Page 21 of Reckless Witch

I turn and lock eyes with a dark-haired girl who can’t be more than fifteen. She’s staring as if she knows me.

“Do I know you?” I ask. I’m sure I don’t, but what does a person say to someone who blatantly stares?

Her eyes darken with distaste before she whirls and hurries away. I sigh. It’s anyone’s guess as to why the kid doesn’t like me. Because my name showed up on the Stone under all four clans, or because I’m Miriam Crowe’s granddaughter? These last seven years, I’ve been a loner, not an outcast. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

I find room four ten. My room is a far sight better than my futon mattress with garbage-variety lawn furniture. This place is something you’d upload on Pinterest. Dark, geometric patterned carpets cover the floor. The twin bed has plump, canvas throw pillows. One wall is a chalkboard covered floor to ceiling with symbols and welcome messages from other students. I wonder if the students knew they were welcoming a Crowe. The desk is an artful twist of gray steel. I slide my gaze past the closet where a dozen hangers are filled with clothes, to a rack where knives hang beside— Are those real swords?

I reach the wall in three steps and pull the short sword and its leather scabbard from the wall mounting. With care, I draw the blade. Celtic writing runs down the center of each side of the blade. Roman Celtic, I bet. The blade is hefty and—I carefully test the edge with a thumb—sharp as a razor. What the hell? On a shelf above the knives lay a bow and a quiver of arrows. These aren’t cheap target-practice arrows. These steel bolts are meant to kill. I swallow.

At a knock on the door, I shove the sword back into its wall sheath. “Come in.”

“Just visiting,” Fran’s cheerful voice sounds through the crack. She pushes the door open and steps inside, her nose wrinkling in a smile beneath those sparkly eyes of hers. “I saw you after orientation, but you disappeared. I was afraid something had happened.”

Well…something had. I shift my gaze back to the sword as I recall Ethan’s hard cock against my backside. Somehow, I don’t think that’s what Fran meant.

“Nice sword,” Fran says as she follows my line of sight. “I didn’t get one.”

I lift a brow. “They’re not standard issue?”

“The Commanders assess each students’ strengths to find the best weapons match.” She grins as she plops down on my bed. “I got a chakram when I arrived last year.” When I just stare at her, she adds, “Think of it as a razor disc.”

I shrug. “I’m still confused. What’s with the weaponry?”

“In preparation for the return of The Shadows.”

Fear coils in my stomach. Physical weapons are powerless against The Shadows. The weapons are defense against those of our kind who become so infected with The Shadows’ darkness that they turn on one another like rabid dogs. Some people still talk about Elijah Walker, a vampire crime boss in New York, who fed on The Shadows and, for nearly a year, ruled the criminal underworld with an iron fist, unlike any crime boss New York had ever seen.

The infection spread by The Shadows empowers those who practice the dark arts. Elijah employed a witch by the name of Jessica Bailey who trapped Shadows and used them to spread fear and hatred to their advantage. People like Elijah and Jessica were as bad as The Shadows. They were killed by Watchmen, the Special Forces of Margidda. I shudder and wonder if Elijah and Jessica become Shadow hybrids.

I cross to my desk where a black, ringed binder called New Student Information sits. I open the binder and see a syllabus on page one. Reaping Preparedness is my first class tomorrow morning.

I look at Fran. “What’s Reaping Preparedness?’

“The first class all new students get. It’s the bare bones of what to expect should the Reaping take us.”

The Reaping—an ancient, twisted version of the Olympics that separates those capable of fighting from those who aren’t. Whoever set that spell—no, curse—into motion was one twisted sorcerer. Many speculate over who created the powerful magic that snatches Illumina students every twenty years or so and drops them into an alternate reality that tests their metal against The Shadows. Just another reason not to be here. I shake off the thought. I’m here to find out what happened to Grams.

“The last Reaping was five years ago,” I say. “I don’t plan on being here another fifteen years. Do you?”

Fran laughs and grabs a canvas pillow to prop beneath her head. “You never know when it might hit.” Her eyes cloud. “Last year, I met someone who was taken in the last Reaping. They were…not quite well.”

I’d heard similar rumors of people who returned from the Reaping as different people. Whatever mage set the Reaping in motion all those centuries ago had to have been one sick puppy.

I return my attention to the syllabus. Defense Magic. Battle Magic. Potions. Mage History. War Games. I look at the date, which is nine days from now.

“War Games?” I murmur.

“They’re a big deal,” Fran says. “Alumni come from all over to participate. Some who fought in The Shadow War come. It’s loads of fun. The Academy does something different every year. That way, past students can’t give current students a heads up.”

I look at her. “How do you know so much about all this stuff?”

“This is my third semester.”

“Oh, I thought you were a freshman. Sorry.”

She shrugs. “No biggie.”

“There were quite a few freshmen,” I say. “I guess there are a lot of High Potentials.”