Page 51 of Fractured Fates

Tristan flops back against his chair like this topic of conversation already bores him. “So what’s the problem? Don’t teach the girl.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, slamming the last piece of egg into my mouth, and letting my fork clatter onto the plate. “I don’t intend to.”

I stalk back to my room, watching as other students leap out of my way, flattening themselves against walls. No one wants to end up on my wrong side this morning. I’m guessing my foul moods are legendary.

Unfortunately for him, at least one scrawny little first year didn’t get this memo. He’s so engrossed in his conversation with his friend, he fails to see me coming, walking the middle of the path and not moving out of my way.

I plow straight into him, sending the little squawk flying to the ground with an oof. He blinks up at me in shock, mouth hanging open.

“Move,” I tell him, and when he doesn’t scrabble out of the way quick enough, I give him a helpful kick to his ass. Then I haul him up by the scruff of his collar, lifting him right off the ground.

“Do you know who the hell I am?”

I’m not always like this. Most of the time, I’m the life and soul of the party. Guaranteed to make a classroom laugh. Guaranteed for a good time. But sometimes, sometimes, this fucking dark cloud consumes me like a mist seeping into my blood and everything makes my head hurt.

“Y-y-y-yes,” the boy says, and I can feel his body trembling under my fingertips.

There’s a rumor circulating among the lower years that I sent some dude to the infirmary for an entire month. It’s not true. It was a week. But I haven’t been quick to correct that piece of misinformation. Not when it means pipsqueaks like him treat me with respect.

“Then why the hell were you blocking my path?”

He doesn’t have an answer. Not one he’s willing to give me anyway. “I’m sorry,” he splutters. “It won’t happen again, I swear.”

“Too goddamn right it won’t, because if it does …”

I open my hand and let him fall through the air, hitting the ground a second time.

He’s on his feet and scurrying away like a mouse before I can grab him again.

I close and flex my fist. Usually, taking out my bad mood on some unsuspecting victim, makes me feel a lot better. Not today. That darkness still sits in my veins.

I roll my shoulders and my neck, listening to the vertebrae click. I’ve been cooped up too long. I need to get out of here and stretch my legs. It’ll be weeks before my chance to do that though, and the darkness inside me strains to break free. I screw up my eyes and beat it down.

Back in my room, I swallow twice the number of pills I’m meant to take. I swear they’re not working any more. I swear this cloud, this darkness, is becoming harder to control. Especially when some pissy little girl provokes it. Like it’s met its fucking match and wants to come out and play.

Of course, she’s in my first class this morning. Practical magic.

After what Summer did to her last week, she’s one of the first there, cowering at the back like everyone will simply forget she exists.

I wish I could.

I wish it were that easy.

I fold into my usual seat, second row from the front, and dump my bag on the floor. Then I sit there with my arms tight across my heaving chest and tune into what the professor is demonstrating to us – how to conjure fire from our fingertips.

I may not be as skilled as Tristan Kennedy – winning every fucking academic award going – but I’ve been able to do something as simple as conjure fire since before I grew my first freaking pube.

I focus on listening anyway. I do not let my eyes flick to the new girl in the back row.

I do not watch as she scribbles notes in some damn stupid shiny notepad like her life depends on it. It probably does. She seems incapable of defending herself and ignorant to a point it’s actually ridiculous. I know it’s mandatory for every magical her age to attend the academy but for her they should’ve made an exception. We don’t need liabilities weighing down our ranks.

When the professor asks for any volunteers to have a go at the fire conjuring, I slam my hand into the air. The other students who have done the same, see mine go up, and quickly lower theirs.

“Mister Moreau,” Dr. Johnson says carefully. She knows as well as anyone else to tread cautiously around me today.

I lumber to my feet, my eyes flicking to the girl although I don’t turn my head.

I lift my hand and let my magic lick hot through my veins, fire springing to life in my fingertips.