Page 38 of Bone Year

I try to focus on the professor’s desk at the front, on the strange instruments across its surface, on the diagrams covering the walls, but my attention keeps slipping.

I glance back once.

Draven is three rows behind me, slouched on his bench with his arms crossed. He’s not looking at the front of the room. He’s not looking at his notebook or the other students settling into their seats.

He’s looking at me.

Our eyes meet for a single, charged second. His expression gives nothing away. No smirk. Just that steady, unblinking gaze, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m made of.

I turn back around, my heart beating a little faster.

Whatever Draven Alucard is hiding behind those walls, I get the feeling it’s darker than anything I’ve seen at Ashwell so far.

And the stupid, reckless part of me wants to break them down.

Chapter Eleven

“The Upper Veil did not create angels to be kind. It created them to endure. Kindness, if it comes at all, is a choice they make despite themselves.”

— Professor Cane, Fracture and Form

Professor Cane breezes into the room like she’s late to a garden party rather than a lecture, her curly brown hair piled loosely on top of her head and held in place by what appears to be a paintbrush. Silver rings adorn nearly every finger, and her flowing emerald-green dress looks more suited for a summer festival than a classroom in the frozen north.

She’s fae. I can tell by the pointed ears peeking through her curls and the way she moves, fluid and unhurried, like time is something that happens to other people. Her face is heart shaped and lovely with laugh lines around her eyes and a mouth that suggest she smiles often. If I had to guess, I’d put her somewhere in her fifties, though with fae that could mean anything.

“Hello, my darlings,” she says, dropping an armful of books and scrolls onto her desk with a dramatic thud. “Welcome to Fracture and Form. I’m Professor Cane, and I’ll be the one putting you back together when the other professors inevitably break you.”

A few students laugh nervously.

“Every week we will be covering a different bloodline. You can’t heal what you don’t know, and I’m going to make sure you know everything there is about each bloodline, including humans.” She perches on the edge of her desk, crossing her legs and letting one embroidered slipper dangle from her foot. “This week we’re starting with angels. Gorgeous creatures. Terrible patients. Very particular about their wings. We’ll get into all of that, but first I need a volunteer.”

Her eyes scan the room, bright and mischievous.

“An angel volunteer specifically. Don’t be shy. I promise I won’t bite.” She chews her lip. “Well, not in class anyway.”

More nervous laughter. I feel Jace tense beside me.

“You there.” Cane points directly at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. “The handsome one with the silver wings. Perfect. Come down here, darling.”

Jace resigns himself to the inevitable and stands. I watch him descend the tiered rows toward the front of the room, his wings folded tight against his back like he’s trying to make himself smaller, but he’s too tall, too broad, too obviously an angel to blend in anywhere.

“Don’t look so nervous,” Cane says as he reaches her. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m simply going to use you.”

She gestures for him to turn around and face the class.

“Name?”

“Jace.” His voice is steady, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.

“Lovely. Now then, Jace. Extend your left wing for me. All the way, darling, don’t be modest.”

His wing unfurls slowly, stretching out to its full span, and I realize I’ve never seen him do this before. Not fully. The feathers are pale silver, almost white, layered over each other like armor made of moonlight. The wing itself is enormous, easily six feet from his shoulder to the tip.

“Beautiful,” Cane murmurs and shifts closer, running her fingers along the upper edge where feathers meet flesh. Jace flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away, and I have to put a hand over my mouth to keep from giggling.

“Pay attention, darlings.” Her voice shifts, still warm but with an edge of authority beneath it. “This is not decoration. This is not for flight, not primarily. An angel’s wing is a weapon, a shield, and a warning system all in one.”

She traces a line down the wing’s leading edge. “Thirty-seven bones in each wing. More than your entire arm and hand combined. Every single one of them can fracture under the right conditions.”