Page 25 of Crashing Tides

I frown, glance down at my scribbled notes. My last partner was happy to rant at me, so I start. “Yeah. Um, I guess it was predicted by, um, Johnny the Great? A guy who lived in, um, the sewers under London? He was a prophet, right?”

He drums his fingers on the desk. “Why do you ask it like a question?”

Abruptly, I’m angry. I hate all of this. I hate this exercise, I hate this entire school, and I hate that I’m too stupid to keep up with basic academic discussions. The retort bursts from me like a spray of acid. “Don’t be a dick. This is all new to me.”

This catches him off guard. His brows draw together. “New? How is it new?”

Instead of punching him in his stupid, handsome face, I force myself to take a deep breath. “Because… I didn’t know all of this existed until a couple months ago?”

It comes out like a question. I brace for his response, but it’s not what I expect.

“That sounds traumatic.” There’s something off about his tone, but his expression, red and odd though it may be, is genuine.

Why is he like this? I take another deep breath, try to extend an olive branch. Maybe if I’m friendly, he’ll chill out. “It was a shock.” Shock doesn’t even begin to cover it, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I knew there was something off about my mom, but I didn’t know what it was, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, totally,” says Duncan. At my raised eyebrow, he adds, “OK, so I don’t know, but I’ve heard stories.”

I cross my arms.

He adds, inexplicably, “Horrible stories.”

What the fuck? Who says stuff like this? I laugh, flummoxed. “That’s not reassuring.”

And OK, maybe he’s finally gotten the message, because he pauses, frowns down at his hands a long moment, then looks back up at me. I still haven’t uncrossed my arms.

“Have you been to the resource center?” he asks abruptly, and OK, I was right not to trust him. “I think they have to give you pamphlets and stuff.”

There is no fucking pamphlet that could save me from the total shock of Halea. Possibly, under other circumstances, I could appreciate the sentiment, but not right now. I sigh, suddenly exhausted. “Yeah,” I say. “That was the first place I went.”

It wasn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.

The buzzer sounds.

Duncan Stirling leaps from his seat and bolts out the door.

My stomach is in knots the rest of the day.

Chapter

Nine

From then on, I have no idea what to make of Duncan. Every time I see him, my stomach twists, my heart pounds, and on more than one occasion, I have the weird urge to sniff him. Luckily, we’re never close enough for me to act on that compulsion, but it’s still humiliating. I don’t think I’ve ever intentionally sniffed someone I wasn’t dating, and it kind of freaks me out when we pass in the hallway and I suddenly want to smash my entire face into his hair and inhale.

I’m pretty sure I don’t have a scent kink. Duncan definitely wasn’t wearing cologne when I last saw him, but even if he was, I wouldn’t have cared. There’s no reason for any of this.

At least, not that I can think of.

A week later, he sits behind me in History. I have to breathe through my mouth. My focus is shot already, but his presence makes it worse. A long morning in the gym, a longer night spent studying, and an hour-long conversation with my Aunt Gretchen has ensured that I’m barely able to keep my eyes open. I have a test in Prophecy and Prediction that I’m definitely going to fail. Hours of study won’t save me from the fact that I can’t seem to tap into my intuition when I most need it: during class. No matter how I quiet my mind or try to focus, I can’t seem to stop seeing all the same things: a terrible storm over the sea and Duncan Stirling’s stupid face.

At least that stupid face is behind me, where I can’t fixate on it.

Today, he’s wearing a crisp, white button up shirt with black slacks and a wristwatch that doesn’t double as a pedometer, which means it’s probably expensive. His hair is neatly arranged so that his bangs sweep to one side of his forehead. He’s clean shaven, bright-eyed, almost feverish when he ducks into the seat behind me. On the other side of the classroom, Felix Cervantes twists around to scowl at us. I nibble on the eraser of my pencil and remind myself that I have every right to be here. That I can’t control what Duncan does.

But I can feel him sitting there, and it makes me nauseous.

Dr Ward paces across the room. We’re discussing magic and the Industrial Revolution, a topic that should be interesting but so far has me on the verge of dozing. “While it was suggested that factories could be made cleaner with the use of magic, the risk of exhaustion was considered too great, so the idea was discarded. Can anyone remind me of the proposed solutions?”

Her gaze sweeps across the room. I think back to the assigned reading, but all I can remember are the debates around the subject, not anything resembling a real solution.