Page 59 of Wicked Bonds
Everyone turns to stare at me. I haven’t heard a word of whatever she’s been saying.
“It’s very… orange,” I offer.
The witches roll their eyes, and Harry titters. Thorne’s smile could strip paint.
“Orange is traditional,” she says slowly, like she’s explaining to a toddler. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”
I should keep my mouth shut. Should just nod and smile and get through this. But something about her tone, about the way they’re all looking at me.
“I think,” I say, “that we’re decorating for a holiday that commemorates the thinning of the veil between life and death at a school where the students are supposed to be witches but they’re using fake fog when we have actual magic, and arguing about color palettes and journey mapping, whatever the fuck that means, like it matters when some of us are just trying to survive.”
The silence that follows is spectacular.
Thorne recovers quickly, her composure snapping back into place like elastic. “Well. Someone’s clearly overwhelmed. Perhaps you should take a break. We wouldn’t want another of your incidents.”
The fountain. She’s talking about the fountain.
“You know what? You’re right.” I set down the extension cord I’m holding. “I’m overwhelmed. I’m taking that break.”
“You can’t just leave,” one of the Thorne’s friends protests. “Mrs. Bright said?—”
“Mrs. Bright said mandatory participation. She didn’t say how long.” I check my phone. “I’ve participated for two hours. That seems more than sufficient considering.”
I head for the door before anyone can argue. Behind me, Thorne’s voice rises, “This is exactly what happens when they let just anyone into this academy.”
I turn back, one hand on the doorframe. “You’re right about that too. They really should have higher standards. Harry, for instance, probably shouldn’t have made it past the entrance. What with Harry’s inability to grasp basic grammar and logic.”
Harry’s face goes red. “Harry is standing right here!”
I leave them to their fog machines and fairy lights, stepping out into the hallway where the air doesn’t smell like privilege and pumpkin spice.
Two hours of my life I’ll never get back. Two hours I could have spent searching for the hidden chamber, finding the original Accord, trying to save my own life instead of hanging fake cobwebs with people who’d step over my corpse to get to the refreshment table.
But I’m free now. And I’ve got a map to study.
Twenty-Eight
Rose
I drag my boot through the dirt again, leaving another furrow between the rose bushes and whatever these purple things are supposed to be. Asters, maybe. Or chrysanthemums. If it wasn’t already obvious, I don’t have much of a green thumb despite the fact that I’m supposed to be connected to nature and the earth. The flower garden sprawls around me in neat, planned plots, every bloom perfectly placed, and the late afternoon sun makes everything glow golden. It makes sense that the Serpentine Academy would have a spectacular garden, students here really do get the best of everything. Some students. Others unfortunately get to forcibly donate their life force to keep the lights on.
Twenty minutes go by while I’m pacing this same section, phone in one hand, the other pressed against various spots on the ground, which is probably pointless. What am I going to do, grab a shovel and dig a tunnel to a hidden room? Probably not. But I don’t know how else to look. The map shows the hidden chamber directly beneath where I’m standing. Somewhereunder all these flowers and perfectly manicured paths is the original Accord, the first blood contract that started this whole nightmare.
I crouch down, pressing my hand flat against the earth between two rose bushes. Their thorns catch on my sleeve as I lean forward, and I yank my arm free with enough force that one thorn draws blood. Great. A blood sacrifice to the garden. Maybe that’ll open the mystical door. I’m a little disappointed when nothing happens, but it was never going to be that easy, right?
I try to feel for magic the way Soren taught in those shielding classes, reaching out with whatever witchy senses I’m supposed to have. There’s magic here, sure. The whole academy is lousy with it. But nothing that screamssecret chamber containing documents that could save your life.
Come on.
I move to another spot. This time I get on my knees, not caring that the ground is wet from where it was watered recently. I press both hands down, close my eyes, and try to channel whatever freaky natural magic made those water spirits listen to me at the fountain.
The ground remains stubbornly ground-like. No secret passages, no magical doors, no convenient X-marks-the-spot. Just dirt and worms and the roots of flowers that someone else will probably get to enjoy for years after I’m dead.
I check the map again, zooming in until the pixels blur. Maybe I’m reading it wrong. Maybe the garden moved. Maybe Wickersly’s map is deliberately misleading. Maybe I’m an idiot for thinking I could just walk out here and find something that’s been hidden for centuries.
The bloodmark throbs, always reminding me that I’ve got a countdown. Two years. Probably less if I keep pulling stunts like breaking into the Headmistress’s office. Every day that passes is one day closer to the Coven draining me dry, and here I am, playing treasure hunter in the flower beds.
I stand up, brushing dirt off my knees, and walk to the other side of the garden section. There’s a stone bench here, its surface worn smooth by generations of asses. I run my hands along the edges, checking for hidden switches or magical triggers. Nothing.
