Alchemy of Souls

Chapter 1. Eloise

Eloise

Need. I think about this word a lot. Not want or carefree daydreaming—there’s no room in my life for those.

The stakes are too high. I need to pass my graduation exam today.

I need to become a Mage. But most importantly, I need to move my family away from the weak stretch of wards where the Lawless attacks are relentless.

Still, there’s a funny thing that happens when you live a life where everything’s urgent and nothing’s guaranteed—you appreciate the moments you have.

Even today, an hour before the most important test of my life.

The sun dapples the cobbled sidewalk of Main Street.

My little sister is buzzing with the promise of sugar.

And Mom is all easy smiles as she opens the door to Perky Potions Coffee House for our highly anticipated annual treat that punctuates the end of every school year.

Bells chime as I step inside the rustic Maine shop, my six-year-old sister’s hand slipping from my grip as she bolts toward the glass case of pastries.

I inhale the scents of melted chocolate and coffee that magic has made better than perfect. This is happiness, I think, a freedom that doesn’t usually belong to me.

“One day,” I say like a promise as we weave through the small tables, “I’m going to buy Delilah a whole box of cherry chocolate tarts.”

Mom raises an eyebrow. “You know I love that child beyond reason, but fueled on that much butter and sugar? The world might never recover.”

I laugh. “It’d be worth it, though, to see her face as she opened the box.”

Mom smiles. “It would, wouldn’t it?”

She squeezes my hand, letting me know, as she always does, that she believes I might actually be the first Belrose to graduate the Academy as something more than Labor Guild. That one day I might afford store-bought treats more than once a year.

Delilah’s small palm presses against the glass as she stares at the last cherry chocolate tart—her favorite.

“What can I get you ladies?” the young woman behind the counter asks, brushing her hands on her apron, a small plume of flour rising with the motion.

“Eeeee! Cherry choco—” Delilah squeals, but the end of her sentence is drowned out by another voice, one that makes my back go rigid—Naomi.

“My usual vanilla latte, an espresso, and a cherry chocolate tart. I’m in a rush,” Naomi says, stepping unapologetically in front of us.

She’s wearing the same school uniform I am—navy blue leggings, a soft white linen shirt, and a khaki blazer with the American Academy crest on it.

But that’s where our similarities end. Her entire family is Mages.

There’s not a single Mage in mine. And as she loves to remind me, my mother works for hers, as their maid.

Naomi taps her manicured nails on the polished wooden counter impatiently.

“Actually, my daughter was just ordering the—” my mother starts.

“Like I said, I’m in a rush,” Naomi says dismissively over her shoulder. “I needed that latte ten minutes ago.”

The young woman behind the counter tenses. Naomi probably comes here all the time and the barista clearly knows who she is, or rather, who her mother is—one of the High Mages who’ll decide my future in an hour’s time.

But there’s right and there’s wrong. And more importantly, there’s my little sister.

“Are you really going to tell a six-year-old she can’t have her favorite pastry?” I say to the barista, hoping to appeal to her decency. After all, she’s a Laborer, too. “One she was ordering first?”

Naomi purses her lips. “No, please, go ahead, coffee girl. Give them the tart and make me wait. I’ll let you explain it to my mother yourself.”

The barista swallows, her eyes darting back and forth like a cornered hare.

On cue, the bells chime and Naomi’s mother walks in the door, phone in hand. Her suit is impeccable. Her blow-dried hair falls in perfect waves. And her magic is so potent I can feel it humming like the air before lightning strikes.

“Is ordering coffee so utterly complicated?” Naomi’s mom asks without looking up from her phone screen.

Naomi stares pointedly at the barista, and the barista glances at my mom like she’s sorry. But when she grabs the last tart from the case and my little sister’s face falls, I get mad. Really and truly pissed.

My pulse kicks up and my magic tingles my fingertips, begging me to use it. But my mother lays her hand on mine—a warning. To acquiesce. To stay quiet. To not cause a scene with her employer and the very woman who’ll decide my fate this morning.

Yet that’s all I want to do.

The barista twirls her fingers in the air and casts a quick spell on the milk and coffee, frothing it into a rosebud design that smells like warm vanilla.

My little sister stares at Naomi with her hands on her hips and her lower lip jutting out.

Part of me hopes Delilah uses every bit of her unhinged six-year-old vocabulary to call her a chicken-nugget butt farter or whatever.

Because I’ll happily jump in as her wingman.

However, in a matter of moments, the whole situation fizzles out. Naomi collects her drinks and my sister’s tart, waltzing out the door with a satisfied smirk.

“I’m sorry, girls,” my mother says on an exhale, and it frustrates me even more. She’s either apologizing for Mages treating everyone like crap. Or worse, because standing up to them could cost her her job and the meager living we all rely on.

So, I say, “It’s fine,” even though it’s not.

“Well, I don’t think it’s fine,” Delilah says, and I love her more for it. “That lady just stole my tart and no one tackled her.”

“How about this? Delilah, pick not one, but two pastries,” my mother offers in her most upbeat voice, trying to rally the mood back to celebratory.

“And Eloise,” she says, grabbing a gorgeous flowered to-go mug and plunking it on the counter.

“Pick any delicious drink you want and we’ll put it in this. ”

“Mom—” I start to protest. It’s not that I don’t want the mug. I really do. But she doesn’t have the money. Even a small deficit will come from somewhere—our grocery bill or the money we never seem to scrape together for Gran’s arthritis healings.

“No protesting today, love,” Mom says with a firm smile. “You’ve trained and practiced and worked yourself ragged for this day, and we’re starting it out right.”

Delilah, who has no concept of money or the precarious position our family’s been in since Grandad was killed by the Lawless, beams with reckless abandon. She squeals and turns back to the glass case, singing, “You’re going in my belly. I’m gonna eat you right up!”

So, I laugh for my sister and gush over the mug for my mom.

But in my heart, I don’t let it go. I don’t concede.

I take all my frustration and every last bit of my determination and make a decision—the same one I’ve made every day for the past four years.

To pass my exam. To protect my family. To settle for nothing less.

Grayson

My uncle hasn’t even started talking and all I can think is—how much longer do I have to listen to this crap? I tap my fingers on the tufted armchair in his study at our family estate, looking out the window toward the craggy Maine shore.

I watch my mother walking along the beach, dark hair whipping around her like a hurricane, her sights trained on a dinghy thrashing in the ocean.

The man who was once in the small boat now flails in the water, gripping the side and desperately trying to get back in.

But the waves my mother’s creating with her Elemental spell keep pelting him in the face.

He loses hold of the boat just as a wave takes him under.

I lift my hand an inch off the armchair and with a flick of my fingers I spellwork a crab, sending it skittering over my mother’s bare foot. She jumps backward, her concentration broken, which is all it takes for the water to calm and the man to scramble into his boat.

My mother glares at the pebbled shore, about to blast my illusion crab into oblivion, when I make it bow to her before disappearing into thin air. Her gaze whips toward the house.

Gotcha.

I smile—these small victories are the only way I survive my awful family. The sad part is my mother is nicer than my uncle.

“Something amusing?” my uncle asks, because he can read other people’s emotions like they were street signs.

“It’s just a good day,” I say with confidence, because it’s true. I’ve waited for this day since I was twelve.

I glance out the window where the man in the dinghy now grips his chest, his mouth opening in distress. Only this time I don’t do anything.

My uncle draws his icy blue gaze in my direction. We all have blue eyes. It’s the only thing we have in common. “Not going to save him a second time?” he asks.

“The heart attack is an illusion,” I reply.

He almost smiles. “How do you know?”

I sigh. “The illusion itself is perfect, nothing hazy or glitching. But you’d never kill one of the magicless so close to the property because of the inconvenience of the police.”

Now he does smile. “Clever.”

I look back at the ocean where the man is rowing full speed away from us as though he senses something nefarious is lurking here. I wish I could do the same.

My uncle leans back in his desk chair, assessing me. “You’re representing the Stone family today, Grayson,” he says with weight. “This is a one-shot deal. You can’t test twice. Don’t fail me.”

“Failure’s not an option, Sir,” I say, adding the honorary title he often demands as the highest-ranked member in the entire Mage world. He’s basically a king with none of the checks and balances the magicless enjoy.

He nods. “Good. Because your cousin is such a disappointment. And well, your brother…”

My smile disappears. My brother is dead.

For a flash of a second, I lose control of the relaxed confidence I carefully maintain around him.

“Aurora graduated University in the top position in Botany. I would hardly call her disappointing.” But I don’t mention my brother Liam, because if I do, my emotions will broadcast true anger, knowing I’m staring at the person responsible for his death.

My uncle waves his hand in dismissal. “Botany’s a useless magic. What will she do? Become a healer?” he says like I should know better. “What we need are fighters, strategists. Leaders to defeat the Lawless.”

I tell him exactly what he wants to hear. “I’m the strongest in my class.”

He levels me in his cold gaze. “Get marked Gifted, Grayson. That’s what I’ve trained you for.”

Every so often there’s a student whose magical ability is so advanced they aren’t admitted to one of the four guilds at the University of Magical Arts—Alchemy, Illusion, Botany, and Elemental—but all of them. They’re called the Gifted.

“Not a problem,” I reply, because this is the only thing we agree on. Not because I give a damn about my family’s status or their twisted plans to control everything, but because getting into my uncle’s prized Gifted program means I can finally sabotage him and avenge my brother.