Chapter 29 Nyx #2
“Good. So until—if, you have your epiphaneia, I will assist you.”
Please, God, why is this happening to me?
What the fuck? “I—that’s a very… generous offer.”
“I’m glad you agree.”
Wait—“I haven’t agreed to anything.”
He merely hums, and turns his attention back to the professor.
I haven’t been this close to him since the shitshow with Thane at Wyckd, when I went toe to toe with someone that could literally burn me to a crisp, if the rumors are true.
In my alcohol-fueled bravado, I didn’t notice things like how there’s a faint whiff of ash that follows every turn of his head.
Not like Ramsey—he’s like a campfire on a dark night that draws you in to escape from the cold, sinking into your clothes and hair and stays with you for days.
Roth—he’s a simmering fire in one of those massive, wood-burning hearths that you’d see in an old castle that could fit half a dozen people end to end.
The kind you lay on a bear skin rug in front of and fall asleep reading a book, knowing you’ll still be warm in the morning.
It’s a sharp contrast to his cold, black eyes that see too much.
He doesn’t say much for the rest of the period, but he does correct my drawings and diagrams occasionally.
He points out nuances between what the professor covers and his own notes.
He is, all things considered… a perfect gentleman.
There’s no trace of the man who loomed over me at Wyckd and interrogated me about his friend finger-fucking me in the Medical Center.
I have no idea how to handle this.
I’m still trying to figure it out after lunch.
Not even having Tori in Taxonomy Studies 202 can distract me from the roiling confusion Roth’s kindness caused.
I can only assume he’s plotting or scheming or something, because there’s no other reason Roth Kovacs would have to be nice to me—he’s made that abundantly clear on multiple occasions.
The first chance I get to put him out of my mind, ironically, comes when I start sparring with his giant asshole of a bestie, who seems more pissed off than usual.
Which is honestly impressive considering we’ve only been back at school for two days.
I’m more thankful than ever that Ramsey showed me some of his dirty fighting tricks, because for the first time since we were paired together, I actually manage to get the better of him.
“Where the fuck did you learn that?” Luther glares at me from where he’s kneeling on the mat, wincing when he stands and puts weight on the knee I just kicked in. The rush of finally one-upping him is what finally breaks my resolve to give him the silent treatment.
“Youtube.”
His eyes narrow as he towers above me, but even if I wanted to, I couldn’t smother my shit-eating grin. That’s the only shot I get in for the rest of class, but not even the plethora of bruises already forming can wipe the smile off my face for the rest of the night.
It doesn’t last long, because of course.
“What in the Hunger Games are you talking about?”
Brandt rolls his eyes, exasperated by my theatrics. “Consider the Crypteia as a practical exam in addition to the written exams at the end of the year. In order to advance to the next level of mastery, students must demonstrate not only their knowledge but their competency.”
“And if I don’t have any magic to master by the Crypteia?” I ask.
He leans back in this chair and steeples his fingers.
“If you don’t, then we’ll simply petition the Board of Trustees for an exemption or extension.
Normally, the student would repeat the previous year, however with your unique circumstances I’m sure we can find an appropriate solution.
Now, working on the assumption your epiphaneia will occur between now and then, upon completing the Crypteia, you’ll be considered a Practitioner. ”
“So how does one go from an ‘apprentice’ to a Grandmaster of the Fourth Order, Dr. Professor Emeritus?”
He chuckles at my reference to his epic mic drop in my Politics class last semester.
“From the time of your epiphaneia to the beginning of your formal education and training, you’re considered a Novice.
During the first year of study, you are an Apprentice, then Practitioner, Adept, and lastly Specialist. After graduating as a Specialist, you can choose to pursue further advanced study to attain your Mastery and finally, Grandmastery. ”
“Okay so… that means what, exactly?”
“The journey to becoming a masterful wielder begins internally, before any magic is actually performed. Novices learn to recognize the well of power within themselves, before learning to recognize the magic woven into the very fabric of our world as an Apprentice. Practitioners work to connect the two—to weave their thread of power with that magic. As Adepts, they use their power to summon and transform it from its raw, unseen state into tangible magic, whether elemental, primordial, or divine. This is what we call wielding. Specialists exert full control over the tangible magic they summon. Master wielders delve into the intricacies of their magic, distinguishing the separate parts from the whole until they can wield every facet. Finally, Grandmasters push the boundaries of known magic—exploring theoretical limits and overcoming the impossible.”
Holy shit. "So you’re like, a really big deal then. ”
“So some would say.” He smirks. “But it also means that I am uniquely qualified to help you bring about your own power, which will be our focus for the rest of the year as you continue with the elemental rotations for air and water. You’ve made remarkable academic progress by virtue of your own intelligence and tenacity, but it’s not a weakness to accept help.
Especially from me, because I’m usually the smartest one in the room.
” His humor softens the anxiety of trying to actively awaken whatever power I may have.
Which is why I finally admit to him what I’ve been refusing to admit to myself for the last several weeks.
“I’ve had more… episodes.”
“Of?” he cooks his eyebrow.
“Like that time in your office. When the lights went out.”
He hums, quirking his head. “And what were you feeling, during these episodes?”
“Frustration. Anger.”
He nods in understanding. “Strong emotions can absolutely be catalysts for wielding your power—anger is a strong motivator, as is fear. Anything that triggers your ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ response, really. When you have these episodes, how do you react?”
I scoff. “I usually pretend it isn’t happening.”
“Why is that?”
Nope. Nope nope nope. I’m so not ready for therapy. “Just a knee-jerk reaction, I guess.” I shrug, trying to play off my discomfort, which of course he sees right through.
“Well. We’ll work through it. You’re not alone here, Nyx.”
Yeah, that’s the fucking problem.
I can handle the few friends I seem to have made.
And maybe even something more with Ramsey.
I can handle the tepid cease-fire between me and Thane, rebuffing Killian’s flirtations, and even Roth’s.
.. civility? Fuck, I don’t even know anymore.
But as the weeks pass, and Brandt pushes me to be more open-minded about my feelings, my anxiety only gets worse.
Because if I do have my epiphaneia, then I’ll have a whole new set of things to worry about.
Maybe that’s why I crack and ask Ramsey on a date in a moment of weakness.
On Valentine’s Day.
I’m both relieved and disappointed when he seems as panicked as I am at the prospect, and try to save the last shreds of my ego by playing it off as a group invite that I extend to Milo, who is way too entertained by watching the two of us struggle to be normal people.
But thank fuck we end up making plans, because the next day, Killian asks me out.
“Roses, candles, chocolates, the whole nine yards. What do you say?” He smirks as I note down the results of our latest experiment.
“I’m allergic to candles,” I deadpan, but he ignores me.
“I’ll wine you, dine you, and then carry you over the threshold to a bed covered in rose petals where I’ll ravish you the whole night.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” mutter as I look into the microscope, then pass it over to him. When he doesn’t immediately take it, I spare him a glance and notice the fuckboy facade slips for just a moment before he gives me that trademark smirk.
“Never had any complaints.” He shrugs, and finally takes the microscope.
But, much like I ignore my faux pas with Ramsey, Thane’s new awkwardness, Roth’s.
.. whatever he’s doing, I pretend I didn’t see Killian looking like he might actually be disappointed.
Because why would he? He’s got everything—everyone—that he could ever want.
Including me, at least once, as much as I’m kicking myself for it now.
So that’s how we continue until Ostara, where Tori, Evie, and Brynne drag me to the beach, where most of the witches on campus are drinking around a bonfire that they don’t let me get within ten feet of.
Others are setting up an altar near the grass-covered cliffs, including Vanna and Nikki.
When we go over to greet them, they’re only slightly less aloof than Samhain.
This time, after Esmé gives her speech about the cosmic renewal of energy, rebirth, and action undertaken beneath the dawn of an Aries sun—eerily similar, I notice, to what my demented tarot deck has been repeating in various forms over the past couple months—Nikki uses her earth magic to make the flowers and seeds on the altar overflow with blooms, pouring down the beach and climbing up the cliffs until the entire cliff face is a blanket of rainbows.
The wild ocean wind whips through the air, making the flames and flowers dance as fervently as the partygoers on the shore in the darkening night.
It’s like something from a dream, but I can only watch from a fallen log on the edge of the beach as a bittersweet melancholy settles over me.
I wish I could let go and enjoy it with my friends, but the last two times I’ve tried, I ended up in the middle of Thane’s OD, and staring at the ruins of the nicest thing I’ve ever owned.
The memory of my dress—how I felt in it, how I felt watching it disintegrate, still makes my heart ache every time I think of the tatters under my bed.
Thane notices my silence the next day. Ironic, considering we don’t talk much aside from occasionally partnering on assignments, which I’ve had to pick up more and more of throughout the semester as it becomes clear he’s struggling with the material.
“Thane?”
He startles from where he was staring blankly at the assignment in front of us, and looks at me. “Yeah?”
“Do you… need some help? With this stuff?” I gesture with my pen.
He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, exhaling. “It’s not my best subject,” he mutters, making me laugh under my breath.
“What, 18th century trade agreements don’t get your blood pumping?”
“This is torture,” he complains. “How can you even remember all this shit?”
I shrug, noting down what McCall’s writing on the board. “I like learning. Before coming here, I basically taught myself everything when I didn’t get into college.”
“Think you could teach me?” He rolls his head to look at me.
“What, like a tutor?”
He straightens and cross his arms. “Yeah. Would you tutor me?” I open my mouth but he cuts me off.
“I can tutor you. You mentioned you’re like, auditing some wielding classes now right?
I’ll—I can help. With water. You help me with my shit and I’ll help you with your shit.
” I want to say no, because I don’t need to get sucked into anything involving the Heirs any more than I already am.
But Brandt’s warning from the start of the semester about coaxing out whatever power I might have replays in my head.
It’s not a weakness to accept help.
Fuck, I really hope I don’t regret this.
“Okay.”