Page 75 of Rogue Witch

I laugh. “That damned Wall named you, too, huh?”

“No, I was named an honorary student.”

“What? Honorary student? I thought all Academy students had to be named by the wall.” That had been my misfortune. Though there had been several other names named with me. I have yet to understand why.

“It used to be that an honorary student might be named every few years,” he says. “But now a student is chosen about once a year. I think it’s politics. You know, the powers that be notice someone with strong powers who hasn’t been named by the wall and”—he shrugs—“they induct us into the school. I always wondered if your grandmother brought me to the attention of The Academy.”

“Grams?” I frown. “Why would she do that?”

His brows lift. “I’m a pretty powerful warlock, if you recall.”

“Maybe,” I say with a laugh. I still find it odd that she might do that, but don’t say so.

He stands. “You up for grabbing a bite to eat?”

I hesitate, struck by a sense of déjà vu that makes my surroundings spin for an instant.

“You okay?” he asks.

I stand and, thankfully, the feeling has passed. “I’m great. Where do you want to go?”

“I know this great Korean place. You still have a leather jacket?”

Seton and I ride his bike. I tighten my arms wrapped around his waist as he takes a curve on the rural road. It feels as if we’ve been riding for less than a minute, but I know it’s been at least twenty minutes. I’m wearing the leather jacket I had when I lived with Grams, though I can’t quite place how that’s possible. I lost that jacket a year after I left New York. Seton feels so familiar, yet there’s something missing I can’t quite identify. I shake off the feeling. All that matters is that my friend is here with me.

We round the curve and I catch sight of two guys and a woman walking on the side of the road up ahead. Another déjà vu washes over me and I claw at the images that feel so close but remain out of reach. I hate déjà vu. I never see the images clearly, but the sense of familiarity often drives me to distraction. It’s like an itch I can’t quite reach.

We near the people and I tense. I know these people. Of all the roads in all of Westchester County, why did they have to take this one? Seton and I had a run-in with these shifters down in New York City about a month before Grams kicked me out. That was seven years ago. Maybe they won’t recognize me. Even as the thought forms, I realize what a fool I am. They aren’t likely ever to forget me.

I lean close to Seton’s ear and shout over the roar of the motorcycle, “Turn around.”

He ignores me—just as he’d done last time. We near them and they don’t bother to look back or get off the road but walk side-by-side as if they own the road. Just like most fools who walk on the roads out here.

Seton veers far left and maneuvers around them. I look into the righthand mirror. The girl’s head turns enough that I know she’s looking in our direction. She points and shouts something.

The three of them launch into a run and, in seconds, they’ve shifted and are racing after us. I swear, I can hear Seton laugh. That’s like him. He’s cocky as hell and loves stirring up trouble. I watch in the mirror as the wolves draw closer. I glance over Seton’s shoulder at the speedometer. He’s slowed to thirty-five.

Fuck.

Shifter wolves are fast as hell. A strong wolf can rival a cheetah at sixty miles an hour or more. We take a left-turning curve and I hug close to Seton as we lean into the curve. I watch in the mirror as the wolves veer off the road to our left on an intercept course. We round the curve and the wolves race across open ground to our left. Anger whips through me. After seven years, they’re still angry because we didn’t let them steal our wallets.

“Mother fuckers,” I mutter. I lean against Seton’s back and say in his ear, “They intend to cut us off.”

He nods and, to my surprise, picks up speed. They run faster as we approach the intercept point. On the open road, a motorcycle can outrun a shifter any day. On two-lane, curvy rural roads, they have a real chance of catching us. Fuck this shit.

“Slow down,” I tell Seton.

He glances over his shoulder and I nod. He shrugs and slows down. I envision a mirror likeness of Seton and I on his motorcycle and chant,

“Mirror, mirror on the road,

“Who’s the fastest of them all?”

As our mirror image separates from us, I whisper, “Cloak of invisibility shield us from their eyes.”

The wolves keep running as if to intercept the mirror image of us.

I grin. “Dumbasses.”