Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
I don’t make it to the officer’s class before the bell tolls. I lost track of time in my snooping. I quickly turn around, cursing under my breath, and head toward Professor Rinkin’s class instead. I can’t afford to miss another class.
Her long blonde braid swishes across her back as she writes on the board. All I have left on the schedule for today is two classes. Shadow Craft and Blood Magic.
I scrunch my nose. I’m not looking forward to the last class. Professor Moravek creeps me out, and the entire taboo subject does as well.
Plopping down in my seat, I crack my knuckles one by one.
My partner in crime hasn’t arrived yet, so I’m saved from that.
I crack my book open to the page written on the board and pull out my quills, lining them up neatly on my desk.
The sound of books being tossed onto desks, pages being turned, and chatter throughout the rows almost drowns out the tardy bell.
Kingston’s seat remains empty.
I turn and look at the door, but it’s firmly shut. No one is coming through at the last minute. I’m not worried, per se, just confused as to why an officer is missing one of the most crucial classes for dark wielders.
You’re late, I sing in my head.
Nothing. Crickets.
I furrow my brows and decide I don’t exactly like being ignored by him.
“Turn to page one hundred and fifty-three,” the professor says loudly.
I’m already on the page and decide I’ll try one more time.
Not very majorish of you to play hooky.
I swear I can hear a scoff through the mental bond or whatever it is that Kingston does.
Are you coming or not? I think irritably.
Not.
Seriously?
I roll my eyes and grab my quill to take notes.
The rest of class goes by in a blur between the three sheets of notes and the half hour of Shadow-Wielding.
Shadows from light gray to obsidian black swirl around the room.
A slate-gray shadow grabs the wrist of a second-year, pulling her toward the wielder.
She digs her heels in and casts a rebuke, but her shadow is smothered beneath his stronger one.
Another fourth-year has shadows, the color of coal, wrapped around a first-year’s neck.
His almost translucent shadow is no match and is quickly snuffed out.
My partner is nowhere to be found, nor are my shadows. I slouch in my seat and watch the other Noctryns try to kill each other.
This is such a waste of my time.
Finally, the bell chimes, and I jump up and exit through the door.
I shoulder through the throng of other students, head down, teeth clenched.
I’m not in the mood for the noise and chaos of the halls today.
I pull my replacement cloak up around my neck, the original still sitting in the Witchwood.
The chill is at an all-time peak, and snow falls heavily outside the domed windows.
I climb the stairs and head for the second floor.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door and enter Professor Moravek’s class.
I take my usual seat in the back corner.
There’s no text for this class. Everything needed stays locked up in his classroom.
Secrecy upon secrecy per usual. Darkness and evil doings toiled together.
The chair next to me squeaks along the stone floor as it’s pulled back, and a hulking frame sits beside me. I’m so deep in my thoughts, that I don’t even bother looking over until I can feel someone staring at the side of my head.
I exhale loudly and turn, giving them the attention they so desperately want.
“Hello, little Caderyn.”
Makon leans forward, elbows on the long table and dark eyes pinning me to the spot. His brow is furrowed, his long hair pulled back from his face, and his scar is reflected in the flickers of the torch directly behind us.
I purse my lips and look back toward the front of the class. He never sits next to me, and now here he is, taking up all the space. He’s handsome in the untamed way. Wild and reckless with a side of rogue.
And right now, I’m about sick of handsome men.
“One of these days, you’re going to succeed in hurting my feelings,” he says, his thick brow raising.
“I very much doubt your feelings have enough depth to be hurt,” I retort, staring straight ahead. I can see him out of my peripheral vision, much to my dismay.
His lip pulls up in a smirk. “I’m one of the few people you haven’t pissed off lately. Might not wanna burn this bridge.”
“Some bridges are beautiful when they burn,” I say coldly. “There’s a peace in knowing it can’t be undone.”
“Rough morning?” he asks, amusement apparent in his voice.
I turn and look at him. “You have no idea.” It’s only when the flames hit his face just right that I see the black eye forming. “Speaking of a bad morning, who’d you piss off?”
He laughs. “More like who did you piss off?”
I shift my weight in my seat and turn toward him more. “What are you talking about?”
“I’d rather not have both eyes match. I think I’ll sit this one out,” he says.
I stare at him, hoping to pressure him into talking. He stares back, clearly not backing down. “Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?” he asks
“Just didn’t take you for the timid type.”
He tilts his head to the side as if my words entertain him. “Not timid, little Caderyn. But also, not stupid.”
The tables fill up around us, and Professor Moravek walks in, his black robes billowing behind his hurried footsteps.
Long, bony fingers steeple in front of him as he turns and faces us.
His face is a mosh of unbalance—a large, crooked nose, thin lips pulled to the side, and deep-set, sunken eyes that regard us with borderline animosity. There’s a tic in the left one.
Maylin’s mink-brown eyes meet mine from across the room. She gives me a small smile in clear understanding and agreement that he gives us the creeps.
“Everyone, open the drawer in front of you and remove the small knives that have been sterilized and readied for your use,” the professor instructs us, his shrill voice like nails on a chalkboard.
Makon pulls the drawer out on our table, and we each remove a small knife, the tip pointed and stained from repeated use. “What’s with the dreary expressions today?” he asks under his breath.
“Life,” I answer simply, as I prick the tip of my finger and squeeze the blood into an empty vial.
Makon makes a long gash across his palm and lets it drip into his.
“That’s a cop-out. We’re soldiers. Life is always going to be hard.
I have a feeling you’re used to its harsh blows, so what’s really eating at you?
” He’s oddly perceptive. Not something you would assume on first impressions.
I’m starting to think Makon has layers that he doesn’t show many people.
“I don’t know who to trust, what’s real, and what’s not. Nothing is really black and white, is it?” I continue squeezing the blood out of my finger.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching me. I pull my eyes from the vial and give him my attention.
“Finally catching on, are we?” he asks, a serious look leveled at me.
His vial is already filled with blood, considering he made a much larger gash in his hand. “Your blood, my blood, and I bet even one of those useless Veils if I cut them open. It all flows red.”
I chuckle. “Couldn’t resist throwing an insult in their direction, could you?”
“Never,” he deadpans.
I don’t miss the way I referred to them as “their” and not “our.”
One by one, we pour our vials filled with blood into the large dish sitting atop each of our tables and whisper the incantation written on the blackboard. The blood from my finger and Makon’s palm swirls together, becoming a combination of him and me. A unification of power and the possibility of.
We dip our fingers into the mixed blood and draw the symbol on the blackboard on each other’s wrists, each repeating the same incantation. Makon pupils are blown wide, and I know without a doubt mine match.
He runs his tongue over his teeth, and I bite down on my lip.
A rush of adrenaline courses through the veins when blood magic is performed.
The feeling can be highly addictive, which is why this particular magic is dangerous for a Noctryn.
Too much use, especially without the necessary skills and a reliable dark object to ground them, can lead to incurable madness.
A certifiable way to earn yourself a room at Harkin House, where padded walls and insanity are the only company offered.
I latch onto the edge of the table, my fingers curling around it. Makon rotates his neck, the corded veins popping out as he does so. The professor doesn’t tell us what this exact hex does, so we wait and ride out the high.
A dark cloud washes over my eyes. A murky memory, one not of my own, floats to the surface.
Regardless of how firmly I try to lock it in its Cimmerian cave, it drifts to the forefront like a tendril of fog.
Onyx marble floors gleam beneath my bare feet as I walk through the halls of a luxurious structure.
The cathedral ceilings are carved from stone, intricate ruins etched into their hard surface.
Arched windows are open, allowing the winter breeze to float through the passageway, causing the candles in the hanging chandeliers to flicker.
The soft sound of my breath is my only companion as I make my way through the grand halls of what looks to be a castle.
The dark colors and gold-rimmed portraits lining the walls speak of wealth and expensive taste.
Snow blows in through an open set of doors, falling across the shiny marble floor.
I leave footprints in it as I push forward, opening another large set of doors to my right.