Page 25 of Wicked Ends
Thirteen
Rose
The next morning, the quad is packed. Someone has cleared the snow, leaving a muddy, scarred battlefield in front of the main building. On the second floor balcony, Jasmine Wickersly presides like Catherine the Great, surveying the crowd below her.
Helena did mandatory assemblies. Apparently, our new headmistress prefers mandatory bloodsport.
Soren and Lucien are on either side of me, and Lucien looks like he’s two seconds from bodily throwing me over his shoulder and running for the hills. Soren is quieter than usual, which is disconcerting. I’m used to being annoyed by his banter, this silence makes me nervous.
On the quad, the first of Jasmine’s so-called trials is already underway. Dueling, no spells off-limits. The first two idiots to volunteer are rich boys from the Crescent Moon legacy line, both of whom have more brawn than brains, and their magic is all for show, sparks and posturing and macho bravado. The first blastknocks one of them flat on his ass, the other laughs, and then the real violence starts.
“Is this allowed?” I mutter.
Soren grimaces. “No rules. As per Headmistress Wickersly.”
On the balcony, Jasmine lounges against the balustrade, bored at first, but as the blood starts to flow she perks up. She’s got a drink in hand, it’s even got a little pink umbrella in it. Every so often, she says something to the snake wrapped around her neck.
I watch the fight, wincing every time a particularly brutal blow lands. The two boys are going at it hard, one of them bleeding from a gash on his cheek, and the crowd eats it up. I spot Thorne near the front, her blonde hair tightly braided, arms folded, eyes like icebergs. She’s loving every second of this. Harry stands beside her, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly not enjoying this half as much as Thorne.
The duel ends when one of the boys, let’s call him Chad, because I can’t for the life of me remember his actual name, lands a direct hit to the other’s face. There’s a sickening crunch, and blood spatters the snow. Chad raises his arms in victory, but he’s shaking, and his lip is split wide open. The loser doesn’t get up. Two faculty members drag him away, leaving a trail of red in the mud and snow.
There’s a hush as Jasmine raises her hand for silence.
“Is that all?” she calls, voice amplified by nothing but pure, uncut crazy. “I was told this school was special. I was expecting a show.” She leans forward, the snake flicking its tongue at the crowd. “Next!”
The crowd stirs, nervous. No one wants to be next, but no one wants to look like a coward, either.
Thorne is the first to step forward. “I’ll go,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Jasmine claps, delighted. “Ah! Super!” She surveys the crowd. “Who will face her?”
For a moment, no one moves. I see the calculation on every face, wondering if they should dare. Thorne is good. Really good. No one wants to be on the receiving end of her power.
Jasmine raises a hand and points her finger at a second girl, a wispy thing with dark hair and a mouth set in a hard line. The girl unwillingly steps forward.
Thorne and the other girl square off, boots sinking into the muddy earth. There’s no warning or hesitation, just an explosion of magic. Thorne goes on the offensive immediately, her spells sharp and brutal. The other girl holds her ground, deflecting and parrying, but it’s clear who’s winning.
Jasmine is riveted. She leans forward, resting her chin on her crossed arms above the balustrade, eyes never leaving Thorne.
Lucien watches too, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Soren leans in, whispering in my ear. “You think she’s compensating for something?”
“Like what?”
“Tiny, tiny heart.”
Thorne’s duel is a massacre. She toys with her opponent, then lands a hit that sends the girl skidding across the quad. The crowd gasps. The girl tries to get up, but Thorne is already onher, pinning her to the ground with a binding spell that looks like it’s hurting.
“Finish it!” Jasmine calls, and Thorne obliges.
The spell she uses leaves the girl writhing on the ground, clutching her head and screaming. Blood leaks from her ears, staining the snow red. Faculty rush in to pull her away, but Thorne stands there, soaking in the applause.
Jasmine is ecstatic. She throws her head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the walls. The snake uncoils itself and slithers down her arm.
Thorne walks off the field, face flushed, hair still perfect. She locks eyes with me as she passes, and there’s nothing there, nothing at all to suggest she feels anything but good about what she just did. No empathy, no regret. Just triumph.
Jasmine calls the next pair, but the mood has shifted. The next duel is lackluster, two terrified boys who barely know how to throw a hex. Jasmine loses interest quickly.
After a few more matches, Jasmine stands. “That’s enough for today. I’m not impressed. Maybe tomorrow you’ll do better.” She sweeps her gaze over the crowd, and for a split second, her eyes land on me, and she smiles.
