Page 1 of Darkbirch Academy (Darkbirch Academy #1)

A t Darkbirch, they taught us early: light illuminates the surface, but darkness touches what light never dares. While most mages train to purify, we learn to tempt, twist, control.

I stand atop the highest turret of Heathborne Academy’s castle, feeling the night’s icy wind against my skin.

I pull out a tiny, ivy-green tablet from my cloak pocket and swallow it.

My tongue, throat, and stomach burn unpleasantly for several heartbeats, but it has the desired effect.

My whole body becomes nimble, supple, and I can manipulate myself into the narrow space of a nearby chimney’s opening, the way a contortionist could only dream of doing.

I slide down the cramped chute, my body deforming further. I admit I’m glad I can’t see myself because I’d probably give myself nightmares. Which, I promise, is hard to do.

When I reach the base of the chimney, I crawl unsteadily out of a cold fireplace. I pull another lozenge out of my pocket—this one crimson—and swallow it. The limbs of my body slowly strengthen and normalize.

I cast my eyes around the chamber in which I’ve emerged: the first hall of Heathborne’s cherished library. I get up and walk quietly toward the exit. This isn’t the room I’m here for. Clearblood books—or books for “good magicals,” as they like to think of themselves—are mostly trash anyway.

I peer around the library’s towering, arched doorway.

Dim lanterns line the wide corridor outside, but it is empty, as expected at one in the morning.

The plush burgundy carpets soften my footsteps, and I speed up to a jog until I reach the end of the corridor where a narrow doorway awaits.

It leads to a coiling service staircase.

I take it quickly, tracking the turns, every sense alert as I descend.

All semblance of comfort vanishes when I reach the ground floor and I’m left with bare stone walls and floors. I prefer it down here. No softness, no lies.

Before me stands a granite door with an iron lock. Of course, I expected it to be secured. What cell isn’t?

I reach for the mini knife in my belt and unsheathe it. I glance briefly at its pointed tip, satisfied with the amount of pitch-black firegrease smeared on it, and thrust it into the keyhole. The lock clicks a few seconds later and gives way like softened wax. I shove the door open.

A deafening siren shatters the silence.

I curse under my breath.

That… complicates things.

They evidently upped security after our last break-in.

Oh, well. We can do this the hard way.

I pound down the stone stairwell with no further regard for the noise I make. I can’t even hear my breathing with the blaring siren. Though, I wish they had been a little more creative—it sounds like they borrowed this from a retail store. Like, how about a wailing banshee or a screaming ghost?

Speaking of spirits… I pause for a moment to utter my favorite chant, which my grandmother taught me. All the dim lights go out and the air becomes deathly cold.

I smile a little.

They’ll have a nice surprise when they come through that door.

I proceed down the rest of the steps, using the light from a thin flashlight in my belt, and find the final door I’m seeking at the bottom. I use my little blade to open this one, too.

I ignore the second set of alarms this breach sets off, but wish I brought my earmuffs. I doubt Heathborne’s health and safety team reviewed these systems.

Inside the next chamber is my destination.

Hulking in one corner is a sorry sight. And I admit my heart hurts a little.

My younger brother, Jax Salem, slouches in a chair, his arms suspended by chains so he can barely rest, although I see that he tries.

A fire lights in my veins as I see what they’ve done to him.

“Esme, what the hell?” he croaks upon noticing me. His raven-black hair is slick with sweat and it sounds like he hasn’t drunk anything for at least twelve hours. His face is more purplish than pale and his clothes are in shreds, revealing deep cuts that crisscross his muscular chest.

It’s a good thing I arrived now. Much longer and they would have grown tired of torturing him for information.

“You mean what took me so long?” I ask. I look into his storm-cloud gray eyes that mirror my own, and shrug. “Corvin thought you might be able to get yourself out.”

Irritation flashes across his face at the mention of our head trainer. “It’s because of him that?—”

“Talk later,” I interrupt, already setting to work on his chains.

He needs to conserve his strength—we’re not out of here yet.

I slick more of the alchemical grease onto my blade, and seconds later, it hisses and glows, heat thrumming through the metal.

Searing enough to bite through the chains. The cuffs can wait.

Once I’m done, I pull him to his feet and we hurry from the chamber, scaling the stone steps beyond.

The lights are still out, the temperature still gravely cold, and as we reach the top flight of stairs, we pass the first wave of Heathborne’s troops who attempted to reach us.

They lie strewn on the steps, motionless, all the flesh ripped from their faces, which are now nothing but a bloody mess.

“You brought grandma’s crew?” Jax pants.

“We needed backup,” I shoot back, then point to a narrow door on our right. “This way.”

I already hear more clearbloods thundering down the service stairwell.

I can’t command the spirits of my grandmother and her biddies again after such a brief interval without them getting waspish with me, but I have other methods.

Jax isn’t at full capacity, obviously, but he does his best to keep up with me as we race through the corridors toward the main entrance.

There aren’t many exit points in this building, and we may as well leave in style.

I pour on the speed when the giant oak doors of the main entry hall come into view. We spill into the room .

Something crashes behind us, sending tremors through the floor. My brother groans and drops to his knees on the floor beside me, though I cannot see what injury caused him to falter.

I whirl around to lay eyes on an imposing figure dressed fully in dark-gray armor. He has apparently leaped down at least a flight of stairs and hurtles toward me with speed that surprises me.

“You’re not going anywhere, darkblood,” a deep, baritone voice, dripping with malice, utters from behind his visor. He’s close enough that I catch the reflection of my pale face, mostly concealed by a black mask, and dark hair in his metal face guard.

I am not sure whether to flame him for his arrogance in attacking my injured brother or for threatening me as he did, and I decide to do it for both.

Just as I claw my hands, a voice bellows from the staircase. “Mazrov, STOP! You’re not strong enough yet! We can’t risk losing you!”

The words catch me off guard. My hands involuntarily still. My focus shifts. I stare into the mysterious person’s visor. He’s close enough that it no longer hides everything.

Electric-blue eyes lock onto mine, edged in something impossible. Fire.

A gasp escapes me.

Who—what—is he?

He halts, apparently listening to the reprimanding voice, and noticing that I have not yet counterattacked.

My brother groans again, more deeply, and I realize I need to pivot. As much as I hate leaving any Heathborne collegian upright, this one will have to wait .

I grab a small syringe from my belt and inject my right arm’s vein with the blood-orange liquid it holds. An uncontainable surge of energy rockets through me, lending me the strength to both drag my brother to the door and yank it open with impossible speed. Outside, our ride awaits.