Page 19 of A Taste of Torment
Demons from the royal line of Oriziah, like Jarron and Trevor.
And Sphinx, which haven’t been seen on Earth for two centuries.
Which is why I’m almost certain my culprit is a demon.
A bonding like that can make a human supernatural. But they’ll never be as powerful, like my sister seems to claim in her journal.He knows how to make me one of the most powerful creatures in this world.
He lied to her. I don’t even know how he could have convinced her of this. We know very well that a bonding does not make the two parties equal. It’s a small river of magic connecting the two. Small bits of magic. Bonding with an immensely powerful being like Jarron would have made her strong. Very strong, compared to a human. She could stand against a vampire, probably, but not a strong shifter or nearly any high fae.
She knew this. We were taught this many times.
So, what could he have said to make her believe otherwise? That, somehow, he couldascend her—a term usually only used by fanatic humans obsessed with magical beings. Fanatics that worship vampires and become their blood bags willingly just for the chance that they might be turned. Fanatics that follow fae around like groupies.
The termascendimplies supernaturals are a higher form of being. It implies everything I’ve always hated about the magical world.
They believe humans are a lesser form of being.
They believe magic makes them more worthy.
Screw that. And screw them for believing it.
I lie back in my bed and stare at the uneven beige ceiling. Whoever brainwashed my sister and then killed her is going to know what it feels like to be helpless. If it’s the last thing I do.
8
The Right Tools
“Potions,”the willowy professor drawls dramatically, “is an underrated portion of magic in this world. Hop across a portal to the Radial Plane and you’ll find a society in which those gifted in potion making are regarded as spiritual leaders and even gifted by the gods.”
I shift in my seat, inwardly groaning. Another day of sitting through dragged-out lectures. Every instructor feels the need to give an inspirational speech defending their passion for their subject.
This teacher is a witch, with tattoos all the way up her stick-thin arms and her hair twisted into an intricate updo of braids. The wall behind her is faux brick, covered in shelves stacked to the ceiling with jars of hundreds of different magical ingredients—some of them still living.
All right, so it’s a little different from human school.
In a human school, I’d be wearing a white lab coat and eye protection. The walls would be solid white and the tables cold metal.
Here, I’m in a dark room instead of bright white, the tables are made of stone and our experiments are completed in copper cauldrons instead of beakers and Bunsen burners.
“There tends to be a fundamental misunderstanding of what potion making is,” the teacher continues, pacing back and forth at the front of the room. “It is not only medicinal, and it is not only for the weak. The purpose is not to make up for some perceived lacking but to expand our understanding of how different forms of matter interact and how those interactions can be used to create great change.”
She stops and whips around to face the class. “Potions is the breeding between art and science.”
“And magic,” someone mutters.
The teacher freezes, a horrified expression on her face. After a long, awkward beat, she begins a short walk down the aisle, passes my row, and stops next to a boy with thick arms and plump lips. “What did you want to add?” she asks softly.
He grimaces. “Nothing. Just—”
“Yes?”
“Potions is magic too. That’s all.”
“I see. Please defend your assertion.”
The boy’s eyebrows rise. “It’s a form of magic?”
“Theoretically.”
