until after two. I’m exhausted.”

“Come on.” She tugs at my arm. When I still don’t move, she says in a sing-song voice, “You can get more coffee . . .”

“Fine.” I huff out an exaggerated sigh.

At the dining hall, we find Adrian already sitting at a table. With Tristan. A smiling Tristan who looks as if a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

And maybe one has.

Maybe our conversation last night about his mother’s expectations and how much they conflicted with what he really wanted was a little more cathartic for him than I realized and he’s finally decided to let go and live his own life.

I sit down next to him, and he leans over to kiss my cheek as he takes my hand. I swear the entire dining hall freezes for a second. My face heats, and I almost pull my hand away, not interested in being the center of attention, but then action resumes and everyone acts as if nothing happened. I guess I don’t have to worry about figuring out where Tristan and I stand after all.

The rest of the week passes in a simple rhythm. Class. Homework. Studying. Tristan.

I pass off everything I found at the Andras estate to Basil. He’s disappointed we hit a dead end on my birth father, but he’s fascinated by the sigil even though he hasn’t been able to figure out what it does or how it might combine with the spell I found. Which means I don’t know any more than I did before.

Still, this is the happiest I’ve ever been at Ravencrest. Even though I still don’t have any answers about my magic and I miss Mom and Dad and the rest of my shifter family, I feel like I’m finally starting to belong. Both here and in the witch world.

And that’s what makes me anxious. Things are too good to be true.

Which, of course, means there must be something waiting in the wings to trip me up.

Like the fact that my powers have started acting wonky again, my control slipping up a little when I’ve been doing so well. Nikiforov did tell me I wasn’t supposed to take any other potions, so I’m pretty sure my new problem has something to do with the fae wine. Which is why I’m feeling a little apprehensive about telling Nikiforov what happened and asking for more potion. He told me not to take any other potions, and I went and did just that, no matter how inadvertent the action was.

But by the end of the week, I know I can’t hold off any longer. In PE on Friday, I’m just barely able to stop myself from blasting another student across the room. I spend the evening and the following morning holed up in my dorm room until it’s finally time to head to Nikiforov’s office.

When I arrive, the room is empty. I glance at the clock. Exactly three. I’m on time, so he must be running late or something. I walk into the room and sit down on the edge of Nikiforov’s desk to wait.

After five minutes with no teacher, my gaze starts wandering over the room, finally landing on the shelf filled with potions and ingredients. I walk over and examine the little bottles, entertaining myself by trying to figure out what each one is for. Some of them I recognize, like the fertilizer potions, but many of them I’ve never heard of. My eye catches on a familiar silver color in one of the bottles in the back. I’m pretty sure it’s the one Nikiforov used to make the potion to help with controlling my powers. I pull the bottle out and spin it to read the label.

Iron filings? Weird.

“Exploring?” Nikiforov’s voice makes me jolt, and the bottle nearly slides out of my fingers.

“Um. Yes. Kind of. Sorry,” I stutter out as I juggle the bottle back into place before moving to stand next to his desk with my hands clasped together behind my back. “I was curious.”

“Curiosity can be a good thing,” he says simply. “Is there a reason that particular bottle caught your eye?”

“It’s one of the ones you used to make the potion to help with my powers,” I say before casting my gaze on the floor. “Which I think I need some more of. My magic has been slightly off since last weekend. I was at a party, and someone gave me this drink that I later found out was actually a potion.”

He frowns. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from other potions? That they might affect the one I gave you?”

“I thought it was only champagne.”

“Something else you should not be drinking,” he says as he strides over to me. He holds my gaze for a moment before nodding. “I would be happy to make some more of that potion, but you have to promise to stay away from other potions. You are lucky nothing worse happened.”

“Yes, please. I promise.”

“Very well, then.” He bustles about, gathering bottles and then returning to his desk to set them down. He uses the key around his neck to unlock the drawer in his desk he got the purple powder from the last time. From my vantage point beside his desk, I catch sight of three purple flowers sitting in the open drawer, ones very much like the one I found in Helen’s cubbyhole. Nikiforov has the packet of powder in his hand now, and I realize the powder is the exact color of the flowers. Could the powder be made from crushed petals of the purple flowers?

I lean forward and point at the drawer. “Those purple flowers, what are they?”

Nikiforov’s jaw tenses for the barest of seconds before he responds with, “A plant from my homeland.”

His homeland? Does he mean Russia? I suppose that would fit considering I’ve never seen a plant like that around here.

“How do you preserve them like that?”

“Preserve them?” At that, he turns to me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do you keep them so fresh looking?”

“Longevity is merely one of their natural qualities,” he responds as he goes to his desk and begins his mixing.

Longevity? What an odd word to use. How long have those flowers been in his desk?

He glances at me. “So, the party you were at, was it here on campus? I don’t think Director Burke would approve of anyone handing out party potions to unsuspecting students.”

“No. My, um, biological grandparents had a party at their estate.”

He makes a humming noise. “I see. Did you enjoy it otherwise?”

“I guess so. The party itself was pretty boring, but my grandparents were nice enough.”

“Had you not met them before?” he asks as he lifts the bottle to the light to study the color.

“Nope. That was my whole reason to go to the party, to kind of scope them out.”

“I see,” he says absentmindedly as he adds a little more of the iron filings to the mixture. “May I ask who your grandparents are?”

The secret will be out eventually. I might as well practice telling people . . .

“Nikolas and Thea Andras,” I say.

He stops what he’s doing and turns to me, cocking his head to the side. “Your mother was Helen Andras?”

“Yes.”

He freezes for a second then makes that humming noise again. Otherwise, he doesn’t react at all; he just goes back to mixing but with sharper and more hurried motions.

“I’m not sure who bio dad is though,” I say, filling the silence. “It’s one of the things Basil is trying to figure out since he’s researching my magic and all.”

“Interesting,” he says, his face carefully blank. He hands me the potion bottle. “Here you are. Please be more careful in the future.”

I take the bottle, my brow furrowing. “Aren’t we going to work on spells today?”

He rubs a hand along the side of his neck and shakes his head. “No. I don’t have time. There are some . . . other matters I must attend to. There is something I must look into that is of great importance. It cannot wait.” He studies my face once more before his gaze darts away. “I apologize, but I must cancel our tutoring sessions for the rest of the quarter.”

Nikiforov doesn’t wait for a response, not that I’m able to put one together at this moment. He simply leads me to the door and shuts it behind me once I’m in the hall.

What the hell?

I expected him to be a little peeved about the fae wine and having to make me a new dose of potion, but he barely blinked at that. Then he finds out who my birth mother is and wants nothing to do with me? Why?

None of this makes any sense.

Except for the fact that Nikiforov is very clearly avoiding me, the rest of the weekend is uneventful. After my run on Monday morning, I stop in the dining hall to grab coffee. At first, I think the side eye looks and whispered conversations are because I’m sweaty and still dressed in my running clothes, but the looks continue in the hallways after I’ve changed into my uniform and am on the way to Basil’s office. I haven’t been the subject of this much scrutiny since my first day here.

What in the world is going on?

When I reach Basil’s office, the door is locked and there’s no light shining from underneath, so I sit down outside the door to wait for him. A few minutes later, footsteps come rushing down the empty hall and I look up, fully expecting to see Basil with a smile and an apology for running late.

But Adrian is the person headed toward me, his brow furrowed with worry.

I rise to my feet. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“Have you talked to Tristan this morning?” he asks.

“No. He said last night he had something to do this morning, so we didn’t meet up to go running.”

“Shit. He didn’t tell you.” Adrian lets out an irritated huff.

“Didn’t tell me what?”

He gives me a pained look. “His mother’s here.”

I jerk backward. “What? Why?”

“I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that she called Burke yesterday afternoon, and Tristan spoke with her.”

Tristan talked to his mother yesterday and didn’t bother to mention it to me? Why wouldn’t he tell me?

I glance up and down the hallway. Still no Basil. “Where are they?”

“Burke’s office,” says Adrian.

I’m glad Burke’s there and Tristan isn’t facing Bernadette alone, but something still feels off, and I have a few things I’d like to say to Bernadette St. James.

Adrian smiles and shakes his head. “You’re going up there, aren’t you?”

“Of course. You want to join me?”

He puts his hands up. “I try to stay as far away from Bernadette as possible.” One corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Go on and rescue lover boy. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

I let out a nervous chuckle. If Tristan didn’t tell me about this meeting, he might not appreciate an interruption as much as Adrian thinks. I give Adrian an absentminded wave then make my way upstairs to Burke’s office. The sound of raised voices reaches me as soon as I get to the doorway.

Seth is nowhere to be seen, and the door to the inner office is open.

“. . . is final. I am withdrawing him, and there is nothing you can do about it, Desmond.”

What the hell? I knew Tristan mentioned she might try to pull him, but I didn’t expect her to actually do it. How can she possibly justify this?

The murmur of Burke’s reply is too low for me to hear. Unsurprisingly, Bernadette seems to be the only one yelling. From Tristan, who I assume is also in there, I hear nothing.

As I move inside, I brush against Seth’s desk and knock over his pen holder. The contents go scattering.

The voices stop, and a couple seconds later Burke steps out. He raises an eyebrow. “Can I help you, Ms. Andras?”

Bernadette is behind him half a second later. “This is all your doing.”

“My doing?” I scoff.

“You are the one who claims those animals as friends, family even,” she says, her upper lip curling with disgust.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Anger stirs in my stomach.

“They took him,” she says, her composure breaking for a split second, long enough for me to see the frantic worry in her eyes.

“Your uncle requested that Allister present himself to the alpha. As he is now a shifter, he had to comply,” explains Burke.

“Okay . . .”

“Connor refuses to allow him to return home,” says Tristan in a dull voice as he steps into view behind his mother. His face is blank, but his jaw is tensed.

I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t understand. That doesn’t sound like Connor.”

Bernadette sneers and looks down her nose at me. “Tristan tells me you are the one who asked that creature to intervene.”

Oh shit. How does he know? My gaze darts to Tristan.

“I did,” I finally say, wincing at the way Tristan’s eyes harden. “But not like that. I thought it might help to improve things. And I wanted Tristan to be able to see him.”

Bernadette snorts. “And look what your meddling has created, much like the circumstances that led to my husband being Bitten in the first place.” She looks me up and down. “If you lay down with dogs, you get fleas.” She turns her attention to Burke. “Tristan is withdrawing, effective immediately.” Her gaze moves to Tristan, clear disappointment written on her face. “Prepare his transcript, as pathetic as it currently is. I will be in contact to let you know where to send it.”

Burke’s nostrils flare, but he nods, a curt, barely there movement.

Bernadette grabs hold of Tristan’s arm and tugs him toward the doorway. “We are leaving.” She looks me up and down again. “There will be better prospects elsewhere.”

I open my mouth and take half a step forward, but Tristan sends me a sharp-eyed glare and a jerky shake of his head. Then, his eyes downcast, his face blank, he follows his mother out of Burke’s office without so much as a goodbye.

For a beat, I stare at the doorway, open-mouthed, then whirl on Burke. “Connor wouldn’t keep Allister prisoner. I know he wouldn’t. There’s something else going on here.”

“Come.” He motions into his office and waits for me to walk in behind him before shutting the door. He sits down at his desk then removes his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “This is a disaster.”

“No kidding.”

He puts his glasses back on and stares across the desk at me. “I could not say anything in front of Bernadette, but I have spoken with Allister. He made the choice to stay. There are . . . extenuating circumstances.”

“What does that mean?”

Burke’s jaw tenses as he presses his lips together, thinking. “The alpha of the Tidewater region is staying at your uncle’s house.”

I give him a blank look. “And?”

“How much has Tristan told you about his sister?”

“Not a whole lot. She was kidnapped. The local alpha wouldn’t let anyone on to pack lands to search for her and a shifter eventually killed her.”

Burke swallows and takes a deep breath. “The region Cecily was taken to was the Tidewater region.”

My stomach twists. Connor said he didn’t know anything about Cecily. Did he lie to me? Why would he harbor an alpha who did something like that? “Besides the fact that it would piss Bernadette off, I still don’t understand what this has to do with anything.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment as if searching for something in my eyes. “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room.”

“Okay . . .”

“The reason Allister is staying is because Cecily is alive.”

“What? How is that possible? And why are you telling me this and not Tristan? Why did you just sit there and let her—”

“Tristan chose to go with her. There are things she holds over him—”

“Like his focus. I know about that. But why not tell Bernadette? Wouldn’t that solve a lot of issues?”

Burke releases a harsh breath through his nose. “Keeping this information from Bernadette is of vital importance.”

“I don’t understand. Why would it be so important for Bernadette not to know her daughter is alive?”

Another long sigh. “The Tidewater alpha is Cecily’s alpha.”

I shake my head. “So, she’s Bitten. I still don’t see the problem here.”

“What do you think Bernadette would want done to the shifter who bit her daughter?” He leans forward over the desk.

“She’d want them killed, like she wants Penny killed.” My mind whirls through all the possibilities before landing on something, a realization crashing over me. “Cecily doesn’t want that shifter killed, and she doesn’t think she could stay her mother’s hand.”

Burke nods. “The current Tidewater alpha is Cecily’s husband. She was never kidnapped. She left voluntarily.”

“But Tristan was there. He said . . .”

“He was a child,” says Burke. “Time and the influence of his mother have most likely twisted his recollection of the events to fit more closely with the story Bernadette has spun.”

I sit back down. “But why didn’t Cecily clear up this misunderstanding years ago? Couldn’t that have stopped some of this?”

“Cecily was only seventeen when she left. My guess would be that she realized Bernadette would have petitioned OSA to have her returned and, by the time Cecily was eighteen, she was Bitten. Revealing herself to Bernadette at that point . . .”

“It would put Cecily’s new family in danger.” I nod, slowly. “But why reveal herself now, after all this time?”

“She didn’t reveal herself. Her husband talked to Allister.”

“Because he was at Connor’s house, and I asked Connor to talk to Allister. I messed everything up. Crap.” I glance at Burke. “I thought it would help, to have an intermediary between the shifters and witches. I told Connor I thought Allister might be a good choice for that because of who he is.”

“It was not your fault. Things were already in motion as soon as Oliver realized who Tristan was.” He quirks a brow. “It would have been nice to not be blindsided by the fact that you stopped to have a chat with your uncle after the party last weekend.”

“Wait . . . Oliver? You mean the shifter with the kid? If Oliver is Cecily’s husband, that makes Xavier Tristan’s nephew.”

Burke nods then props an elbow on the desk and rests his chin in his hand. “I do not care for how this all came about, but your proposal of an intermediary was a good one, and it helped me come to a realization.”

“What do you mean?”

Burke lets out a sardonic chuckle. “Apparently you are not the only person to have the idea of having a well-placed witch working in the interest of shifters.”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

“After talking to Allister, I spoke at length with your uncle and we came to the conclusion that there is more than one group of rogues, each working toward their own agenda. The group Penny was a part of appears to be selecting witches in high positions and biting them in the hopes of gaining, if not allies, people who can no longer work against shifters. The two shifters you overheard at the party were more than likely looking for targets.”

“And the other group?”

“That one was formed more recently and is the one responsible for the recent deaths.”

“But why? What do those shifters hope to gain from killing witches? Doesn’t that just make things worse?”

“At this point, I am not certain as to whether or not the attacks were perpetrated by shifters. Many things are not adding up.”

“But you said the deaths were clearly caused by shifters.”

“I said they were mauled in such a way as to leave no doubt that shifters were the culprits.” He interlaces his fingers and rests them on his desk. “But that is what I was told. I have not seen any of the crime scenes or reviewed any of the files. Whoever is in charge of those investigations may have simply seen what appeared to be injuries caused by a shifter and not looked any further than that.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“You will do nothing,” says Burke. “I will take this matter up with OSA.”

“But . . .” He gives me a hard look, putting a stop to my—admittedly weak—protest before I can even voice it. “Fine. Going back to the whole Cecily thing, I understand keeping the truth from Bernadette. But I still don’t get why you don’t want Tristan to know. If you’d told him, he probably wouldn’t have even gone with her so there’d be no danger in telling him.”

Burke shakes his head. “Despite the fact that Ravencrest is closer to a college than a high school, most first-year students are still minors. Tristan does not turn eighteen for another six months. Therefore, if his mother wants to pull him from the school, there is nothing I can do about it. I did not speak to Allister until early this morning, well after Bernadette told Tristan she was coming to pick him up. Knowing that Bernadette was planning to withdraw Tristan from Ravencrest no matter what I had to say on the matter, I did not think it best to spring the information about Cecily on Tristan when he would not have time to fully process it before his mother arrived. I could not predict how Tristan would react, and there was too much of a risk of him revealing too much, too soon. The truth about Cecily needs to be kept quiet while I figure out the best way to handle things.”

“And in the meantime, Tristan is back in Bernadette’s clutches? He was making progress. What if—”

“I know, Selene, but this is bigger than Tristan. I cannot put aside the need of the many for just one person, no matter how important he may be to you or to me. He chose to go with Bernadette, and there is nothing we can do about it except hope that he remembers he can stand on his own.”

Tristan’s newfound independence and self-confidence are barely a week old. Can they stand against whatever Bernadette might throw against him? Can they stand against him thinking I betrayed him by talking to Connor? Despite everything in me that tells me Tristan is strong enough, smart enough, to realize the truth, that I was only trying to help, I still don’t know for sure. And I hate that.

I move through the rest of the day in almost a daze, going from class to class and barely retaining anything. And, selfishly, I wonder what this new development means for things between Tristan and me. We had just started to get to a good place. What happens now?

I can’t help but feel like everything is slowly falling apart.

The next two and a half weeks are a blur. When I’m not in class, I’m busy prepping for the tournament, studying with Isobel and Adrian, and trying—and mostly failing—to keep my mind off Tristan. I haven’t heard from him, of course, and I have no idea what’s going on or how he is or if he and I are still . . . whatever we were.

There’s been no word from Connor or Allister about what’s going on with the shifters either, and not knowing what’s going on is killing me.

The one bright spot is that my powers are back under control thanks to the second dose of Nikiforov’s potion. Attending class is kind of awkward with him as my teacher since he pointedly ignores me, but my grades haven’t suffered for it, so I guess I’ll deal. Next semester my classes will change, and I’m not likely to have him as a teacher again, though I still wish I knew what the hell I did wrong because losing those weekend tutoring sessions with him set me back.

Thankfully, Mr. Davis somehow convinced Agent Wright that I need to be able to fully participate in PE, so I have been able to practice my spellwork a little. I will never be any sort of master spellcaster or whatever, but I’m at least somewhat competent. Even better, my ward work has improved enough that I actually got a B on my last quiz. Still, I’m glad the tournament takes the place of any final exams because I do not have it in me to take any more freaking tests.

With all the craziness and stress, I’m looking forward to the three weeks of Winter Break before next semester. Sort of. I’m not entirely sure where I’m spending it yet. Since everything is so up in the air with the shifter alphas, I don’t know that I’d be welcome at Connor’s, not for three weeks straight anyway, and Mom and Dad are still in hiding.

I’ve put off figuring out what to do, and now the tournament is tomorrow and I’m out of time. Maybe I could go home with Isobel?

If not, I’ll probably be stuck here on campus . . . if that’s something they even allow. Crap.

I guess I’ll figure something out.

Maybe Basil will have an idea.

Today’s Friday and the last day of classes, so I’m on my way to his office for what will be my last tutoring session since next semester I’ll—supposedly—no longer need tutoring on the basics. I’m sure I’ll still end up spending time with him though. He hasn’t had as much time as he would’ve liked to continue his research into my magic and the binding spell, but he’s positive he’ll have some answers by the time spring semester starts. There are bound to be tons of things for us to discuss then because, if my luck is anything to go by, the answers will probably only lead to more questions.

Of course, I’ll have to do well in the tournament to even be around for spring semester . . .

The door to his office is closed, but the light’s on inside, and someone appears to be moving around.

I tap my knuckles against the wood before pushing it open and stepping into the room. “Basil, I—”

The words choke off as I take in the scene around me. The normally cluttered office is a disaster area with books and papers scattered everywhere instead of in their typical messy stacks. Basil is on the ground by his desk, something that looks like claw marks marring his features in four straight lines down his face and over his shoulder.

And there’s someone leaning over him, a type of presence I’ve only felt once before. In that strange bird out by the woods.

“What are you—”

The . . . person? Creature? Thing? Turns and hisses at me—straight up hisses like some kind of overgrown cat—its face hidden beneath the shadows of a hood. It straightens to its full height, which is a good foot taller than me, and rushes toward me, clawed hands out in front of it.

Could this thing be a vampire? I’ve never seen one before, but I don’t recall hearing anything about them having claws.

One of those clawed hands grabs my chin, locking me in place as it tilts my face upward. I still can’t see a face in the shadows of the hood—must be a spell of some sort—but its hand is warm, not room temperature, so it’s definitely not a vamp. This is something else, something other.

The creature speaks, and half-formed words in a language I don’t recognize flow around me. Is this some sort of spell? I’m frozen, unable to pull away from the grip on my chin, and I’m not sure if that’s the creature’s doing or because of my own fear.

The sound of voices carries in from the hallway. The thing hisses again, and I catch a flash of its teeth as it bares them under the hood.

A jolt of pain twists along my nerves as the thing pricks me with one claw in the back of the neck, just below my hairline. The pain lasts only a moment before the claw withdraws, my blood decorating the tip.

The creature extends a jet-black tongue to lick away the blood. I shudder. There’s a long pause, and the creature tilts its head to the side as if puzzling something out. It releases a string of syllables that sound like nonsense to my ears, but somewhere in the back of my mind they almost make sense.

The voices outside the room are growing louder now, closer.

The creature makes a sound that might be a snort of derision or disgust then grabs my entire face in one clawed hand, the narrow, too long fingers extending all the way from my chin to my ears. Another stream of those musical-like words flows from its mouth, and then the creature shoves me to the ground before leaping over me and moving into the hallway and disappearing from sight.

In my dazed state, the events of the last few—minutes? seconds?—take a moment to fully catch up with me, and I’m suddenly on my knees, vomiting onto the floor as something that feels like fire rushes through my veins. A moment later the sensation is gone, as if it’d never been there, and I’m kneeling, panting on the floor when someone screams.

And that’s the noise that finally pulls me out of the weird fogginess in my head. My attention focuses on Basil, limp and bleeding on the floor, one of those weird pictures from Helen’s office and a familiar purple flower clenched in his hand. What the hell happened?

And was this all my fault?

My stomach twists, and I almost puke again from the stab of guilt and pain. Someone grabs my arm and hustles me off to Burke’s office, leaving me alone, my hands shaking and my stomach churning as questions swirl around in my head.

What did that thing do to me? What language was it speaking? What was with the creepy blood licking thing?

And what the hell was that thing? It definitely wasn’t a shifter, but those injuries certainly looked like shifter claw marks. Hell, I might have thought shifter attack based on how the situation looked if I hadn’t sensed the thing which means . . . OSA will blame the attack on a shifter.

And I’m right in the middle of things. Again.

My whole body goes cold.

The door flies open, jerking me away from my thoughts, and Agent Callahan storms into the room, Agent Wright and two other OSA agents close behind. There’s no sign of Burke.

Callahan sits down behind Burke’s desk and, with a flick of his hand, directs the other agents to position themselves on either side of me.

What is this? I stare at Callahan in confusion.

“I assume you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” says Callahan, leaning forward over the desk. “Desmond Burke tendered his resignation this morning and is no longer the director of this school. He admitted to knowing about Penelope Martin and not reporting her.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. Why would Burke admit to something that wasn’t true?

“You don’t need to,” he replies. He leans back in Burke’s chair. “Now, tell me about the shifter that attacked Basil Kostis this morning.”

“It wasn’t a shifter,” I blurt out, desperate for them to believe me.

“See, I told you she was a sympathizer,” says Wright. His upper lip curls, and he looks me up and down. “She was probably in on it.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, my lip curling with disgust. “I’d never hurt Basil. You’ve got this all wrong. That thing was definitely not a shifter.”

Callahan stares at me impassively. “And how is it that you are so certain of that fact?”

“I . . . I . . .” Basil’s warning about keeping my secret holds my tongue. No matter how much I want to be sure a shifter doesn’t get blamed for this, I can’t trust OSA. I stare down at my hands. “I don’t know.”

Wright scoffs, but Callahan waves off any further commentary.

“You’re clearly hiding something,” says Callahan, clasping his hands over his stomach. “It seems to me there is one common denominator in everything that’s been happening at Ravencrest this school year. And it’s you, the unknown witch raised by shifters who failed to report a Bitten witch and took that same Bitten witch to the St. James estate. What happened this time? Was Kostis getting too close? I know he’s been looking into you.”

“No, that’s not it at all. He was looking into my magic, trying to figure out why it’d suddenly gone out of control.”

“Out of control?” says Callahan, one eyebrow moving upward. “Except for the incident with the Dumont boy—which I believe was a fit of temper and nothing else—I’ve seen no evidence of your powers being out of control.”

Wonderful. I spent all this time staying under the radar only to have it come back and bite me in the ass. He wasn’t supposed to see any evidence of it. That’s what Burke wanted. That’s what I wanted. Except now . . .

I grit my teeth. “The only people who were aware of it were Director Burke and Basil.”

And Nikiforov, but I don’t think bringing him into this is a good idea.

“How very convenient.” He leans back in the chair.

One of the OSA agents I don’t recognize turns his attention to me. “It is my understanding you were admitted late, correct? And without the proper admissions tests?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah.”

“How did you get Mr. Kostis to override the admissions procedure? Blackmail of some sort?”

“No,” I say, shooting him an incredulous look. “There were special circumstances.”

OSA Guy narrows his eyes, studying my face. “Special circumstances?”

I open my mouth, but I have no idea what to say. Without Burke or Basil here . . . How much am I supposed to tell them? What do I do?

“Go on then, Ms. Andras, explain to me how an untested witch who, by all accounts, struggles to complete the most basic of assignments managed to bypass the very strict admissions process and become a student here,” says Wright.

“My birth mother . . .” I sputter out.

The sound of raised voices comes from outside the door, and a few seconds later Seth pokes his head in. “Mr. Callahan, there’s someone—”

“I told you I was not to be disturbed,” snaps Callahan. “Now go back to—”

The tall figure of Nikolas Andras pushes past Seth.

“You will not be dismissing my granddaughter from this school,” says Nikolas as Thea enters the room behind him, followed closely by Vivian Ramirez.

Thea comes to stand behind my chair then gives me a small smile.

The OSA agent jerks backward. “Your granddaughter?”

Thea tilts her chin up to look down her nose at him. “Yes.” She focuses on Callahan. “Nor will you be interrogating her without legal representation.”

Callahan huffs. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

Nikolas raises an eyebrow. “Then she is free to go?”

Callahan narrows his eyes at Vivian. “You knew. Why was this not reported to me?”

Vivian straightens. “I don’t report to you, Callahan.”

Callahan scowls and moves his gaze to Nikolas. “Are you taking responsibility for her then?”

Nikolas nods. “Of course.”

Callahan’s gaze moves from me to Nikolas. “This matter is still under investigation. We cannot let an attack like this go unpunished, and if she is found to have been involved, not even your influence can protect her. Where will she be if we have further questions on the matter?”

“She will be staying with her grandfather and me during Winter Break,” says Thea.

Callahan looks as if he might protest—hell, I might protest. As much as I had no clue what I was going to do otherwise, I don’t know if I want to spend three weeks with two virtual strangers.

Thea cocks her head to the side, and her brows twitch. “If you have questions for her, you may contact our family attorney, and she will set you up with an appointment.”

Callahan shakes his head before turning to me. “Fine then. You are free to go. But keep in mind, we’re watching you.”

I nod slowly and rise to my feet. Thea grips my arm lightly and leads me from the office. Nikolas stays behind in Burke’s office, but Vivian follows Thea and me out into the hall. I’m not sure how I feel about Vivian finally telling my secret, but I suppose she did it at the perfect time.

Unless . . .

“Did you know?” I ask Thea. “At the party, I mean.”

She smiles softly. “No, but I had my suspicions. Desmond made no secret of your existence as a ‘distant relation,’ but he never explained who you were related to. I knew there must have been a reason for that. Once I saw you, I understood more.” She links her arm with mine. “Come, tell me more about yourself while I wait for your grandfather to be finished.”

She takes me out to the quad and then sits beside me on a bench. We manage to hold a conversation, staying away from any heavy topics, like Helen, which is great because I don’t think I have the brain power to get into it right now. Thea extends a more formal invitation for me to stay with them over the break, and I accept. Not like I have much choice since that’s where OSA expects me to be now.

Nikolas exits the building about thirty minutes later and takes his wife’s hand to help her to her feet. He gives me a stiff nod, much more standoffish than Thea, but I can’t hold that against him. He did kind of save my ass, and I’m pretty much a complete stranger, blood relation or no.

Then, just as quickly as they arrive, Nikolas and Thea are leaving. Nikolas offers only a handshake, but Thea kisses my cheek and tells me she looks forward to spending time with me soon. The whole thing is weird and awkward and strangely anti-climactic, but at least the whole revealing my secret identity thing is out of the way.

The rest of it . . . I’ll deal with later.

It isn’t until I get to my dorm room and reach for my magic to unlock the door that I realize something is very wrong.

My magic, that lively warmth in the center of my chest normally quick to respond is . . . less, part of it muted, like it’s far away and out of reach, and the other part drained and nearly gone. Neither part leaves me the ability to do much. I can’t reach the distant power, and the magic that’s left inside me isn’t enough to harness, isn’t enough to use. I’m damn near powerless.

The taste of my earlier vomit burns in the back of my throat as my stomach twists into a knot.

The tournament is tomorrow. The tournament that’s dangerous to compete in at full power and the results of which determine my future at Ravencrest.

What the hell am I going to do?

I scrape up enough of a jolt to get the door to my room open then shut it behind me and sink to the floor with my back against the wood.

My mind flashes to that creature in Basil’s office. Were those words a spell? Is that thing what did this to me? I’ve never heard of a spell to drain power like this, but that’s not saying much considering there’s so much I don’t know.

But the questions of what did this and why and how don’t matter nearly as much as figuring out what the hell I’m supposed to do about it.

Both my friends are in class. Basil is unconscious. Burke is who knows where.

Nikiforov. He might be angry at me or whatever, but there’s no one else for me to turn to. He’s the only one who might be able to help me and probably the only other person on campus I halfway trust. Classes are still in session, but it’s nearly lunchtime, so hopefully Nikiforov won’t be busy teaching.

I get to my feet, shed my uniform skirt, and pull on a pair of leggings before dashing over to the main building. But when I get to the door, my steps falter.

How am I going to open it?

Drawing magic from the air has never been my strong point, but without the typical ball of energy in my chest to use, that method is my only option. I pull at the magic around me, trying to coral the energy so I can zap the ward lock with it. But my effort is useless. Every bit of the magic slips through my fingers and drains away.

I curl my hands into fists and try again, this time gritting my teeth and closing my eyes so I can concentrate. The magic around me is slippery and weak, nothing at all like my normal abilities, but I gather enough to form a tiny energy ball and direct it toward the ward, praying that’s enough to trigger the lock.

The door clicks, and I let out a sigh of relief before yanking the door open and rushing to Nikiforov’s office.

But he’s not here.

Shit.

I glance around. Maybe he has his schedule written down somewhere so I can figure out where he is. As I walk toward the desk, I almost trip over a book sitting on the floor. That’s weird. Nikiforov keeps his office almost meticulously neat. I shrug, pick up the book, and set it on the corner of the desk.

There’s no schedule in sight or any handy ‘hey, this is where I am’ note, but my gaze catches on the drawer in his desk where he stores rare and expensive ingredients. The open drawer. I walk around the desk, intending to slide the drawer closed and let him know he forgot to lock it, but the contents come into view as I draw closer. One of those purple flowers. The jar of powder. A strange signet ring. And something that doesn’t belong, not here.

One of Isobel’s notebooks, her name printed in neat letters across the top.

Normally I’d feel guilty about going through someone else’s things, but not with this. Ignoring everything else, I grab the notebook and flip through it. The pages are mostly unused, but there’s a section at the front labeled in Isobel’s careful handwriting with my name. Strange diagrams and spell equations litter the pages, and in the middle of the last page is a sigil. The same one I found in Helen’s desk. Seal.

Beside the sigil, Isobel scribbled three half-formed questions to herself.

Old binding?

Fae magic?

Needs blood?

The next page is blank, but there’s a jagged edge near the spine. Someone removed the later pages. Someone who didn’t want anyone to know what Isobel found. Probably the same someone who erased her memories.

A sound in the doorway brings my gaze up to meet Nikiforov’s. His silver hair is down around his shoulders, highlighting the paleness of his face.

“Selene . . .” His face twists into a pained expression. “This . . . it . . .”

“This isn’t what it looks like?” I ask, a cold anger lacing my words as I hold up Isobel’s notebook.

How did I not see it? A hard to get, difficult to make, illegal potion . . . How did I discount Nikiforov as a suspect so easily? I’m so, so stupid.

“I did not use a potion on your roommate,” he says after a beat. “Please, let me explain.” He gives me an imploring look, a friendly smile, then gestures me forward.

Drawn to listen to him, I almost fall for it, taking a half-involuntarily step toward him before shaking my head and backing away. “No.”

He cocks his head to the side and his nostrils twitch before his eyes widen. “The Hunt . . . What did you do? Did you draw it here?” His gaze darts around the room, and his eyes narrow as anger takes over his features. “I was too lenient with you. I should have bound the magic the second I knew what you really were.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I take another step backward until I’m pressed against the wall.

“But I can no longer afford to be reckless,” he says, moving farther into the room, his face stormy. “You cannot—”

I dart around him and out the door, Isobel’s notebook clutched to my chest. He calls out after me, but I ignore him, not stopping until I reach my dorm room. I shove through the door, breathing out a sigh of relief when I spot Isobel sitting at her desk. Of all the days she’s skipped lunch in the dining hall, I’m most grateful for this one.

She spins around at the noise of my entry, her expression shifting from startled to worried. “What’s wrong?”

Mutely, I hold the notebook out to her.

Gently taking the notebook from my hold, her face twists with confusion. “Where did you find this?”

“Nikiforov had it,” I say.

Her eyes widen as she flips through the pages. “That’s my handwriting, but I don’t recognize any of this.”

I point out the sigil. “That’s the one I was talking about, the one I found with the spell in Helen’s hidden office.”

“We need to tell Burke about this,” she says, jumping to her feet.

I laugh, not because anything is funny, but because I don’t know what else to do. “He’s gone. He resigned or something this morning.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know.” I throw my hands out. “I don’t understand. I thought I could trust him. Why would Nikiforov do something like this? What is he trying to hide?”

Isobel sits down again, shaking her head slowly. “I have no idea.” She goes through the notebook again, skimming over each page. “None of this is particularly groundbreaking. Hell, except for that sigil, there’s not a single piece of information in here that a dedicated person couldn’t find in the library.” Her brow furrows. “And why risk keeping the evidence around?”

Sitting down on my bed, I rub my forehead with one hand. “None of this makes any sense.”

“Does Nikiforov know you have this?” she asks.

“Yes. He walked into his office right after I found it in his desk,” I say.

“What did he say?”

I snort. “That it wasn’t what it looked like.”

Isobel bites at her lower lip. “That’s a pretty weak defense. Are you sure he didn’t find the notebook somewhere? Maybe he wasn’t sure who it belonged to. I’m not in his class, so he wouldn’t recognize my handwriting.”

“But I am in his class, and my name is written in the damn thing. If he wasn’t trying to hide it, he would’ve asked me about it.”

“Are you sure about that?” asks Isobel. “I mean, you don’t know how long he’s had it. Maybe he didn’t have a chance to ask yet?”

“I don’t know . . .” I cover my face with my hands and huff out a breath. “I’m so confused. Everything is all messed up. Burke’s gone for who the hell knows what reason. Basil is hurt, and OSA—”

“Wait. What do you mean Basil’s hurt? What happened?” Her brows pull together, and she leans toward me.

I explain to her about finding Basil injured, the strange creature in his office, meeting with OSA, and my grandparents.

“So Nikolas just walked in, said you were his granddaughter, and that was the end of it?” she asks.

“Kind of?”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I have no idea.” Sighing, I rest my forehead on my palm. “Everything happened all at once, and I haven’t had time to process any of this crap. I’m not going to either. I’m supposed to spend Winter Break with them, so I imagine I’m going to be whisked off after the tournament is over tomorrow. Now, on top of everything, there’s this.” I fling my hand in the direction of the notebook. “The one adult left at Ravencrest I thought I could trust is, more than likely, the person who stole your memories.”

“I’m not one hundred percent certain Nikiforov did it,” she says hesitantly.

I throw up my hands. “Well, neither am I, but that’s just the kind of day I’m having, and I don’t know what else to think.”

“Why were you in his office to begin with?”

I give her a wry smile and let out a pained laugh. “You know, I’d completely forgotten about that part, the topper to this crap sandwich of a day. That thing in Basil’s office? It did something to me, and now my magic is . . . not gone exactly, but certainly not very accessible.”

“I don’t understand.”

“All that raw power Basil’s always talking about is a trickle right now. I can barely manage to open doors,” I say.

“And the tournament is tomorrow . . .”

“Exactly.”

Isobel glances at the notebook then tosses it onto her desk. “What Nikiforov did or didn’t do isn’t important right now. Our top priority needs to be getting you through that tournament. Everything else can wait.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

She comes to sit next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”

“By tomorrow? We don’t have that kind of time.”

“Then we’ll just have to work together.” She gently shakes my shoulder. “We’ve got this.”

The next morning arrives more quickly than I’d like, and there’s absolutely zero improvement in my magic. It still feels weak and too far away and, even with Isobel’s help, competing in the tournament at less than full power doesn’t sound particularly appealing.

But I don’t have much of a choice at this point.

I opted out of all my final exams because I was doing the tournament instead. There’s no way I’d pass any of my classes if I back out now.

Isobel keeps glancing at me worriedly as we get ready and then make our way outside to the sizable area out by the lake where the tournament is being held. As we draw closer, what appears to be a large green wall comes into view.

I glance at Isobel from the corner of my eye as we approach. “The tournament takes place in a hedge maze? Really?”

She chuckles. “It is a cliché for a reason. Plants are easier to manipulate with spells than building material. OSA probably had a few witches here working overnight to build it up, and they can take it down as soon as everyone’s done rather than having a big old empty building or arena sitting out here.”

I suppose she has a point . . .

A group of twenty or so students is lined up by the opening in the greenery that’s the entrance to the maze, and the OSA agent standing at the front looks pointedly at her watch as Isobel and I draw closer.

“You’ve just made it,” she says. “Another minute and you’d have to forfeit.”

I wince. That’s my fault for staying up so late worrying about everything.

Isobel grabs my arm and says under her breath, “Don’t worry about it. We’re fine.”

The OSA agent claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “As you know, this is a timed course with staggered start times to avoid any backups at the obstacles. There are many different possible routes through the maze, all of them with their own set of challenges. Some may be harder and shorter, and some may be easier and longer. It is up to you to decide how you want to progress. You can choose to work together or separately, but everyone must pass at least one obstacle without help from anyone else.”

I swallow and glance at Isobel.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispers.

The OSA agent continues, “The obstacles increase in difficulty as you progress and will test all aspects of your powers. Once you enter the maze, the only way out is through the exit. You are not allowed to backtrack, and there are spells in place to prevent cheating.” She holds up a silver band. “You will each wear one of these talismans throughout your time in the course. It serves as your identification and tracking. If you remove it, you will be disqualified. If you lose it, you will be disqualified. If you exit the maze without it, you will be disqualified. If you cheat, you will be expelled. Understand?”

Everyone nods.

“You will be scored in three areas. The first and most important is speed, but you will also get points for skill and creativity, meaning how you traverse the obstacles can sometimes be more important than how quickly you do it.” She pauses, her gaze moving over our faces. “When you are ready, please come up and get your band. Your time will not start until you have entered the maze.”

The other students accept their bands and enter the maze one by one. Isobel and I are the last ones in line and the only ones side by side.

The OSA agent looks at us with interest. “Working together?”

“Yes,” says Isobel.

The agent’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Good. Sometimes they award points for teamwork, but we want people to decide to work together before we share that information.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief.

“But you will still each need to complete one obstacle on your own.” The agent fastens one of the bands on each of our wrists and then claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

Isobel and I pass in between the opening in the hedge and enter the maze. I look from side to side. The other students have already disappeared so completely that I can’t even hear them, and the silence is eerie as hell.

“Sound dampening spell,” says Isobel. “So everyone has to find their own way instead of following someone else.”

“Then I’m even more glad we decided to go through this together. I don’t like this place. At all.”

“We can do this,” says Isobel.

I pull my shoulders back. She’s right. We can.

Don’t people say the best way to get through a maze is to always turn left? Or maybe it was right? I glance in either direction. They both look exactly the same.

“Left?” I ask. Might as well go with my first instinct.

Isobel shrugs. “Sure. Let’s go.”

And the two of us head off down the first long pathway. After two full minutes of walking and seeing nothing, not even a turnoff, we glance at each other uncertainly.

“This doesn’t seem right,” I say. “Do you think this never-ending corridor is meant to be an obstacle?”

Isobel bites at her lower lip as she thinks. “An illusion spell maybe? To hide any turn offs?”

I nod. “Sounds feasible.”

“So, that makes the first task breaking a spell. Easy enough.” She cracks her knuckles and closes her eyes.

Isobel’s brow furrows, and then she makes a chopping motion with one arm, and the illusion spell shatters to reveal multiple turnoffs from the path we’re on.

We share a look, and I tilt my chin toward her. “You pick this time.”

She nods and trots off to the closest turnoff, peering down, then shakes her head. The next turnoff gets the same treatment, but at the third one, she points. “Let’s go this way.”

This time finding the next obstacle is easy. A large pit comes into view directly in our path. The pit isn’t particularly wide, but I can’t see the bottom, so going down and climbing up the other side isn’t an option.

“I should be able to spell our shoes so we can jump it,” says Isobel as she eyes the pit.

“Should be?” I peer over the edge. Things like this must be why the tournament is considered dangerous. If someone doesn’t know what they’re doing, this obstacle could be deadly. “It might be a long way down if you can’t.”

She bites at her lip.

“You can spell your own shoes just fine, right? It’s the added exertion of spelling mine that makes you unsure?”

She nods. “We could go back and try another way?”

“You heard what the agent said. There’s no backtracking. They probably don’t want people cherry picking the easiest obstacles.”

I glance around at the ground. We may be in the middle of a giant hedge maze, but this maze happens to also be in the woods. If I can find one good, sturdy branch . . . I spot what I need and run over to pick it up. The branch is thick enough to hold my weight and flexible enough to do what I need it to do.

“Spell your shoes,” I say to Isobel. “I’ve got this.”

I back up and take off running toward the pit with the branch held at my side. As I reach the edge, I plant the branch on the ground and use the momentum to send myself over the pit and onto the other side. I stumble forward, falling to my knees with one heel dangling over open air. I made it. I toss a grin back at Isobel.

“Impressive,” she says. “I think I’ll stick to magic though.”

A minute later Isobel has spelled her shoes and gently leaps across the pit, landing on the other side with barely a puff of dirt. Sure, her way was prettier, but mine worked all the same, and maybe that can count as me doing the obstacle by myself.

We move deeper into the maze, making short work of a string of simple ward obstacles and one that required us to use a smoke potion. As we go around the next turn, another student comes into view and, as we draw closer, I recognize Adrian. He’s looking a little bedraggled and frustrated, but his face lights up when he sees us.

“Finally,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “I thought I was going to have to wait here forever for someone to help me with this one.”

“We live to serve,” says Isobel with an exaggerated bow.

But my smile isn’t so sure. Adrian is no slouch, and if this is an obstacle he can’t get past . . .

Adrian’s brows pull together as he studies me. “What’s going on? You look like you swallowed a ton of rocks.”

“There’s something wrong with my magic,” I say.

His eyes about bug out of his head. “And you still walked in here? What were you thinking? Being weakened in here could get you killed.”

“That’s what I’m for,” says Isobel.

“For getting killed?” deadpans Adrian.

Isobel rolls her eyes. “No, we’re doing this as a team.”

“Well, I guess I better volunteer as a member then.” He glances around. “I’ve been stuck here for ten minutes, and I’m not sure what to do with this one.”

“With what?” I ask, waving a hand toward the empty space in front of us.

He chuckles. “About ten steps ahead there’s a barrier of some sort. You can’t see it, but it’s there. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but nothing’s worked.”

“Interesting,” says Isobel. She walks forward slowly with one hand held out in front of her and, like Adrian said, about ten steps later her palm runs into something and she can go no farther. She feels around, pressing both hands against the invisible barrier and sliding them up and down. If she was a little more exaggerated about it and dressed in black and white she’d look exactly like a mime stuck in an invisible box. After a minute or two, she shakes her head and returns to me and Adrian.

“I don’t know what it is,” she says. “It kind of feels like a ward, but it’s too solid for that. Maybe it’s a combination?” She nibbles on her lower lip. “What have you tried, Adrian?”

“The typical ward breaking methods. Probably the same ones you used getting through all the wards on the way here.”

“Any spellbreaking techniques?”

He shakes his head in reply.

“I guess that’s where we’ll start then,” says Isobel.

She runs through as many spellbreaking techniques as she knows with no luck.

“If it’s a combination, do you think one of you could do a ward break and one of you can do a spell break at the same time,” I suggest.

“Could work,” says Isobel.

So, they do. Combination after combination until they’re both sweating and exhausted.

Adrian presses his lips together. “The obstacles aren’t meant to be this difficult. At minimum we should have made some progress after all that, but nothing . . .” He plops down on the ground and rests his back against the greenery of the hedge. “I’m out of ideas.”

“Maybe it has something to do with sigils. Let me see if I can figure anything out,” I say as I approach the barrier. There’s a glimmer in the air which I assume is the barrier, and the thing is making a weird humming noise I hadn’t been able to hear from where I stood before.

I reach forward, one hand in front of me.

And pass through the barrier with no effort at all.

An almost painful shock jolts along my nerves, but the sensation is gone almost as soon as it registers. I stop walking and look over my shoulder. Isobel and Adrian are gone. There’s nothing behind me but an empty path.

What the hell?

“Isobel! Adrian!” My voice carries through the air, but there’s no response, not a single sound besides the rustling of leaves in the breeze. I spin around and make my way toward the barrier with my hands held out in front of me. My palms smack into an invisible wall. I repeat Isobel’s mime-like movements with pretty much the same results as she had. Nothing. The barrier is completely solid again; even the humming noise is gone. Somehow, I don’t think I’m getting back through.

I glance up and down the leafy corridor. For better or worse, I’m on my own now and need to make the best of it somehow.

I take a hesitant step forward then another and another, my gaze steadily moving around watching for other obstacles. There can’t be too many left. I can do this. I can make it. I can—

Everything around me goes dark. And not ‘nighttime’ dark, but ‘pitch black I can’t see my hand in front of my face’ dark. This is not good.

I pause, my feet shifting in place while I listen to the air around me. Squinting into the darkness—as if that’s going to solve my problem—I focus on the sound of the wind passing through the leaves of the hedge—the only sound I can hear.

That is, until the whispers start. They’re quiet at first, gentle brushes of air and sound, but they grow in volume until I’m surrounded by a constant hiss. The voices are woven together in a chorus of words, none of which I understand. It sounds like English . . . but a garbled version, spoken by mouths unfamiliar with how a human vocal box works.

A shudder travels down my spine.

This must be another obstacle, but what the hell am I supposed to do? Find a way around it? Break a spell? My magic still won’t respond enough for me to do a light spell, but I can’t stand here and do nothing.

Sliding my left foot along the ground, I take a hesitant step forward. I slide my right foot up to meet it and then repeat the actions a few times, my arms held out in front of me so I don’t run into anything. I just hope there aren’t any more pits because the only way I’d find one is with my foot over empty air as I fall.

My progress is, of course, extremely slow, but this isn’t a situation I should rush. With every careful, sliding step, I reach out for my magic, hoping that maybe this will be the time it answers my call so I can at least see where I’m going. Nope. Nothing. My frustration level rises along with my heartbeat and breathing. What the hell kind of obstacle even is this?

Something crashes through the bushes ahead of me, thrashing and stumbling around. A person? An animal? Something else?

“Hello?” I call out.

“Hello?” someone answers. “Who’s there?”

Wonderful. Of all the people for me to get stuck in here with, Jason Barrington is the very last one I’d choose. But, then again, he sounds just as confused as I feel, and he has no light spell pulled up. Why? Does that mean this darkness isn’t a normal obstacle?

When I don’t respond, he curses under his breath and mumbles something, light appearing in his palm.

“Hey, Jason.”

His head jerks up, and the startled look on his face morphs into one of displeasure.

My gaze flicks toward his testing talisman, glowing a steady—though muted—red, the mark of a cheater. He follows my gaze, his eyes first widening and then narrowing as he promptly extinguishes the light spell, leaving both of us in the dark again.

There’s the sound of a couple quick movements, and then I’m knocked off my feet by a wave of magic hitting my abdomen. Thankfully only an energy ball, but it stings like crazy and knocks the air out of me. As I’m kneeling on the ground, trying to catch my breath, Jason goes crashing through the bushes again, most likely cutting through hedges instead of walking the maze. Is that why his talisman lit up? No one said we weren’t allowed to cut through the plants. What if—

A loud yell comes from Jason’s direction, one that sounds a lot like his voice. I suppose that’s what he gets stumbling around like—

This time a scream breaks through the air, not one that’s merely scared or startled. This noise is one of pure fear.

I’m on my feet and making my way toward the sound, running my hand along the bushes to guide my way before I realize what I’m doing. Am I really going to run to his rescue? He hasn’t exactly been nice, and he did just shoot a damn energy ball at me.

Another scream.

Yes. I am. I can’t ignore that bone deep terror, no matter who it belongs to.

I push my way into the hedge with my arms out in front of me, batting away branches. Only a few seconds pass before I’m through to the other side. There’s a path of sorts through the bushes, broken branches, fallen leaves, and empty space that’s illuminated by something up ahead in the direction where Jason continues to scream.

I break into a run, lifting my arms to protect my face as I crash down the path Jason created through the plants. The light gets brighter and brighter until I burst through the last hedge and find myself in a sort of walled courtyard. The center of the maze maybe?

Jason is nowhere to be seen, but I can still hear him. Another scream rings out through the empty courtyard, echoing around me.

Could this be some kind of illusion?

Oh shit.

Could the screams be some sort of illusion? Some trick to lure me here to . . . what?

I glance around again.

Another scream.

That can’t be fake. No illusion could sound that real.

“Jason?” I call out. Maybe he’s trapped somewhere I can’t see. I take a step in the direction I think the sound came from.

The sound of whimpering reaches my ears. From behind me. I whirl around just as the air shimmers and whatever strange illusion was hiding the reality of this courtyard shatters.

“Run,” croaks Jason from his position kneeling on the ground about ten feet in front of me.

Behind Jason stands a man with long, red-gold hair, snake-like eyes, and a face made of sharp lines and perfect symmetry. The beauty of his features is incongruous with the somewhat blank expression on his face and the fact that there’s blood at the corner of his mouth. He has his head tilted to the side, a gesture that looks like inquisitiveness, as if everything around him is new and he’s trying to put all the pieces together while also jabbing a sharp—is that an actual claw?—finger into the skin near Jason’s shoulder blade. The man blinks and pushes harder into Jason’s already bleeding flesh before bringing the bloody claw to his mouth.

Just like that creature I found in Basil’s office did, except the creature barely scratched me, and at least an inch of this guy’s claw is wet with blood.

Jason screams again, the sound seeming too big for the size of the wound, but there’s something about the look on the man’s face that tells me whatever he’s doing is much more than what it appears.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“How did you break my glamour?” the man asks, ignoring my questions entirely.

“Glamour?”

He tilts his head to the other side, studying me, and then releases Jason to crumple to the ground on his side. Half a breath later, the man is inches from my face, his slitted eyes peering into mine. I startle and take a step backward, but he grabs my arm to keep me in place, digging the tip of one of those claws into my skin hard enough to draw blood.

He releases my arm and brings his finger to his mouth, a forked tongue coming out to lap at the blood there. “You are the one who triggered the trap.”

The trap? Does he mean that weird force field thing I walked through?

I take another step backward. He doesn’t try to stop me, but his expression flickers into something predatory, as if should I decide to run, he’d be glad to give chase. In fact, he might even prefer it if I ran.

“What does that mean?” I ask, my gaze darting to Jason, still crumpled on the ground.

The man’s nose wrinkles as if he smelled something distasteful. “You have the blood.”

Yeah, that totally clears things up, dude. I have to fight back a half-hysterical laugh as the man just stands there blinking at me as if his statement was a foregone conclusion.

Jason groans and shoves himself to his feet. His hands dance in the sharp movements of a spell I don’t recognize, and he yells out something in Latin as he sends the spell toward the man in front of me.

At the sound of Jason’s voice, the man turns a disinterested eye toward my classmate, glances up at the spell, and then one long fingered hand waves through the air and destroys the spell. As it’s in motion. Before it hits anything. Using no method of spellbreaking I’ve ever seen.

I don’t see it happen, but somehow I feel the magic of the spell being absorbed rather than broken apart.

Much like Nikiforov did when my spell nearly went out of control that first tutoring session.

The man rolls his eyes, an expression so common, so human, but on him it looks foreign, as if he’s seen the motion and is imitating it rather than having any idea what it actually means. “You have been given the gift of your life, child,” he says to Jason. “Do not waste it.” The man’s attention turns back to me. This time his eyes blink rapidly like a lizard. “Come along now, abomination.”

Abomination? This guy is nuts. “Not going to happen. I have no idea who you are or what you want, but there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere with you.”

The smile that slithers on to his face is cold and predatory. “Your fae magic is bound, and even if it were not, the piddling bit of polluted nonsense that your witch half brings you would do nothing against me.”

My what now? I blink at the guy as the pieces come together in my head. The reason why the identity of my birth father could be dangerous. The reason I was hidden so carefully away. The reason my magic is different.

I’m half fae.

And this guy is what? Full fae? I take another step away from him.

“Run,” says Jason. “Just run.”

The fae tsks and looks at Jason like some disappointed parent whose toddler is acting up. “I would have let you live. Although you, too, have the blood, it is in such a minuscule amount to be well below anyone’s notice.”

Long, graceful strides take him to stand before my classmate. The fae grabs Jason by the throat and lifts him into the air. Jason’s lips turn blue, and a wet, choking noise forces its way past his lips as he frantically scratches at the arm holding him.

“Stop it,” I say, my voice timid and scared. Then, louder, “Stop it!”

From behind me, someone yells words I don’t understand, words that itch in my ears but don’t make any sense. A bottle goes flying through the air and lands on the fae in front of me, shattering with another word from the voice behind me, one I finally recognize: Nikiforov.

The fae hisses as a potion bubbles on his skin and he tosses my classmate’s limp form away as if he weighs nothing. Jason is airborne for a few feet before his head cracks against the ground, his neck landing at an unnatural angle. He doesn’t move again.

Nikiforov steps into the courtyard, another bottle held tightly in his hand. He rattles off another long string of words in a language I don’t recognize. The fae responds in the same strange language, and Nikiforov’s upper lip pulls into a snarl. He waves a hand over his face, and his features shift into ones not quite different, but more.

Nikiforov’s hair is burnished silver, his eyes flashing the same metallic color. The lines of his face are sharper, his skin more luminous, and his ears rise to a narrow point.

Holy shit. It must have been a glamour. Nikiforov is fae.

“The hunt is on. She is mine to claim,” says the fae.

“She is not,” hisses Nikiforov.

The fae shakes his head as if disappointed. “You chose sides oddly, Niviriph. And more importantly, poorly.”

With sharp, precise lines, the fae draws the sigil Inferno in the air, the image of it hanging there in a glittering curtain, then shoves it toward Nikiforov as if the sigil is a spell.

And damn if the thing doesn’t behave like one.

A blast of fire races toward Nikiforov who’s preparing a sigil of his own, this one Flood. My teacher sends his sigil at the fire, extinguishing it. Then he mutters a spell and tosses another bottle at the fae.

The fae tries to catch the bottle, but it slips through his fingers and hits the ground at his feet. He screeches in pain as the glass shatters, splattering the potion on his calves and feet. Smoke rises from the slowly burning skin as the fae continues to make a pained noise. He bares his teeth at Nikiforov.

“You have been in exile too long that you resort to human measures.”

Nikiforov holds up a second bottle, this one slightly bigger, and shrugs. “If the human measures are effective . . .”

Another hiss from the fae. “This is not the end. You cannot protect her forever.”

“I do not plan to,” says Nikiforov. “Remove yourself from my territory.”

The fae snarls but retreats for a step and then turns and darts off into the surrounding darkness.

And Nikiforov’s attention turns on me. In his fae form, his eyes hold an intensity that I can’t look away from. He casts a glance at my fallen classmate then shakes his head once, as if making a decision. Moving to me, he grips my chin with one hand, his long, slender fingers holding me in place.

His lips are pressed together, and his body tense with anger. “You idiotic child. I have been safe here for years, and then you come along and destroy everything because you refused to leave things alone.”

I open my mouth to speak.

“No,” he snaps. “Cerlysin’s glamour will not hold much longer, and you do not get to argue with me, not after you have been so horribly reckless as to let yourself be known. What were you thinking revealing yourself like this?”

Cerlysin? Is he talking about the other fae?

“I—I didn’t know,” I stammer.

Nikiforov sneers, and his nostrils flare with rage. “I have placed myself in danger to come to your aid today, but do not expect me to do it again. I will release the bind placed on your magic because it will drain you if I don’t, but I cannot have my identity revealed, and no one can know the truth of what happened here.”

“I—I won’t tell anyone,” I stutter out.

“No, you won’t, but not because I trust your ability to hold your tongue, but because I will place a geis on you that won’t let you tell anyone.” He lets out a sardonic chuckle at the confused look on my face. “Old magic. Fae magic. The kind you don’t deserve to have when you are so ignorant of the rules.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” I say, finally managing to break free from whatever weird hypnotic eye thing he’s doing.

“And neither did I.” He leans forward, staring directly into my eyes, and lays the geis. He spins for me a version of events, the version the geis will force me to give in answer to any questions I’m asked and the only version I’ll be able to speak or write no matter how much I want to scream out the truth.

When he’s done feeding me all the false details, to himself he whispers, “May the Fates forgive this.”

I stumble through the gap in the hedge that marks the exit of the maze, my head foggy and my stomach churning with guilt and anger. And more than a little bit of horror. The geis, the idea that my mouth will say those words, makes me feel like puking. I don’t know if Nikiforov knew what he was doing by forcing me to tell that specific story, knew how much it would hurt me, but I damn sure hope not. If he didn’t know, if he was only rushed and angry, but not vindictive—which his whole forgiveness comment and the fact that he removed whatever it was holding my magic hostage might imply—then he might still be willing to help me.

Because if my experiences with the fae so far are anything to go by, I’m going to need help. Witch magic doesn’t appear to affect fae, and I got the distinct impression from the fact that the other fae called me an abomination and mentioned a hunt that there will be more coming after me. Even as pissed as I am about the geis and as horrible as it will make me feel to tell this lie, I’m not stupid. I’ll need a teacher, one who knows fae magic, and Nikiforov is my only choice.

Groups of students are scattered around the clearing, way more people than entered the maze with my group, and everyone turns to look at me. When the murmurs start, I glance down at my clothes. There’s blood splattered across my shirt—whose blood I’m not entirely sure—and my pants are ripped and covered in dirt.

Not that the other students look much better. The tournament apparently wasn’t kind to anyone.

Isobel is the first person to reach me. Her hair is wild, and there’s a long scratch on her cheek. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for almost half an hour.” When I don’t respond right away, she looks closer at my face, her brows pulling together in concern. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Adrian jogs up a second later, running his hands over my arms and legs as if looking for injury. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” I manage to choke out. “Jason . . .”

“Barrington?” asks Adrian.

I nod, not sure what else to say.

“What did he do? I’ll kill him,” says Adrian, scowling in the direction of the maze behind me. “I overheard he was tagged for cheating. How far behind you is he?”

“He’s not. He’s . . . there were . . . I think he’s dead.” I shake my head and grit my teeth, holding back the words the geis wants me to say. Barely.

“Dead?” Adrian takes a step backward, eyes wide. “What the hell happened in there?”

The question triggers the geis to push even more, and Nikiforov’s story is forced past my lips. “There was a shifter. In the maze. He attacked us and killed Jason.”

Isobel gasps, and Adrian jerks his chin the direction of one of the OSA agents. “Go grab one of them,” he says to Isobel before turning his attention back to me. “A shifter? Really? How did a shifter get past the wards to get on campus?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my eyes burning and my jaw screaming with the effort of trying to hold back from saying any more. Pain twists in my chest. “But the shifter was here yesterday. He was the one who attacked Basil.”

“What’s wrong? Do you know the guy or something?” asks Adrian, his head cocked to the side.

“No,” I say, tears of frustration running down my cheeks. And thank goodness I can say that. It’s bad enough I have to point the finger at shifters, something that will enrage the witches and make me look like a traitor to my family, but if I had to finger a specific shifter . . . I think I would be sick.

And I’d never be willing to work with someone who made me do that, the only fae I know or not.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how awful it must’ve been to see that.” Adrian studies my face for a moment before pulling me into a hug and resting his chin on top of my head. “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out.”

But even wrapped in my friend’s arms, nothing about this feels okay, and I’m not so sure I want to risk being part of any ‘we.’ Not after everything that’s happened. Connor is a sticky situation with the other alphas. My parents are still in hiding. Isobel has already suffered the consequences of helping me once. Basil was probably injured because I led the fae to him. Burke had to lie for me. And Tristan . . . even if he were here, I can’t be entirely certain where his loyalties lie when he left with his mother so easily.

Isobel returns with a couple OSA agents, the older man from the entry test and Vivian. The older man only has a bemused smile on his face, but Vivian’s expression is dark with concern.

Adrian releases me, placing a hand on my lower back as he explains to the agents what I told him. Isobel comes to my other side and grabs my hand. I don’t know what I’d do without these two, and I don’t want to find out. My friends stay by my side, refusing to leave for the next hour as I tell my—no, Nikiforov’s story over and over again. I tell it so many times, I almost start believing it, but the subtle pressure of the geis in my chest is a constant reminder of the lie I’m telling.

Why couldn’t Nikiforov have given me time to explain? I wouldn’t have minded lying to protect his secret, but this lie is a betrayal to my family.

At this point, I’m almost glad I agreed to go to the Andras estate for Winter Break. I can’t face Connor after this, not now and maybe not for a long time.

And that kills me.

Eventually, a group of agents exit the maze with a sheet-covered stretcher. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Jason was not my friend, not even close, but he tried to save me, and he didn’t deserve to die like that. And he certainly didn’t deserve to die because of me. The fae—Cer-something—said I triggered a trap, which means Jason was only caught because he happened to be there.

Things like that—people getting hurt because they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time—seem to happen a lot around me.

Nikiforov was right to call me reckless.

Sometime later, the questions are over and the maze is de-magicked or whatever getting rid of it is called, but, of course no catastrophe at Ravencrest is complete without a visit to the director’s office. Vivian takes me and my friends over there and leaves us in the outer office.

I wouldn’t mind this so much if Burke was still here. He’d have some advice or at least empathy for me.

Callahan has neither of those things, only more questions. Once he realizes my friends have no independent information, he sends them away, so I’m alone as I get grilled about the shifter on campus. Again. If he’s suspicious about my sudden recovery of memories related to Basil’s attack, he doesn’t say anything and asks almost the same things as everyone before him:

Describe in detail what happened in the maze.

Did you recognize the shifter?

What did he look like?

But Callahan asks two new questions as well:

Why did he kill Jason Barrington?

Why did he leave you alive?

I don’t answer those last two, and the geis doesn’t force me. I guess Nikiforov didn’t have time to cover every possible detail and, for all I can’t stand Callahan, he’s only doing his job and answering those questions truthfully would only confuse the matter.

After another ten minutes or so of back and forth and seemingly satisfied with my story, Callahan switches up his line of questioning and starts asking about the tournament. I give him an overview of my time in the maze, telling him about the obstacles I completed with Isobel and then meeting up with Adrian.

He leans back in his chair and clasps his hands over his stomach. “Your pole-vaulting trick can cover the obstacle you needed to do by yourself, but it doesn’t sound like you completed enough obstacles for me to mark the tournament itself as completed.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“That means your tournament score cannot be factored into your student rank.”

Of all the things I was worried about, the fact that I hadn’t actually finished the tournament didn’t even cross my mind.

“That’s bullshit,” I say, my anger at this whole situation finally finding an outlet. “I’m chased and attacked by a . . . shifter and it’s somehow my fault? How is that fair? Why should I get punished for that?”

“It’s not a punishment. It’s policy,” he says in a frustratingly calm voice.

“Well your policy, like I said, is bullshit,” I say, the words coming out between clenched teeth.

He picks up a tablet sitting on the desk then runs a finger over the screen, pulling up the student ranks no doubt. “Nevertheless, the standings have already been determined and yours is . . .” His lips press into a thin line as he continues to scroll. Up the list. The tablet clatters onto the top of the desk, and Callahan’s upper lip curls. “I should have known he would have plenty of time to pull some strings for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He pushes the tablet across the desktop without a word

I pick up the tablet and glance at the screen. My name’s next to number one hundred and twenty-eight. How . . .?

Nikolas. It had to be.

I continue scrolling down the list, looking for my friends, mainly Isobel. Adrian is holding steady in the mid-eighties and I find Isobel’s name next to number one hundred and forty-four. I breathe out a sigh of relief. She’s safe. And, I guess, so am I.

Callahan scowls. “Nepotism is the lazy way to success.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. So far everything I’ve seen in the witch world runs on nepotism. Including OSA.

Sure, a part of me feels guilty about my grandparents buying my way up the list, but they didn’t buy my way to number one or anything crazy like that. I’d like to think one twenty-eight is a rank I could have achieved on my own if about ten million things weren’t working against me.

And it’s not like I asked Nikolas to do anything.

Someone taps on the door and then opens it. Seth. “Sir . . . um . . . Agent . . . Selene’s grandfather is here to pick her up.”

Already?

Callahan huffs out an annoyed breath then gives me a dismissive wave. “You can see yourself out.”

I walk out to Seth. He smiles then opens the door farther and gestures for me to exit.

Nikolas is standing in front of Seth’s desk, looking just as intimidating as he did yesterday. My grandfather’s gaze passes over me from the top of my head to my feet, but his face remains blank.

“Hi,” I say as I twist my fingers together at my waist.

“Hello,” says Nikolas. He dips his chin. “The car is waiting.”

“I need to go get my stuff,” I say.

“I already had my driver pack your things.” He gestures toward the doorway. “Come along now.”

Come along now? Does he think I’m a dog?

My eyes narrow, and I stay in place.

“I understand this situation is . . . odd.” He sighs, and some of the tightness leaves his features to be replaced with a small smile. “Thea is anxious to have you home, and I am anxious to keep my wife happy.”

I tilt my head to the side, studying him. He seems honest enough, I guess. “Okay.”

He smiles again and motions for me to precede him out the door. The two of us make our way down the stairs and out to the quad where a black sedan awaits. Well, isn’t this fancy. When I first arrived at Ravencrest, Basil left his car at the gates and we walked up the long, winding driveway.

“I thought the wards prevented people from driving onto campus?”

Nikolas chuckles. “Most of the time they do, but exceptions are made during times when students are arriving and departing.”

I nod and follow Nikolas to the car. A tall man dressed in a black suit opens the back passenger side door and I climb inside, scooting across so Nikolas can slide in beside me. The driver shuts the door then jogs around the front of the car to get into the driver’s seat.

The car glides silently down the driveway and past the gate. I watch out the window as Ravencrest disappears behind us, a feeling of loss settling into my stomach. I wish I’d had time to say goodbye to my friends, but I imagine there’s a phone in my grandparents’ house, and I’m sure someone can rustle up phone numbers. But still . . .

I bite at my lower lip as my gaze darts around the car. The driver catches my eye in the rear-view mirror and inclines his head in a nod. This is so weird, but I guess it would be even weirder if Nikolas had picked me up in a limo.

I look at my grandfather from the corner of my eye. He sits with his shoulders back and his hands clasped in his lap, staring straight ahead while every now and then casting a glance toward the window. His expression is blank again—or maybe bored.

Starting up conversations has never been something I’m particularly good at, especially in a situation like this where I have nothing in common with someone. Well, nothing but blood anyway. I probably have more in common with the driver than Nikolas, and I have no idea how to bridge that gap.

So, I sit here in silence as worries fill my mind. With every mile, I draw closer and closer to a life I’m not sure I want in a world I still have no idea how to navigate. Compared to that party, fitting in at Ravencrest was almost easy, and more likely than not I’ll be expected to attend at least one party during the break.

And this time I won’t have Tristan to help me through it.

Another pang of loss hits me at the thought of the blond-haired boy, and the magic in my chest tightens into a painful mass of energy before slowly releasing. I chuckle softly to myself. Even my magic misses him.

But there’s nothing I can do about it, so for now I’ll flounder my way through any social situations I’m forced into and hope for the best.

I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? I’m not invited back?

The important thing is my position at Ravencrest is safe for another grading period. Although, if Callahan’s attitude is any indication, I’ll need to watch out for him next semester. He didn’t have time to make a fuss about anything today, but I imagine he’ll be looking for a way to trip me up in the future.

Until then, I have three full weeks away from school, time I can use to my advantage. My previous search of the Andras estate had mixed results, but now I’ll have full access to the house. There’s bound to be other things Helen left behind and maybe enough to answer my two most important questions right now:

Who was the father who provided the fae portion of my genetics?

And is he still alive?

If I can find my birth father, I’ll have someone to teach me fae magic and won’t need Nikiforov’s help. That is, assuming my birth father isn’t the one who started the hunt and doesn’t want to see me dead.

One thing I know for sure is that, until I know more about why exactly the fae are after me and how the hell I can fight them, I’m keeping the truth about what I am to myself. I’m not letting anyone else get hurt because of me.

Selene's story continues in Ward Locked, available for preorder now!

Looking for a completed series to binge? Check out my Broken Skies series. Filled with action, adventure, aliens, and romance, it’s perfect for fans of the Lux series, Under Different Stars, and The Fifth Wave.

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A NOTE ABOUT REVIEWS

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ALSO BY THERESA KAY

Broken Skies

Fractured Suns

Shattered Stars

Jax will do anything to save her twin . . . even team up with a teenage alien left behind by the same ship that took her brother.

She agrees to help the alien get back home, and in return, he agrees to sneak her into the alien city to find her sibling.

Too bad it's not that simple.

Jax soon finds that she's drawn to the alien boy with bright green hair and jewel-like scales on his back and he's equally affected by her, the courageous redhead with haunted eyes. But she doesn't know the alien's true motives, and he has no idea that she is much more than she seems.

Worse, the connection forming between them has unknown consequences.

The humans and the aliens are both hiding deadly secrets and the forbidden bond linking the two teens threatens to reveal everything. What started as an uneasy alliance and a seemingly straightforward rescue mission could spark an inter-species war.

★★★★★ "A fast-paced and action-packed start to a series that will leave you reeling as you scramble for the sequel." - Kelly St Clare, USA Today Bestselling Author.

★★★★ "Broken Skies is a captivating read, and its appeal crosses genres. Whether you like sci-fi, dystopian, paranormal, or just anything with a hint of romance, check it out; it's got something for everyone."- FicCentral

★★★★★ "I don't want to give too much away but take an alien/human love story, set it in a post apocalyptic type society, feature a strong but damaged heroine, sprinkle in a compassionate but secretive male lead, add in suspense, drama, shake and you have the wildly entertaining Broken Skies."-Shannon from Book Crushin

ANTHOLOGIES

“Stability” a short story included in The Telepath Chronicles

Cora has spent most of her life in a clandestine medical facility, isolated from the world and content to submit to tests and experiments at the request of her keepers. Content, that is, until the day she discovers their end goal: breeding her to create a more stable telepath. So when an attack on the facility gives Cora her chance at escape, she seizes it. But as she gets closer to freedom and learns more about the world outside, Cora finds she doesn’t know whether she’d rather be outside or in—or whom she can trust.

“Six Days” a short story included in The Z Chronicles

The longest anyone has survived a zombie bite before succumbing to the madness is six days. That means, if she’s lucky, Sarah has four more days before she goes full-on flesh eater and she needs every single one of them. The life of her infant son depends on her finding an uninfected person willing to take him before she loses her mind. Her husband is dead, her son is depending on her, and the countdown is on.

“Protocol A235” a short story included in Dark Beyond the Stars

Beth is a maintenance tech on the Genesis, the spaceship that will carry her, along with fifty thousand other passengers, to a new home in deep space. But when she comes out of cryosleep to serve her thirty-day solo shift, she finds the ship in disarray, its systems malfunctioning. Worse yet, a previously undisclosed protocol has been put into effect. Protocol A235. And now Beth finds herself facing much more responsibility than she signed up for.

“Services Rendered” a short story included in Beyond the Star: A Planet Too Far

Li’hanna, a member of the prized and elusive Kotkaa race, is prepared to do anything to keep the secrets of her clan out of the hands of the evil imperial fleet.

Captured by one of the imperial hybrids and his human associate, she’s smuggled aboard a transport ship that belongs to the vengeful Jeren Skalos. When she manages to break free, she finds herself assisting the human crew to outwit the enemy—instead of running for her life.

What starts as a desperate escape attempt engenders something else—a partnership that could be the beginning of a rebellion against the empire.

“Solar Flare,” a short story included in Beyond the Stars: New Worlds, New Suns

After crash landing on a desert planet, Gretchen Anderson survives a trek across the sand under the planet’s triple suns only to find herself forced to navigate the power struggle of an insect-like alien race.

Theresa Kay writes stories that feature flawed young adult and new adult characters in science fiction, urban fantasy, or paranormal worlds, all with a touch of romance thrown in for good measure. She's constantly lost in one fictional universe or another and is a self-proclaimed "fangirl" who loves being sucked into new books, movies, or TV shows. Living in the mountains of central Virginia with her husband and two kids, she works as a paralegal by day and spends her free time reading tons of books, binging Avengers movies, anime, and Doctor Who, or playing Tomb Raider and Assassin's Creed.

www.TheresaKay.com

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So…2020, huh? This year has certainly been a crazy mess. As someone who doesn’t write well (or, often, doesn’t write at all) when under stress, getting this book finished was definitely a struggle. As always, there were many people I couldn’t have done it without.

Regan, who’s been my cheerleader through this whole series and always willing to get on the phone and help me chase down my escaping plot bunnies.

Frankie Blooding, who drew the map for this book even though this one went so far off the rails we had to redo the outlines for the next two books.

Kelly P., who’s always willing to read ten different first chapters so I can make sure I get the right one.

The other Rebel Writers, who have been there since day one. I miss your faces so much. Zoom and wine soon?

My other writer and blogger friends, Rysa, Meg, and Kelly.

Christian Bentulan, who created the beautiful cover.

Nadège Richards, who makes the interiors of my books look gorgeous.

Krystal Dehaba, who whipped this book into shape so there wasn’t too much giving and shooting.

There are always people I forget, but I appreciate each and every person who has given me a hand up or helped me in some way throughout my writing career.

And my readers, who give me the motivation to keep writing with their enthusiasm and support.