Page 26 of Wicked Bonds
When it’s over, my closet has a meager but functional array of clothes—all black, all practical, all things I would actually wear. Mostly jeans, tees, hoodies, two leather jackets and a pair of steel-toe boots that I actually kind of love.
Mrs. Bright surveys the work with a poker face, but I can tell she is personally offended by the lack of color or variety.
“You may wish to diversify your options,” she says. “It is customary to have at least one outfit for formal occasions. Perhaps a dress.”
I don’t reply, and she gives up.
She turns on her heel, then hesitates at the door. “If you need further assistance, do not hesitate to contact me,” she says. Her eyes linger on the shelf where the succulent sits, three leaves left.
She exits in a rush of floral perfume, leaving me alone with my new wardrobe and a faint sense of accomplishment.
I run a hand along the clothes. It’s the most I’ve ever owned at one time. It feels weird that my mom can’t see this.
I try not to think about it. Instead, I pick out an outfit for the day, black jeans, black t-shirt, black hoodie (what else) and get dressed. I lace up the boots.
If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well look like myself.
Breakfast in the dining hall is quieter on weekends, but there’s still a crowd, and most of the students look like they were raised by a pack of wolves, judging by their table manners. Come to think of it, maybe they are wolves. I’m still figuring out what everyone ‘is’ here. The food options, however, are better today, and there are trays of actual pastries, a bin of bagels, and carafes of coffee that smells delicious. I grab two chocolate croissants and a cup of black coffee, then duck out before anyone thinks I want to join their table (no, thank you, not in a million years).
I take my haul to the quad, where a row of old oaks still holds on to the last gold and orange leaves of fall. The sun is uncharacteristically strong for this late in the year, and the warmth on my face feels like a gift after the last few days. I pick a bench at the far edge, near a stone wall, and settle in.
The croissant is perfectly flaky and buttery, with rich, melting chocolate, just like you can get in a patisserie. Not that I’ve been to anything fancier than a Starbucks, but it’s what I’d imagine a patisserie croissant would taste like. For five minutes, I let myself eat it slowly, eyes closed, pretending I’m in Paris and not trapped in a supernatural prison pretending like it’s a regular college. The coffee is hot and bitter enough to shock me awake, and the combination makes me briefly euphoric. I don’t know if this is a side effect of the bloodmark, but I suddenly want to hoard these tiny pleasures, like some kind of doomsday prepper of joy.
A breeze rattles the dry leaves and brings with it the ever-present scent of pine and wood smoke. I tip my face up, soaking in the moment, which is why I don’t see Thorne and her entourage until they’re basically right in front of me.
She’s wearing pleated trousers and a preppy pink sweater, her hair artfully pushed back in a headband with a bow. For aminute I picture Mrs. Bright clapping her hands in approval at Thorne’s wardrobe conjuring choices. Thorne’s friends trail behind, including the girl with the ruined hair from Elemental class (now dyed dark blue in a failed attempt at damage control). Thorne looks me over, as if considering whether I qualify as a new species of insect, but she doesn’t say anything. Not out loud, anyway. Her face speaks volumes.
I raise my coffee cup in a silent toast. She sneers, then flounces off to what I’m guessing is the cool kids side of the quad, where a bunch of witches and two boys who might be vampires are hanging out. They all turn and stare at me, but I ignore it. I have pastries and no fucks to give.
I finish breakfast and start wandering the grounds, careful not to get too close to the forest edge, which is marked by a series of iron posts with signs warning about ‘hazardous areas.’ The gardens are wild but beautiful, with tall hedges and patches of long-stemmed roses. There’s a greenhouse, locked and glowing faintly green, and a pond where three ducks paddle in circles. I briefly wonder if they’re in my classes, before deciding no, they’re just regular old garden-variety waterfowl. I circle the perimeter, mapping out the campus in my mind, where all the landmarks are like the main building, the dorms, staff cottages, a weird stone mausoleum that is, according to the plaque, ‘for ceremonial use only’.
Most of the other students are in pairs or clumps, moving with the purpose of people who belong there. I recognize a few from my classes, but nobody bothers me. I like it that way. After twenty minutes, I end up back on the quad, this time sprawled on the grass with my arms behind my head and my hoodie pulled up to block the light.
I let myself drift, eyes half-shut, listening to the dull hum of the campus. Somewhere, someone is playing the violin. There’s a whistle of wind, a shout, a girl’s laughter. For a moment, it’s almost normal. Not good, but not actively terrible, either.
I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to stay here, to make it through the year without getting murdered by the Coven or devoured by a demon or whatever other fate the Accord has in store. I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking, but it’s better than nothing.
I fall asleep like that, the ground cool but the sun on my face warm, pretending, just for a little while, that I could belong here for a bit.
Fourteen
Rose
I spend most of Sunday in the library, partly because I need to work on the essay Doc assigned after I almost burned the school down, and partly because it’s the only building on campus where you can’t hear the constant screaming of the banshees practicing for choir.
The library is huge, and one part of the academy where the interior matches the exterior, with stained-glass windows, large, polished wooden tables that could seat twenty, and towering bookshelves. The librarian is a woman who never seems to leave her seat, but every time you try to sneak a snack (like the second croissant I saved for later), she materializes behind you with a garbage pail and a look of disappointment. I find a spot near the back, behind a stack of books about magical responsibilities, and try to be invisible.
I get two pages into my essay before my brain grinds to a halt. The topic is supposed to be about how witches owe it to the world not to misuse their talents, but the only thing I can thinkof is how, aside from my mother, all the so-called responsible witches I’ve met have been complete assholes. I try to phrase that in a way that won’t get me a failing grade on my paper, but give up after the third revision.
I look around. There’s no sign of Lucien, or Soren, or even Drake. I haven’t seen any of them all weekend. Not that I miss being stalked by a vampire, but it’s weirdly disappointing to be this alone.
After a couple hours, I gather a pile of books—they actually had some decent fiction—and make my way back toward the dorms. The hallways are mostly empty, except for a few students slinking around, and that black cat that seems to be everywhere and yet nowhere when you turn to look at him.
I’m two doors away from my room when someone blocks my path. Harry, from Elemental class. He’s with three of his friends, all of them built like linebackers and sporting identical buzz cuts. They form a wall in front of me.
“Hey, Charity,” Harry calls.
Oh great. Thorne’s stupid nickname has caught on.
