Chapter 14
Nix
Grayson holds the icy staff, as if he had always done so, and something flickers in Nix’s memory. Nothing concrete, just a glimmer of the past where Grayson’s hair had been waist-length and white, like Knox’s, and this had been his weapon of choice.
Professor Bixby’s shock doesn’t disappear entirely, but he pushes it down to keep his student’s safety in mind.
“Class dismissed—to the library. Go,” Bixby booms, and the awestruck teens scatter like water on a hot skillet, gossip already dripping from their lips.
It won’t be long before the whole school knows Grayson created a weapon from thin air and brandished it at his teacher.
The big door slams shut behind the last awestruck youth, hard enough that a single icicle drops and shatters on the floor with a splintering crash. To Bixby’s credit, he doesn’t flinch, eyes on Grayson.
“Pearce, disassemble it. Now.”
Caught in a memory, Grayson grips the staff lightly, tosses it from hand to hand before taking three steps back and twirling it in a single hand as if he’d done so a thousand times.
Not a single drop of water melts from his grip, and it flashes in the bright light of the room: light and fierce, blue ice-cold fire.
“Disassemble it!” Bixby booms, throwing his hands up as if he might actually dare to snatch the warrior’s weapon away.
Nix can’t tell if that’s courage or sheer recklessness. He’d come to the Guild ready to kick butt and take names, but Grayson wouldn’t want to hurt his teacher—not like this, not over something as small and sour as envy and pride.
“Step back, Professor Bixby,” Nix says, letting Omega Voice coil through the warning like steam. He’s ready to move if Grayson’s annoyance is still there, snagged somewhere between old memories and new ones.
Humans are as vulnerable to Voice as any other living thing. Bixby’s expression flickers; he takes a stumbling step back, then another, retreating behind the flimsy safety of his desk.
“Gray,” Nix says quietly, “put it away. There’s no threat here.”
The ice staff vaporizes in a puff of steam, the fire in Grayson’s palms returning the vapor to the atmosphere. He wipes his hands on his pants, but they come away dry.
The Plain surges in Nix’s belly, and Grayson is suddenly there, the few feet between them folded like paper. Nix barely has time to suck in a breath before Grayson’s arms are around him, hauling him in against the familiar line of his chest.
Mystical patchouli rides Grayson’s magic straight into Nix’s nose. His pulse stutters, then races, struggling to keep up with the quiet thrum still humming between them.
“That was amazing,” Grayson murmurs, voice gone soft and a little hoarse at the edges, eyes bright with leftover adrenaline. “Like unlocking something I’d forgotten I knew how to do.”
“I guess you meant it when you said you were done hiding,” Nix whispers.
Bixby drops into his chair, his rubber boots squeaking under his desk. Nix couldn’t have imagined that he could get any paler, but he’s almost green, and there’s sweat dripping from his brow. “You should say something to him before we’re on our way to the Guarda.”
“Shit. Yeah.” Grayson approaches his teacher’s desk. “I’m sorry, Professor Bixby. I don’t know what came over me.” Grayson bows his head. Nix knows he hadn’t expected to wield that flow, and despite how skilled he really is, he’s still learning. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”
In this life.
“No, I don’t expect you have,” the older man grumbles. He shakes himself and uses both hands to slick back his three strands of hair. “Impressive. Offensive Water Affinities are advanced Magic, Pearc—Grayson. They require a degree of creativity and control I haven’t seen from you before…”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“Could you do it again?” Bixby asks, curiosity making his voice kinder than it had been earlier.
Grayson doesn’t answer with words, just creates something different this time. A broadsword. Poof. A rapier. Poof. A single bread knife, which Grayson uses to stab the apple on his teacher’s desk.
The second he takes his hand away, the knife begins to melt.
Nix had expected Bixby to be frightened or angry, but the little man claps, a big smile on his face. “Well, I’ll be! That’s amazing. Now, you say you didn’t know you could do that until just now? I wonder what else you could do.”
The class tone vibrates in the halls, and Bixby’s face falls.
“I suppose we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out.
There’s no sense in coming to this class tomorrow, Grayson.
I’ll speak to the headmaster about extra study.
Yes, you’ll likely need one-on-one tutoring after school. I have time Tuesdays and—”
He’s already rearranging his entire week in his head; Nix can practically see the mental calendar flipping.
Grayson inclines his head just enough to be respectful, shoulders still squared. “I’m sorry, sir, but my schedule is full.”
“Yes, yes. I meant after school hours.” He rubs his hands together. “I think we should dedicate three days a week?” His stylus is poised above the tablet, ready to write Grayson’s name. “From four to eight?”
“No, sir, I can’t. I have children and a pack. I am needed at home.”
Bixby’s eyes narrow. “Now see here, you can’t be serious. Your family will be there when you get home. Surely, this new Affinity takes priority. With this kind of skill, you can be a valuable asset to the Guarda. Or the Secret Service! Maybe even an attendant to the Were President!”
The fervor of ambition gleams in Professor Bixby’s eyes, each lofty suggestion more absurd than the last.
Nix doesn’t even have to look at Grayson to know how wrong the man is.
Those titles might dazzle someone who craves recognition, but Grayson?
He’s never wanted power for power’s sake.
He doesn’t dream of ranks or ribbons or someone else’s agenda.
He wants peace. Balance. A life built in the light, and not as a weapon carved from obligation.
“I’m not interested in being anyone’s weapon, Professor. My family comes first.”
And just like that, Nix’s soul is full to bursting.
“Now see here, Pearce—”
Professor Bixby’s tirade dies mid-syllable as the door slams open and a towering figure sweeps in.
The man appears to be in his late sixties, yet the gravity he carries could hush a crowd of thousands.
Black and crimson robes billow around him, hiding his hands and feet so completely that it seems he glides rather than walks.
Bald, with thick, furrowed brows that jut over large, bulging eyes in an abnormally large head. They miss nothing, and lurking in his enormous shadow is none other than Dahlia Kirwan.
She’s different from the trembling woman who’d cowered in her apartment.
Gone is the skittish bird poised to flee.
This version tilts her head with sharp, darting motions, eyes glinting like a crow’s.
Whatever fear she once wore like feathers has been plucked away, leaving something leaner, meaner—and much more dangerous.
Hackles lifting, Nix’s wolf wants her scrawny neck between his teeth.
“Grayson Pearce,” the big man booms.
“Headmaster Percival.” Grayson bows. “This is my soulmate, Nix Rhodes.”
The big man’s eyes scan the room before landing on Nix.
His lips purse as if he’s tasted something particularly bad.
He doesn’t acknowledge Grayson’s introduction, and his racist behavior is consistent with everything Jamie and Gideon have shared about their earlier interactions and the headmaster’s distaste for the Were community.
“Several students have reported that you created a weapon in this class.”
“And you pointed it at Professor Bixby,” Dahlia adds, a look of perverse glee on her bird-like face.
Grayson doesn’t wait for either to speak again. “Sir, I have never done that before.”
Dahlia snorts under her breath and rolls her eyes.
Percival doesn’t respond immediately. He takes a tour around the room, poking a finger into a pile of snow before drawing it up into a swirl of snowflakes. It triggers a memory of Percival at Lupine Hospital, before he’d been headmaster and the only Water Master at the Nashville Guild.
“He’s lying, Headmaster,” Dahlia says, pointing a finger at Grayson. “He’s hiding all sorts of power and—”
“Professor Kirwan. That is enough. I have heard nothing but your concerns all morning.”
Dahlia’s face goes bright red as she clenches her hands into small fists at her sides. “But what are you going to do about it?! He should be at the Aeternum Academy—”
Headmaster Percival’s composure cracks, just a hair. His jaw locks, a muscle ticking once before he speaks again.
“Enough! You will cease speaking immediately,” he snaps.
Dahlia’s mouth presses into a thin line, but her silence hums with fury.
Nix can practically feel the weight of the words she swallows.
There’s a flicker, just a twitch behind her eyes.
Not enough for the headmaster to notice, but Nix does.
His wolf certainly does. The familiar creeping sense of dread slithers up his spine so strongly that he shivers.
Percival remains oblivious. He paces again, back turned, speaking calmly now, not knowing he’s one step from someone with murder in her eyes.
Nix grits his teeth. Every part of him wants to call her out, but he doesn’t, because if Percival can see through it on his own, then Dahlia loses at her own game. And if he can’t, well…then they’ll know exactly what they’re dealing with.
“Despite the professor’s enthusiasm, her concerns are valid.
” Percival smooths his tie, voice settling into that pompous, practiced calm.
“I have indulged your explanations, Grayson, but I will not tolerate weapons being conjured in my classrooms. I must question whether your recklessness speaks to further dishonesty. The Guild has the highest standards of personal conduct. Just because you are Were does not excuse this deplorable lack of moral—”