Chapter 8
Well, day one at Validus Vale is going swimmingly.
First, I make my new friends late for breakfast, and then Willow and I get tossed around by bitchy bully girls. I discover my class schedule is all whack-a-doodle, I have Professor Feniks as my advisor, and now this.
It took a ludicrous amount of time to find the Dark Arts department; I’m panting for breath.
The professor was joking about the donkey ears, right?
Tiptoeing back and forth outside the fourth-floor Restricted Studies classroom, I try to build up the courage to enter.
It’s just a class, some students, and a teacher. No big deal.
Just walk in.
Except, both my body and my brain don't want to because THEY might be in there. I’d rather be spelled with Donkey ears than face the twins right now.
OK, here I go. Or should I knock? No, you don't knock to enter a classroom, dummy. Unless... do you?
Shit on a stick. Taking one more calming breath, I slowly turn the handle. The professor stops mid-sentence and glares at me. “What?” she snaps. When I don’t immediately respond, she tuts loudly. “If you are here to empty the trash, we’ve already got the janitor in.”
Empty the trash? I glance at the back of the class. A tall figure in grey coveralls is indeed moving recycling into a large wheeled bin.
I shuffle nervously from foot to foot, clear my throat, and attempt to form words. "Sorry," I croak. "I'm... uh... new?"
The professor lowers her glasses and looks at me like I’m a complete idiot.
“I’m supposed to be in this class,” I mumble.
“At least I think so? It’s on my new schedule.
” I hold my tablet out like a shield, and the woman stalks towards me, plucking it out of my hand.
“Ridiculous,” she mutters, scanning the screen.
Then she repeats the word much louder. “Ridiculous. I’m sure this is an error, but take a seat anyway, and don’t cause any more disruption. ”
I slink into the classroom with my head low, trying not to meet anyone’s eye.
Behind me, the door opens and closes once more. The professor's tone undergoes a startling transformation for this latecomer. “Good morning, Mr. Drakeward,” she purrs. “So glad to have you in my class this term.”
Hair raises on the back of my neck, and my heart almost stalls. Twisting my head around, I meet the devastating glare coming from Cosmo Drakeward’s ice-blue eyes. Hatred pulses towards me, making a whimper involuntarily leave my throat.
Just perfect. Cosmo is in this class. Of course he is.
The person who hates me most in this school doesn’t move, just continues to pin me down with his gaze.
His pale blonde hair is pushed back from his broad, tan forehead, and a pulse twitches in his perfect jawline.
Yes, he’s beautiful. But, never, ever, judge a book by its cover. This man is no sweet read.
The professor looks at me and tuts again. “Wilson! Sit! Is everything alright, Mr. Drakeward?”
As I quickly shuffle onto a free seat, Cosmo's expression changes as he slides a smooth smile onto his face. “Absolutely. Terribly sorry for my tardiness, Professor Gimble, please continue.” He moves to a desk, and the student already sitting there quickly scrambles away to sit elsewhere.
“Very good, very good,” Gimble rubs her palms against her skirt. “Now, where were we?”
An Elite girl raises her hand. “Examples of restricted spells that need a government licence for use,” she answers. I think I remember her from last year—Kayla Cox. She was always hanging off the neck of her boyfriend. However, I don’t see him now.
“Ah, yes, very good. Now, excitingly, Validus Vale has a dispensation to allow for a teaching practicum of these spells. Obviously, students can’t use them outside my classroom, but here I will be looking for success.
So let’s start with Projected Communication Artifice. Who can define that for me?”
Kayla leans forward, and now I see the boyfriend. He’s a short, stocky Elite who swaggers around trying to be the big man metaphorically, because he can’t be physically. Ugh. What’s his name? “Making someone say something they don’t want to,” he says.
“Correct, good, Klein."
Klein, that’s right. Klein Schweinsteiger, or something like that. He and Kayla are two witches to avoid.
“Projected Communication Artifice,” Professor Gimble continues, “is a dark art, but not illegal if used under an official license.
Obviously, the World Magic Organization doesn't want just anybody using this; think of the chaos it could bring. But if you get a position in the WMO after graduation, having the ability to perform these spells will propel you into higher government positions. So, can anyone tell me the introductory steps to the spell?”
A few murmurs sound around the room, but no one volunteers any answers. I’m desperately trying to keep out of everyone’s brain, dissembling the word ‘restricted’.
Strict, rice, dice, riced, iced, tried, ride, rides, deice.
“Wilson?”
Deice? No, that's hyphenated, de-ice, right?
“WILSON!”
I jerk my head up to find Professor Gimble glaring.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Even if you are here by mistake, I expect you to pay attention. Stand up.”
My stomach plummets. I get to my feet, feeling the collective eyes of the class burning into my skin.
“Now, explain to the class how the spell is performed?”
The spell? What spell? I’d been distracted. I'm going to have to do something deeply, deeply unethical.
I peek inside Professor Gimble’s brain.
—What’s the point of trying to teach a remedial? Like they’d ever master Projected Communication Artifice—
Bingo.
Quickly blanking out the fact that Professor Gimble had also been thinking about Cosmo Drakeward’s broad shoulders (ugh), I recite what I know about the spell. “Uhm, you link your magic with the subject's voice box and…”
“And…?” Professor Gimble asks, pinning me with a beady look.
Shitballs. I can’t remember anything else. I’m not going to cheat and look in her head again; I already feel I need a good scrub with a wire brush, so instead I stand looking down at my desk, trying to appear thoughtful rather than utterly clueless.
As I do so, a sudden burning pain sears my throat. My hand flies up to clutch at my neck in a panic. “And…” my voice croaks.
What the shit is happening?
“Wilson,” the professor growls. “Can you elaborate, or are you just wasting everybody's time?
I’ve no ability to stop the words that start pouring out of my mouth.
“I’m wasting your time because I’m a stupid fucking dud.
” I slap my hands over my lips. Why did I say that?
Wait—oh no, not again. “I don’t belong here,” my voice croaks of its own volition.
Laughter erupts, and I look around to see Cosmo Drakeward sitting there with a smug smile, his hands performing some sort of elaborate finger ballet at his desk. Just great.
Professor Gimble notices as well, and her face brightens. “Why, Mr. Drakeward, excellent work.”
My vocal cords start up again without my permission. In fact, they are actively working against me. What will I say next? Please don’t let it be too awful.
“And everyone should know that I’m a sl…” my traitorous voice box announces, before—CRASH! A loud noise fills the room, startling everyone, and suddenly the claws on my throat are released.
It was the janitor. Thank the sweet merciful Gods. He’d spilled the bin. Crumbled papers and empty cans litter the floor. I sag down into my seat as spontaneous applause breaks out for Cosmo.
“Get that mess picked up,” Professor Gimble grumbles, as the man in the coveralls kneels, shovelling trash back into the metal canister. I slide from my seat to help. It’s the least I can do; his timely accident saved me from any more humiliation.
“Fucking duds,” a red-headed boy calls out as he flicks an empty water bottle off his desk towards my head. The janitor snatches a hand out and snags it mid-flight.
“Thanks,” I whisper, as Professor Gimble continues on with her lesson.
The janitor meets my eye. Whoa, his gaze is hypnotic.
Long, pale eyelashes frame his heterochromic eyes.
One is hazel with gold flecks, and the other is a deep, brown, so dark it’s almost black.
The stunning eyes are focused on me with an unnerving intensity.
I read both sympathy and anger in their depths.
The moment is broken as another jerk fires a balled-up wad of paper in our direction.
I retrieve the final pieces of garbage and slink back to my desk.
By the time I’m seated, I’ve missed all the proper instructions on projected communication artifice.
Not that it matters. I could learn every step, every nuance, and still never cast the spell. Spells don’t work without magic, duh.
I spend my time watching the rest of the students. The class has partnered up, wrists twisting and fingers flicking, but only a couple manage to get even partial success. Cosmo is looking at his phone. He's made it abundantly clear he's already a master of this restricted spell.
What other spells will these awful students learn? I scroll through the rest of the Restricted Studies syllabus. Talk about fake media. Voice manipulation. Cloaking. Memory misdirection.
How is this even legal? I know you need a state-sanctioned licence to use these, but still—it all seems wrong.
I'd assumed the Advanced Restricted Studies class would teach you how to defend against these things, not create them.
This isn't a defensive class. It's a flipping offensive class—in all ways.
Finally, the bell sounds and the session lets out. Students pick up bags and tablets, chatting and mostly ignoring me. All apart from one. A shadow falls across my desktop, and when I look up, it’s to see Cosmo Drakeward glaring down at me.
Gulp. Here we go.
“We need to talk,” he hisses. “Come to my apartment tonight. Eight o’clock.” His voice resonates with power. As an Elite, he can make demands that witches with lesser magic cannot refuse. “Eight o’clock, don’t be late,” he says again.
I nod and make the appointment date in my calendar.
8pm. Lion’s Den.
I have no other choice.