Chapter 8
Eight
ANSEL
“Izzy?” I blink, certain I’m seeing things or hallucinating. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” A multitude of emotions flicker across her face, but before I can put a name on a single one of them, she lunges forward, reaching for me.
I allow her to take my arm and haul me to my feet.
“We have class!” the teacher bellows, red mottling his face.
“Izzy, I don’t think this is a good idea.” The tiny redhead who came in with Izzy begins to wring her hands together nervously.
Dyson—my “mentor”—simply snorts and reclines back in his seat, throwing his legs on the desk.
Izzy ignores them all as she pulls me out of the room and into the hallway. Only then does she release me.
“What are you doing here?” she demands, and I’m finally able to pinpoint the emotion brewing in her eyes—fear.
But what is she afraid of?
I arch an eyebrow as shock, horror, and hope all war for dominance. “I could be asking you the same question. I’m a warlock, remember?”
And apparently, I’m required to attend warlock school or whatever the fuck this is for a month. I wasn’t given much of a choice in the matter when Dyson arrived at my home and demanded I come with him.
Home…
My heart pinches when I think of my mother and how I left things with her. I’m so damn pissed at her—furious, even—but…
She’s still my mother. She’s still the woman who always encouraged me to be the best version of myself I can be.
Who drove me to and from orchestra rehearsal when I decided I wanted to learn how to play the bass.
Who bandaged my scraped knees and kissed me goodnight.
Who baked cookies for my campaign when I ran for class president.
But how can I reconcile who she is versus who she was? Is it even possible?
“Hey.” Izzy abruptly cups my cheeks, dragging my gaze down to her. Worry puckers her brow. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you? What happened?”
“There’s so much I have to tell you,” I confess through numb lips. But then I remember where we are. “After this…class, okay?”
She frowns, looking as if she wants to argue, before she nods once.
“Yeah. Okay.” She begins to move back towards the classroom but pauses, her hand extended to grab the handle. “You’re a student here now, aren’t you?”
I chuckle and shove my hands into the pockets of my khakis. Dyson must’ve stopped at my home shortly after he kidnapped me. When I arrived at my dorm, there was a suitcase of my clothes waiting for me.
“I suppose this means I won’t be valedictorian, huh?” There it is again—that pang.
Something as inconsequential as being valedictorian shouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, but it does.
I worked my ass off for years to be the best of the best, surpassing even Ethan in grades.
But now all of my work has been flushed down the toilet.
There’s no way I can make up an entire month.
For the one billionth time today, I think about how drastically my life has changed. And not for the better.
Even as I have that thought, my eyes lock with Izzy’s, and warmth suffuses me. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I duck my head, suddenly embarrassed.
Okay, maybe a little for the better, at least in some aspects.
The two of us re-enter the classroom, and I try to ignore the dozens of eyes trained on my face. Izzy, for her part, doesn’t appear embarrassed. She walks forward with a swagger and confidence that suggest she owns not only this classroom but the entire building.
That’s my girl.
The fire in my cheeks mutates into an inferno.
Not my girl, technically. At least, not yet. Or maybe ever.
Why does this all have to be so confusing?
Izzy slides into her seat next to the unfamiliar girl, while I claim mine beside Dyson.
He leans towards me as soon as I sit down. “Everything okay in lover’s land?”
I don’t answer, keeping my attention fixed straight ahead.
It’s been way too long since I adopted my mask that keeps everyone away.
I’m surprised by how easily I’m able to don it now, as if no time has passed.
I straighten my spine, throw my shoulders back, and keep my chin notched arrogantly in the air.
After a moment, Dyson settles back in his chair, muttering something I can’t hear.
He immediately grabs his phone out of his pocket and begins to scroll through it.
Unlike me and Izzy, he doesn’t actually have to pay attention to the teacher.
I imagine this is all stuff he learned about years ago.
However, as my mentor—cough, babysitter, cough—he’s required to attend every class with me for an entire month.
“Now that all the interruptions are done for the day, we can get started.” The teacher commands the classroom like he’s on a stage in New York City.
Every eye fixes on him.
He’s an older gentleman, with graying hair and a rather large nose. He wears a tweed suit and a bright-red tie.
“Most of you know who I am, but for those who don’t…” Am I mistaken, or does he look directly at me and Izzy? “My name is Doctor Mort. I got my PhD in the mythology of witches and warlocks, as well as a master’s degree in wards.”
Mythology of witches? Master’s degree in wards? Are they actually a thing? Do they have…witch colleges here?
And what the fuck does all of that entail?
“Since this is a beginner’s level class…” His eyes sweep over the students, the majority of whom are fourteen or fifteen. “You won’t have a lot of homework. We want to ease you into the curriculum here. However, I can’t make any promises for your other teachers.”
Chuckles ripple through the class, and I wonder if I missed an inside joke.
Izzy gives me a “what the fuck” look over her shoulder, her golden eyebrows arched.
I simply shrug in response.
I have no idea what’s going on either.
“We could spend the day discussing my lesson plan for the month, but I think it’ll be better for us all if we dive right in.” He snaps his fingers together, and immediately, a glimmering silver orb hovers in the front of the room, directly in front of the teacher.
As I watch, fascinated, the orb expands in size, until it’s nearly as big as Doctor Mort’s desk. Images begin to flicker inside of the orb, reminding me of a staticky television screen. I blink, and the images solidify, revealing doll-like figures of a woman and a man.
“What the fuck?” Izzy mutters from in front of me, craning her head to the side to see better.
My gaze automatically dips to the elegant swoop her neck makes and the bare skin of her shoulder. A strange, prickling heat spreads through me as I envision leaning forward and running my lips across the length of exposed skin—
“Shhh.” Her companion elbows her in the side. “Don’t talk during class.”
I swallow heavily and force myself to look away.
“Let’s start with the basics, shall we?” Professor Mort gestures towards the images. “How do witches and warlocks differ?”
A freckle-faced boy in the front row raises his hand. “Because one has a penis and the other doesn’t?”
The class chuckles, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I’ve forgotten how infuriatingly childish underclassmen can be.
Doctor Mort’s lips don’t even twitch. “Astute observation, Charles. But you’re also incorrect.
Despite popular belief, gender doesn’t play a role in determining whether or not you’re a warlock or a witch—though, statistically speaking, the majority of warlocks are men, and the majority of witches are women. ”
“Warlocks pull the magic from themselves; witches steal the magic from their environment,” Dyson calls out from beside me, sounding bored.
He doesn’t drag his attention off his phone.
Doctor Mort perks up at the answer, but his smile fades when he sees who gave it.
“Dyson, in the future, please allow my actual students to answer the question.” Doctor Mort gives the other warlock a disapproving frown, but if Dyson sees it, he doesn’t react.
“However, our friend here is correct. Warlocks are able to call on their magic from a well inside of them. It’s why they’re often tired and lethargic after a particularly long day of casting.
Witches, on the other hand, can pull magic from every living thing. ”
The image in the orb shifts again, revealing a woman standing in a meadow. Shimmering pink light erupts from the ground, cascades up her legs, and then congregates in the palms of her hands.
Huh. I didn’t know that, and from Izzy’s gasp of surprise, she didn’t either. I always assumed that witches and warlocks were the same and that the only difference was the gender.
“Now, this begs the question—which one is more powerful? A warlock or a witch?” He waves his hand, and the orb disperses, taking away the image.
He begins to pace in front of the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
“This debate has been occurring for centuries now. Some say that witches are the most powerful—”
“Of course they are,” a girl retorts from the other side of the room, absently playing with the ends of her long ponytail. “They don’t get tired and can pull magic from basically anything.”
Doctor Mort’s lips twitch. “That’s true.
But a lot of people argue that warlocks are more powerful because they inherently have more magic running through their veins.
Think of it this way. A witch has a cupful of magic inside of them that they’re constantly able to refill.
A warlock, however, has a bathtub of magic inside of them.
It may not be easy to refill, but the sheer, inherent power they hold is ten times the amount of a witch. ”
He pauses, and his keen gaze tracks us all. “So I’ll ask you again—which one is the most powerful?”
No one answers.
After a moment, a skinny girl lifts her hand in the air but answers before the doctor can call on her.
“Has there ever been anyone who has both witch and warlock traits?” Her tentative question causes a few brows to rise. She blushes but continues. “I mean, can they have a bathtub worth of magic inside of them but be able to refill it from their environment?”
Her cheeks turn redder with every word she says. By the time she has finished asking her question, she resembles a tomato.
“No,” Doctor Mort says quickly. Almost…too quickly. “That type of power is too dangerous for nature to allow to run unchecked. Now, moving on…”
Doctor Mort continues his lesson, but I tune him out, thinking back to his quick, dismissive answer.
What, exactly, is he hiding?
And how can I uncover the truth?