Chapter 13 Nyx #2
“Super. ‘Scuse me.” I move to unlock my door and shove the box inside—I think it’s the clothes from Maeve if the scrawling script on the pink notecard is any indication—and close it behind me, but she blocks before I can stop her.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Not really.”
“Did you get my text on Saturday?” How could I forget? It’s not every day I get called a social-climbing whore.
“Yep.”
“Oh great! I wasn’t sure if I had the right number. What’s your schedule like? We usually meet in the library for a study group on Wed—”
“Pass.” I cut her off. I already spend my days around gossipy assholes, why would I want to do it in my free time too?
“I—oh. Um, okay.” I can’t imagine why this seems to surprise her. She’s a smart girl, she knew how her friends would act when gifted a new toy to play with.
“If you don’t mind—” but she blocks my door when I try to close it again.
“Wait—”
“What, Tori? What could you possibly want from me?” I sigh, exasperation and exhaustion bleeding through my voice.
“I’m sorry for my friends,” she blurts out, but at this point I couldn’t care less, I just want to be alone.
I do just fine on my own.
It’s when people are involved that everything gets all messed up.
“They’re your friends, Tori. If you think how they treat people is worth apologizing for, then why aren’t they here instead?” She starts to say something but stops.
“You’re right,” she says instead.
Well, well, what a fucking plot twist.
“Can I shut my door now?”
“Listen, can we have a do-over?”
“There’s nothing to ‘do over’,” I say, adding finger quotes for emphasis.
“You showed me around campus, shared the cliff notes about all this—” I gesture vaguely in reference to her little history lesson, “—and we parted ways. No further obligation on your part. Now can I please eat my dinner in peace, or are you going to intrude on that too?”
“I’ve heard people talking, Nyx—”
“Congratulations on having functioning ears.”
“And I think you need a friend,” she finishes, ignoring my sarcasm.
“Great, I’ll take that under advisement. If you’re finished—”
“I can help, Nyx.”
“Like you ‘helped’ me make friends on my first day at a new school after being ripped away from everything I had and thought I knew? That kind of help?” That shuts her up, but I hate that it reveals how vulnerable I feel.
“I’m sorry, again. For whatever it’s worth to you,” she says finally. “I have your number saved. Text me if you want to get coffee or something. Or just, if you need someone to talk to.” She backs up with a sad smile so that I can finally close my door and lock it.
The hollow victory leaves me feeling unsettled. Or maybe it’s her warning about needing a friend. I’ve worked hard to not to be dependent on others, because I’ve learned that it inevitably leads to disappointment.
Better to cut out the middleman and just accept that’s not going to change any time soon.
Of all the things in this world that could have brought tears to my eyes, I never expected fabric would come this close to actually making me weep.
Props to you, Maeve.
My new clothes leave me speechless. They fit perfectly, which I never doubted, but the way the fabric wraps around me is almost intimate, hugging my curves and caressing my skin with the softest touch.
With a few more pounds, a spa day, and three days of sleep, I’d almost look like I belong here.
Despite the new wardrobe, I still hesitate to leave my room.
Growing up in Lynden, I quickly learned to ignore the opinions of others.
But here I’m under a new level of scrutiny that makes my skin crawl.
I give myself sixty seconds to feel sorry for myself before fixing my face and starting the long walk to the Great Hall for breakfast. I haven’t actually taken the time to eat here since Killian accosted me last week, so instead of grabbing something to go, I take my tray and find a partially-hidden table behind one of the massive stone columns that support the ceiling.
The echoes of conversation and clatter of utensils on plates soon fill the room, and by some miracle I’m actually able to eat my food in peace this time, though when the Heirs enter and make their way to their table I briefly contemplate pulling a disappearing act while everyone’s distracted.
They’re soon besieged by a group of girls, some of whom I recognize as part of the Legacy clique—descendants of the Demonic Princes, though I don’t see any horns or tails—so I’m still not quite convinced.
They run their hands over Killian’s broad frame, fawn over Thane’s tattoos, and huddle close to Luther, but keep a healthy distance from Roth, unsurprising, since he’s a goddamn psychopath.
I hate to admit that I finally looked them up after my run in with Thane this weekend.
Apparently, God only wishes he was as rich as them, so I can’t really fault the simpering girls swarming their table.
I mean, I get it. They’re all tall, rich, and uncomfortably attractive. Their families are legitimate dynasties, and yet here they are in the flesh, ready for worshippers at their altars.
Maybe if I hadn’t been abandoned with normal people I might have grown up idolizing them as well. But now, the thought of pandering to these assholes just for a taste of their lives makes me want to heave. Never imagined I’d be thankful for being poor as fuck, but here we are.
My breakfast, homemade biscuits and sausage gravy, becomes an experiment to see how much my stomach and my new clothes can expand, and afterwards I narrowly make it through a side door unnoticed after bussing my table when three girls approach and cut off my escape.
The one who speaks first has a sophisticated black bob that frames her tanned face, full lips and rich brown almond eyes.
The two behind her must be related, otherwise someone’s mother has some explaining to do.
They both have deep red hair that contrasts starkly against their pale skin, but the taller girl wears her hair straight while the shorter one’s curled hers, and I can just make out a streak of purple woven into the strands.
“Hey, you’re Nyx, right?” The girl with the bob asks brightly.
“Uh, yeah.” I answer with my own tense smile, trying to work out how this is going to go down.
“I’m Marcella, and this is Ruby,” she gestures to the taller of the sisters, then the shorter, “and Scarlett. We heard about a new student on campus, so we wanted to introduce ourselves and officially welcome you.”
Sure, I’ll play along with whatever this is. “You didn’t have to do that—”
“Of course we did! We couldn’t leave a fellow witch on her own, I can only imagine how much of a shock this has all been. Have you started meeting with any covens yet?”
“Uh, no—” I vaguely remember Tori mentioning something about that during our meeting last week, but being proactively social has never been one of my top priorities.
“You should! A witch without a coven is a witch alone. Power in numbers, and all that.”
Augustine’s warning about the hierarchy of power in this new world flits through my memory. “Got it, thanks. Anyways I need to get to class—”
“You know, our coven is accepting new initiates,” she prompts without an ounce of subtlety.
“Really?”
“We’d be happy to take you on for a probationary period. You know to see if you’re the right fit.” Amber offers.
“Oh yeah? What’s that usually involve?”
“Well, obviously meeting the rest of the coven, and if you’re accepted as an initiate you’d be assigned a mentor until your epiphaneia reveals your abilities and you get assessed.”
“Assessed?”
“For your affinity, if you’re powerful enough.”
“And you think I have a shot at becoming an initiate with your coven?”
“I mean, I could vouch for you…” she trails off, and we’ve finally gotten to the point of this little charade as she dangles the price for her efforts.
Should I pursue acting? This is almost too easy. “You could?”
“If you prove you’re worth our time. Wouldn’t want to bring a dud into the coven, you know?”
“How could I prove myself?”
“Well, we were thinking,” she looks back at Ruby and Scarlett before turning back to me with a smirk, “if you manage to follow our directions for a week, that would show you’re dedicated to the coven and willing to do your part as an initiate.”
Oh, so, an errand bitch. How original. “So like, if you tell me to carry your things and get your food and do your schoolwork, I’d have to do all that for a week?”
“That’s right,” she beams, like the owner of a dog that’s just taught its pet a new trick. “If you can do that for a week, I can get you in.”
“Shoot, I don’t know if I can do that,” I tsk with mock disappointment.
“Excuse me?” Marcella asks, crooking her eyebrow.
“Well you see, the thing is, I don’t care,” I say as my eager tone becomes wooden.
The sisters share a glance behind Marcella as my refusal sinks in.
“Yeah, unfortunately I have this silly problem with authority. Especially with people I don’t like.
Or respect. Or give a shit about. Sorry,” I shrug.
Marcella sneers, looking me up and down in disgust, and I get the feeling this is her usual disposition.
She scoffs, glaring at me. “You should reconsider. After all, I don’t see anyone else offering to take you in.” The words unintentionally hit too close to home and my already thin patience snaps.
“As generous as your offer of indentured servitude is, I have too much self-respect to waste my time on people who just,” it’s my turn to look her up and down for effect, “aren’t worth it.”
Her mouth parts in shock, clearly having imagined this conversation going a different way. “You’re a nobody with nothing. You really think you can get into a coven without having to prove yourself?”
“Never said that. Just that you’re not worth the attempt.
” I sidestep them, finally leaving through the side door like I’d intended.
The only thing that could make this moment better would be ‘Sabotage’ by the Beastie Boys playing in the background as I walk away in slo-mo after dropping that bomb.
I’m dying to see their expressions, but turning around now would ruin the effect.
Probably a good thing they can’t see the wide smile on my face, either.
The high of my little storm off lasts the rest of the day, but come Wednesday, it’s clear that my words have traveled farther than I anticipated.
The students and faculty of Dreadhurst have declared open season on me.
Professor McCall calls on me for the first time to name the six major celestial events that the magical community celebrates annually, and if I’d been someone with a life or hobbies, it might have stumped me given everyone else knows these as children.
Professor Allard in my Politics class calls on me to name each magical governing councils in North America and the year when they were formed, and then Tasia Bellamy, who’d studiously ignored me since day one, loudly scoots her chair back and moves several seats away as everyone waits for me to answer.
In Remedial Wielding later that afternoon, someone blows a gust of air up my skirt as I walk to my seat, and another trips me on the way out of class.
The teacher only admonishes me for creating a disturbance.
By the time I get to Divination, I’m tired and on edge, but on the scale of shitty shit that I’ve had to deal with in Lynden—growing up a ward of the state, surviving public school, and working at Daly’s for two years—today barely registers as a blip on the radar.
When I open my backpack to take out my newly acquired creepy cardstock, it’s not there. And because I know for a fact that I put it in my backpack after glaring at it for an hour last night, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that someone’s taken it when I wasn’t paying attention.
Professor Chamberlain goes around from table to table, checking everyone’s progress on the task of interpreting a specific spread of cards, but stops short when she gets to me, sans deck.
“Ms. Byrke, is there a reason you aren’t completing this exercise?”
I weigh whether it’s worth it to tell her the truth, but if the last three classes are any indication, I doubt she’d believe the real reason.
“I don’t have it today, Professor.”
She raises her eyebrows in surprise, then sighs.
“Ms. Byrke, I understand your reticence with this particular deck, but that’s no excuse for failing to follow my instructions.
I’m disappointed to see you unprepared to participate in today’s exercise.
You may use one of the extra decks at the back of the classroom to complete today’s lesson, but I expect you to come prepared for Monday’s class, understood?
” The classroom is silent as everyone watches, and return her question with a blank stare.
“Yes, Professor.”
“Excellent.” She beams once more and moves on to another table to review the students’ work.
I steel myself as I walk across the classroom to get the loaner deck, but when I pull it from the shelf, a gust of air makes whole thing comes crashing down, drawing everyone’s attention once more.
“Is everything alright, Ms. Byrke?” Chamberlain asks.
“Sorry, must have bumped it. I’ll pick it up.” Truthfully, I’m thankful for the few moments it takes to place everything back on the shelf, because I need it to rein in my frustration and fix my face into an impassive mask.
I skip dinner in the Great Hall that night, digging into the stash in my dorm room instead as I begin reading ahead for tomorrow.