Someone Framed My Witch

Chapter 1

VERONICA

“Veronica? Do you have an answer?”

My head snapped up, icy fear lancing through me as I realized everyone else in the class was looking at me.

“Uh,” I muttered, eyes darting around the ornate room, looking from the hardwood floors to the velvet curtains, then finally to Balthazar in his dark, wine-colored teaching robes. “I’m sorry?”

Balthazar smiled softly as a titter of laughter rippled through the other students. Heat flared in my cheeks. I’d zoned out while reading the book on defensive magical spells on my desk.

“The question was,” Balthazar said patiently, “what would be the best way to orchestrate a binding spell on someone? Do you have an answer?”

My mind ticked through possible solutions, diving into past lessons, things I’d read, and spells I’d practiced.

“Uhm,” I said, giving another monosyllabic response.

More tittering laughter around the room.

Even though these people weren’t kids, there were still some things everyone found uncomfortable, like seeing someone else struggle.

The laughter probably wasn’t spiteful—I had a good relationship with most of these people—but people were always relieved to watch someone other than themselves under the spotlight.

No one wanted to be caught unawares like I had.

If the roles were reversed, I’d probably be the one chuckling uncomfortably at someone else’s awkward struggle and praising the gods that it wasn’t me.

The only person who did look pleased at my discomfort was Virgil.

The man was every inch the teacher’s pet.

First to raise his hand to answer questions, always complimenting Balthazar on his lectures and demonstrations, and of course, the highest-scoring acolyte among the thirteen of us studying under Balthazar. Virgil gave me a self-satisfied smirk.

“Yes?” Balthazar said, trying to encourage me with a smile. While waiting for me to answer, he brushed his long hair back over his shoulder. His intricate dreadlocks clicked faintly as the golden bands and glass beads woven into his hair tapped together.

“Uh, I think you’d need to use a charm made from their hair, or maybe bodily fluids? Tears and sweat can work, but blood is better. Then, using that, you would create a binding spell. That would do the trick,” I explained, then frowned up at him. “Right?”

Balthazar nodded once, then pointed at the book on my desk. “Close enough. Perhaps you should pay more attention to the lecture than books while in class?”

“Sorry,” I muttered, feeling my cheeks grow even hotter.

“Here’s another one for you, since I have your full attention,” Balthazar said.

My face was on fire, but I nodded and smiled. “Sure. I’m ready.”

“A temporal tear, known in common language as a portal. Used to travel short distances instantaneously. What is something that can interfere with its casting?”

I had to bite my tongue to not say uh again, and simply sat still, my brain running a million miles a minute as I tried to come up with the answer.

“That’s very advanced magic,” I said at last. “We only studied it for a couple of weeks, I’m not sure—”

“I know,” Virgil cried, thrusting his hand into the air.

“Go ahead, Virgil,” Balthazar said.

“Emotional distress,” Virgil said with a huge grin, beaming at the professor. “It can halt the flow of magic and negate a spell, especially one as difficult as summoning a portal.”

“True,” Balthazar said, and held up a finger in warning, “But don’t forget, a coin has two sides.

Sometimes, a highly emotional state can allow you to access hidden stores of magic within yourself.

Some witches have been known to cast spells far outside their usual abilities when faced with danger or in a state of abject panic. ”

Balthazar launched into a discussion about the best way to hinder another magic user without using defensive or offensive spells.

Even though he’d told me to pay attention, I found myself drifting off again, glancing around the room at the other students.

All of them were magic users like me, but most had far more skill.

Some had a little less than me, sure, but most had more.

Part of that was because I’d been a late bloomer with magic.

Most witches were able to access magic from a young age, though I hadn’t managed to do that until I was fifteen.

At least the academy didn’t discriminate against age.

Magic wasn’t the only thing I’d bloomed late with, but that must have been my place in the world. Always a day late and a dollar short.

“All right, everyone,” Balthazar said a few minutes later. “Books away. We have a very special guest today. I’ve brought my good friend Omar to be our guest lecturer today.”

There was a dull rumble of groans at the mention of an additional lecture, but most of it was good-natured. Balthazar rolled his eyes and flapped a hand at us as he headed for the door.

“Yes, yes, terrible, I know. Learning magic while regular humans are out there trudging along with nothing but computers and electricity to get them by. So awful.”

Everyone laughed at that, including me. Regular humans had no idea there was a whole world of magic and creatures all hidden in plain sight under a huge network of spells and ancient shielding enchantments.

Those enchantments kept magical locations and cities obscured from humans.

The things that didn’t stay concealed were covered up with bribes to humans in power.

The Freedman academy was one such place.

The huge, converted mansion sat on the outskirts of the nearby town, but the magical shielding made it impossible for humans to stumble upon it.

Even if they accidentally ended up finding it, a dread enchantment would fill them with soul-shaking terror and send them running.

“I love these guest speakers,” Wendy said from her seat at the front of the class.

“Of course you would, Gwendolynn,” Carlos said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Does dear Uncle Balthazar tell you who’s coming in advance?”

Wendy gasped, her mouth falling open in horror. “What? Of course not. Balthazar is my uncle, but that doesn’t mean he gives me preferential treatment. And call me Wendy. You know that’s how I like to be addressed.”

The girl, the youngest of all the acolytes at twelve, was Balthazar’s only living relative, but she wasn’t here on blood ties alone.

As loath as I was to admit it, she was the strongest magic user in the whole class, even outstripping Virgil.

Her skin was darker than her uncle’s, but they had the same chin and eyes, though where Balthazar favored long intricate hairstyles, Wendy’s hair was always cropped close to her head.

The girl was spoiled from being Balthazar’s niece and could be obnoxious at times, but she was a sweetheart.

I tended to brush off her overeagerness.

She was young and excited to learn, and she simply wanted to make her uncle proud.

Balthazar returned with an older man in tow. Omar’s bald pate shone under the lights, and a bushy beard covered most of his craggy olive complexion.

“Everyone,” Balthazar said, “this is Omar Darwish. He’s one of the world’s foremost authorities on the history of shifters.”

Almost on cue, all the other students turned to look at me.

Omar chuckled at the reaction. “Ms. Paolo, Balthazar has told me a lot about you. So excited to meet you. I have a very particular affinity for wolf-shifter history.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess,” I muttered, feeling that familiar heat in my cheeks once more.

Shifter witches were rare. I was the only one in the academy, and that always made for awkward conversations, as most of the other students had little interaction with my kind.

It was part of why I’d come to join the Freedman Coven.

Most of my family had been wiped out by disease, and all I wanted was to bring some honor to our family name as one of its last surviving members.

The lecture was basic stuff I’d known since I was a small child, but the other students probably weren’t familiar with most of it.

“At what age do most shifters come into their powers?” Omar asked toward the end of the lecture. “Anyone?”

This I actually knew. I made to raise my hand, but Virgil’s shot skyward a second before I could. Gritting my teeth, I put my hand on the desk.

“Yes, Mr. Tacitus?” Omar said, gesturing to Virgil.

“Usually, shifters shift for the first time between nine and thirteen, with the average age being eleven,” Virgil said with a self-satisfied smile.

“Correct. Well done, Virgil,” Omar said.

Virgil sat back in his chair, listening with rapt attention, and I had to suppress an eye roll. Such a teacher’s pet.

“There are outliers, of course,” Omar went on. “Some shifters don’t change until they are beyond thirteen years of age. Very few do not make the change until close to adulthood, but that is so rare as to almost be a statistical anomaly,” Omar said.

Balthazar cleared his throat and shot his friend a look. He was trying to be subtle, but in doing so, actually made things more obvious. Omar paused, glanced at Balthazar, then back to me, his face paling.

“Oh! Ms. Paolo, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” I said, waving the comment off. “No big deal.”

Along with not being able to access magic until I was fifteen, I hadn’t shifted until well into my seventeenth year.

I’d almost begun to believe that I would never become a full shifter until it finally happened.

Witch shifters were rare but not unheard of, but none had ever come to try and learn this style of magic, instead choosing to study the wild magics of nature.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Balthazar said, stepping forward to pat Omar on the back. “Thank you for coming, old friend.” He turned to the class. “Be prepared for a test on all that was discussed this week.”