Chapter 18
Eighteen
Rose
If you ever want to know what the soundtrack to hell sounds like, guaranteed it’s Jasmine Wickersly’s voice, magically amplified to eardrum-shattering volume, bouncing off every stone and windowpane at Serpentine Academy first thing in the morning.
“Attention!” Jasmine’s voice screeches. “Assembly on the quad. Attendance is not optional.” Her laugh ricochets off the walls.
I’m halfway through brushing my teeth when it happens, and I almost choke on my toothpaste.
I spit, rinse, and yank my hair into a messy bun, throw on clothes then grab my boots, and head for the door.
The hallway is full of dazed students, some still in pajamas, all with the same ‘please let this be a bad dream’ expression.
Nobody’s talking, the whole place is as silent as the grave.
Outside, the quad is covered in patchy snow from last night, and the cold air stings my cheeks.
Jasmine’s already at the top of the stone steps, looking like a deranged Snow Queen, dressed head to toe in white and silver to match her hair.
Ash stands off to her right, arms folded, expression unreadable.
He’s watching everything. So is the mark on my arm, which stings every time his gaze swings my way.
Lucien and Soren find me in the crowd.
“Any idea what fresh hell this is?” Soren mutters, sticking close.
Lucien shakes his head.
Jasmine waits until the entire school is assembled. There are a couple stragglers, including one girl still wearing fuzzy pink bunny slippers, but Jasmine doesn’t care. She claps her hands, the sound cracking like a gunshot in the quiet morning air.
“Welcome, welcome!” she shouts. “Today’s trial will test your intelligence, your courage, and your ability to be the best. You will compete in an obstacle course of my own design. There will be traps. There will be danger. There will be consequences, because hey, that’s life!” She cackles.
A ripple of panic goes through the crowd. I see Harry in the back, looking like he might wet himself. Thorne, though, is front and center, chin up and positively glowing.
Jasmine gestures toward the quad. Over the night, some kind of course has been set up with pits full of what looks like black ooze, and ground covered in shards of glass.
There are also ropes, swinging platforms, and at least one area where the grass is smoldering with burning embers despite the snow.
“Who will be the first?” Jasmine croons.
Thorne’s hand shoots up so fast I’m surprised her arm doesn’t dislocate. “I’ll go.”
Jasmine beams. “Brava, Miss Hawthorne. Show us all what you’re made of.”
Thorne steps forward, and for a split second I see that she’s nervous. But she masks it quickly and gives Jasmine a nod.
Jasmine waves her hand. A wave of magic rolls across the quad, and the obstacle course glows with sigils. The crowd leans forward, hungry for the spectacle but also desperate not to be next.
Thorne takes off at a run. She clears the first set of rope nets with ease, barely touching the ground, as if it were a normal gym class obstacle course.
For a second, it looks like she might actually ace this.
But the next obstacle is less innocent. The second trap is a barrage of flying glass shards, and she throws up a shield, but a couple still get through, slashing her arm.
Blood spatters the white snow, but Thorne doesn’t slow down.
The third section is a pit of writhing shadows. Thorne hesitates, then launches herself across, using her magic to form stepping stones out of frost and light. I’ll admit, it’s impressive.
But Jasmine isn’t here for impressive.
She’s here for carnage.
Halfway across, the stepping stones dissolve. Thorne plunges into the pit. The shadows wrap around her legs, biting and clawing.
“Hellspawn,” Soren murmurs. “Jasmine has invoked them and kept them hungry in the pit, by the look of it.”
Thorne screams, but she manages to claw her way out, blood streaking her face, hands torn. When she hits the ground, she’s shaking but still upright.
The crowd is deathly silent, all the color drained from their faces. But Jasmine is smiling, and even her familiar snake draped over her shoulders looks like he’s pleased.
Thorne staggers to one of the last obstacles, a stone ring etched with wards.
She’s supposed to get through the ring, and it looks easy enough after the pit of shadows.
Except as soon as she steps in, the wards flare, and she’s blasted back, hitting the ground hard. The air stinks of burnt skin and blood.
She tries again. Same result.
Blood is dripping from her nose now, and her left hand is twisted at a bad angle. But she tries a third time.
This time, she’s lifted right up off the ground and slammed viciously over the stones. She lets out a choked, broken sound, then collapses in a heap, unmoving.
Jasmine boos. Loudly. “Well, that was underwhelming.” She sighs. “If you’re all so terribly delicate, perhaps we’ll try again after lunch. Dismissed.”
The crowd scatters. Soren and Lucien flank me, but I shake them off before they can go all overprotective.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though my stomach is rolling. “I’m not Thorne’s biggest fan, but that was beyond hard to watch.”
Lucien gives me a searching look, but lets it drop. Soren squeezes my arm, then says he’ll be in his office if we need him.
I hang back, scanning the grounds
Thorne’s friends are gone. The faculty is gone. Jasmine and Ash are gone.
Thorne is not gone. She’s dragging herself toward the edge of the field, face and hands bloody, her shirt torn and splattered. She collapses against the wall, cradling her arm, teeth grinding against the pain.
I don’t want to get involved. Honestly, I don’t. But I’ve been the girl with nobody to help, and I can’t walk away, so I approach, slow. “You okay?” Which is stupid, she’s clearly not.
Thorne looks up, eyes glassy with pain. For a second she’s not an evil bitch, she’s just a girl, scared and hurting and alone.
She doesn’t answer.
I crouch beside her. “Let me see.”
She tries to jerk away, but the movement makes her groan. “Fuck off, Smith. I don’t need your help.”
I ignore her. Her hand is a mess, blood welling up from a deep gash, and her wrist is definitely broken. I don’t know why, but I reach out, pressing my hand gently over hers.
“Don’t move,” I mutter.
Thorne glares, but she’s trembling now, the adrenaline gone.
I focus, trying to remember what Ash said about magic, to stop thinking, just feel.
The power comes easily, like flipping a light switch on. Warmth flows from my hand into Thorne’s skin. The bleeding slows, the wound knits together, her bones shift under my fingers as the break mends itself. Gold light glimmers between our hands, but it’s faint enough not to draw attention.
Thorne gasps, her whole body going rigid.
“There,” I say. “You’ll probably want a boatload of painkillers tonight, but you’ll live.”
She stares at her hand, flexes it. The skin is bloody, but the injury is gone.
At first, I think she’s going to say thank you. For a half a second. Then I see her eyes narrow.
She rips her hand away, face twisted in disgust. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Always playing the main fucking character. Always pretending you’re better than everyone here.”
I blink. “You’re welcome?”
She wipes her nose with her good hand, then spits the words out like she just drank a mouthful of gasoline. “Fuck off, Charity Case. You’re the one who really needs help.”
She awkwardly drags herself to her feet, clutching her arm, and limps away.
I sit there for a second, feeling like an idiot.
So much for good deeds.
I brush my hands off and stand. “Hank,” I whisper as I duck behind the nearest pillar. “Now would be a great time to show up.”
There’s a soft pop, and then Hank is there. “Ribbit,” he says, hopping onto my shoulder.
I scratch under his chin because he likes that. “You know, Hank, you’re better than people.” Hank moves his little feet up and down in a little happy dance, clearly pleased.
We head for the library, cutting through the side corridors to avoid running into anyone. Inside, it’s quiet, seems nobody’s in the mood for studying when their classmates are getting turned into mincemeat on the quad.
Hank hops down from my shoulder to a table, then the floor, and takes off. For a frog, he’s got speed. I follow as he hops down the aisle, past rows of grimoires and spellbooks, all the way to the very back where the light from the windows doesn’t reach.
He pauses in front of a shelf, then hops up three times until he’s eye level with a thick, battered book.
Spectral Tethers and Soul Anchors
I stare at Hank. “For me?”
He blinks both eyes at me. “Ribbit.”
I pull the book down. It’s heavy, and as soon as I open it, the pages ripple with a weird energy that makes my mark tingle.
The table of contents is handwritten in ink that is now faded to a sepia color. I skim it until I see something that makes my breath catch.
‘Anchoring a Fading Spirit. Rebuilding Lost Connections. Rituals for Terminal Drifting.’
Oh, hell yes.
I glance at Hank. “You’re the best familiar a witch could ever ask for.”
“Ribbit,” he agrees, smug.
I clutch the book to my chest, and I’m filled with hope for the first time in days. Maybe I can actually help Drake. Maybe all this isn’t for nothing.
I hurry back to my room.