Chapter 2
United States of Havengard
Eleven months to the day, I’m back at the arrivals hall in Havengard International Airport.
Last year, I’d arrived for the intensive all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to go forth and finally ignite my spark. Everything was going to be so awesome. The moment I stepped off the plane, it felt like I was coming home.
Sucker.
Today’s Theo is no Pollyanna. She knows how disappointing the world is, and how easily your heart and hopes can be torn to shreds.
Standing in the airport restroom, I stare at a decidedly unimpressive reflection. My dark hair is a lank, tangled mess, and massive dark-blue shadows ring my attractively bloodshot eyes. If I could do a spritz-spell, I could freshen up my face. But—nope.
So instead, I pull out makeup from my backpack, and though I can hardly be bothered, force myself to get to work. Maybe I can fix a little of this mess. I have to try, just in case.
Just in case I run into them.
The twins. Breakers of my heart. The Harts that broke my heart.
Donovan and Wes Hart, to be precise. All the promises, the sweet words, the, dammit, the L-word feelings.
All a load of bullshit.
I’d been a starry-eyed idiot and got totally played.
Theo, the charity case who fell hook, line, and sinker for two rich, pretty boys.
Pretty boys who’d talked me into six weeks of the most insane sex of my life.
(Well, the only sex of my life—then and now).
Looking back, it was obvious they hadn’t loved me; it had all been a joke. But at the time, it had been so real.
Wiping at a smudge on my cheek, I slap on some concealer and mascara and try to drum up some grit. As I exit the restroom and head through immigration, customs, and on to my future, the grit doesn’t happen, just more anxiety.
Havengard International has a surprisingly modest arrivals hall.
A wide corridor that kicks the travel-weary passengers out next to a few benches.
A ‘meeting place’ sign hangs in the middle of the area, and several people linger, holding up placards.
I move closer, dragging my shabby suitcase behind me, and peer at the signs, looking for Theo Wilson.
Or T. Wilson, or even Theodora Wilson, if they were going the whole hog.
But there isn’t even a piglet of a sign showing my name.
I don’t want to admit that a tiny part of myself had been holding out hope that Donovan and Wes would be there to meet me—and their radio silence had been a terrible misunderstanding.
Nope, I wasn’t hoping that at all. Which is a good thing, as there is no one—let alone Wes and Donovan—here to pick me up.
Acting Dean Crankshawe had all the flight details; she couldn’t have forgotten, could she? Maybe she’d changed her mind about giving me the scholarship? It was all pretty weird. My school record for the six-week intensive would have clearly shown all my epic fails.
‘An excellent addition to our student body.’ That’s what the email had said.
Utterly bizarre. Incomprehensible even. Though it didn’t stop me from accepting the offer.
And as I watched Aunt Nancy excitedly help pack my bags, I knew I’d made the right choice.
Yes, being around the twins again will be a special kind of torture, but if I can compartmentalize, this second chance feels OK.
Ish.
Veronica hadn’t supported my decision. “Who’s going to babysit Liam on Fridays?
We can’t afford to pay anyone, and anyway, Liam is so attached to you,” she’d pouted.
Liam, at the time, had been swinging his leg backwards and forwards, kicking my shin with every up-swing.
Veronica’s annoyance at not getting free childcare flashed through her brain, and I had determinedly tuned out her noise, then thrown my arms around her.
“I love you, Vee. I’m going to miss you so much. ”
She’d squeezed me back. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll miss you too. And now you don’t have to worry about finding money for the next few years, unlike the rest of us—lucky bitch.”
Lucky? Ha, what a joke. My life is a comedy of errors; the Fates must have such a blast toying with my existence. I triple-check my phone—no new messages.
What am I going to do? The academy is at least an hour from here, and if I have to get an Uber or something, I can’t even begin to imagine how much that will cost.
Or should I jack the whole thing in?
It’s not too late to retreat; I could just go to a counter and buy a ticket home. Move in with Veronica and babysit Liam. I’ve four hundred and eighty pounds in my account, and that should be enough for a return flight. Maybe.
Another twenty minutes, and now it’s just me and a few bored baggage handlers in arrivals. I’ve all but given up hope of a ride when a man comes striding in through the double doors.
Whoa. He’s tall, over six feet, broad-shouldered, and with the face of an angel—if an angel rocked a quarter inch of stubble and had a cigarette dangling from his lips.
His somber, dark eyes narrow in my direction.
I stare back, mesmerized as he pinches out the cigarette between two fingers, and throws it in a trash can.
For the first time, I wonder if I’m truly as heartbroken as I thought.
I can’t be completely ruined if I’m finding this guy hot as fuck—right?
I’m staring, and his broody scowl increases. Sexy-dark-angel then points and makes a beckoning motion.
I guess he’s my ride.
Heaving myself to my feet, I pick up my duffel and head over. “You’re here to collect me?” I ask, looking up at his face, at least a foot above mine.
“I’ll be here to collect my fucking pension, if this takes much longer,” he says in a slightly accented grumble. The sarcasm makes me find him a lot less attractive. My brain is too fried for this. “Sorry,” I mumble. “Are you from Validus Vale?”
“Impressive powers of deduction, new girl.” Yep, it’s decided, his rich, husky Eastern European accent and good looks don’t make up for him being a complete arsehole. He runs a hand through his thick black hair, and I catch a glimpse of nasty scars on his forearm.
“Hurry up.” He heads toward the exit, and I struggle to keep up with his long-legged strides. Mister Sexy-but-douchey leads me to a red zone where a dirty jeep is abandoned at an angle to the curb. The appearance of the man, his vehicle, and his parking job are equally careless.
“Bags in the back,” he grunts.
I obediently heave my suitcase onto the piles of papers and books that litter the back seat, then open the passenger door. “Thanks for picking me up, I’m Theo,” I mumble. I don’t think he’s a student, too old, but he seems too scruffy and cigarette-smoky to be a teacher.
The man, who doesn’t give me his name, starts the engine and pulls away before I’ve even sat down properly, let alone put my seatbelt on.
When he lurches to a stop at a red light, I nearly hurtle through the windshield.
I’m winded, and also feel something wet spreading over my chest. I landed on top of a takeaway coffee cup.
The rude-dude doesn’t seem to have even noticed; he zips through the traffic with maneuvers that cause all around to honk loudly.
I sit back, wearing cold coffee down my favorite sweater.
It’s a vast, pale lilac knit that says ‘Don’t Kill my Vibe’ on the front.
I’d added the lettering myself, stitching on letters made from quilting scraps.
Having it covered in coffee is pissing me off.
“Thanks for the welcome, dude,” I mutter under my breath, letting a hint of sarcasm creep into my tone. I snap in the buckle of my seatbelt and take a slow, deep breath. It must be two in the morning in the UK. My head is pounding, and I’m exhausted.
There’s a beat of silence, then he answers. “Less of the sass, Ms. Wilson. I am not ‘Dude’. It’s Professor Feniks to you. The academy expects its faculty to be spoken to with respect.”
Tits.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“I hope you have a better attitude towards your studies. There are plenty of students who would have loved to receive the Guggenheimer Scholarship. Don’t make the selection committee regret their choice, Ms. Wilson.”
His brain is fizzing with static. I can’t hear his thoughts at all. This professor must be pretty powerful. However, I don’t need to tune into his brain to guess what he’s thinking.
That I shouldn’t be here, the committee made a mistake. I mean, Validus Vale has never had an unawoken come for the intensive and then fail.
Until me.
I’d blossomed in the boyfriend and sex department, but my magic spark? Zip. Yawning widely, I stretch out my legs among the piles of unmarked essays and rest my head on the warm seat.
Once again, the whims of fate are guiding me along a path that is probably just paved with a whole lot of bullshit. When will I ever learn to choose my own destiny?
◆◆◆
A door slam wakes me up. Professor Whatever-his-name-is has parked and gotten out of the truck. “From here, you can walk,” he says, nodding toward a driveway. “The main building will have registration.”
We’re outside the faculty housing, which is a few hundred yards from the academy.
Stifling a groan, I take my bag and suitcase out of the jeep and square my shoulders.
“Thanks for the ride and all the help, Professor,” I say, keeping any sarcasm out of my voice this time because I don’t want another telling off.
“Yah, yah. Welcome to Validus Vale, blah, blah, blah,” he replies, then strides off to the faculty housing.
I turn my gaze to face the academy. Validus Vale is built from gray stone in a style that could probably be described as Transylvanian Gothic.
Dark, mullioned windows dot the walls, and an actual tower, like a circular Disney-but-emo tower, soars from the group of buildings.
I don’t know how many magic academies there are scattered around the globe, but Validus Vale has consistently ranked number one, by a lot.