Page 88 of Fractured Fates

“Are you dating him?” he growls finally.

I frown. “What? Who?”

“He’s twice your fucking age.”

My heart stops beating in my chest. Stone. Does he know about my crush? I am seriously bad at this crap if it’s that obvious to everyone around me. Not that I’m going to admit it. Like ever!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were seen, Pig girl. It’s why we’re going to have the displeasure of you as our newest helping-hand.”

The man in black.

He means the man in black.

“You have Tristan to thank for that,” I mumble. “Trust me it’s the last thing I want to do.”

Spencer snorts loudly in my ear and rolls off me.

I flip over onto my back and glare up at him.

“It’s sick,” he says, scuffing the toe of his sneaker along the mat. “He’s old enough to be your dad.”

Now I snort. “He isn’t. He’s like ten years older than me.”

“What the fuck were you doing with him?”

I roll up onto my knees, place one foot onto the mat and then stand up, brushing my hands together.

What is it with everyone and my sex life all of a sudden? First Winnie, then Stone and now Spencer.

It would be concerning if I actually had anything to tell anyone, but it’s laughable considering I don’t. Nothing more than a kiss and some dry humping.

I rest my hands on my hips and meet Spencer’s eyes. Swimming with anger and darkness and about a million other emotions I can’t read.

“Why do you even care?”

He doesn’t answer me, instead he comes charging at me again. And as I hit the mat, I vow to lace Spencer Moreau’s jock strap with chili powder just as soon as I land my hands on it.

* * *

There’sa note waiting for me on my dorm door when I return at lunchtime to feed Pip. It’s from Tristan instructing me to meet him in the boys’ locker room just as soon as I’ve finished kitchen duties.

My evenings so far have been occupied by homework, a little bit of magical tuition from Winnie, followed by watching old movies. She was completely scandalized when I confessed I’d never watched a movie likePretty WomanorCluelessand she’s been making me watch them with her ever since. Maybe that’s why my brain has become warped by ideas of romance. I need to encourage her to show me some movies about revenge, about surviving on the run. Not that I’m going to be able to watch a movie anytime soon.

Kitchen duties consist of scrubbing pots and pans with Winnie in the kitchen after supper. After the hour’s up, my hands are red raw. I suspect it’s going to be nothing compared to the punishment Tristan has waiting for me.

Out on the path, Winnie gives me a long hug and wishes me luck.

“There are limits to what they can ask you to do. Just …” she gazes warily towards the gymnasium, “just be careful.”

I square my shoulders, trying to demonstrate I’m not cowered. Really, I’m pretty apprehensive, but I’m determined not to show it.

As I draw closer to the gymnasium, I find the field flooded by light and what can only be the dueling team practicing out on the grass. Bolts of magic of all descriptions, colors and size whizz through the air, as ten men – five dressed in red bibs, five in blue – race underneath them, spinning and ducking out of each other’s way.

I see Spencer, larger by far than all the rest, chase down an opposing player, diving for him, catching him around the knees and crashing them both to the ground. I see Tristan, firing magic from his palms so quickly it’s dizzying, striking two of the opposition square between the eyes.

Then I watch as Coach Hank blows on his whistle, and the men freeze, their magic whistling away through the air. Spencer climbs to his feet, heaving the other player up with him, and saying something that makes them both laugh. Tristan sweeps his bib and then his jersey over his head, wiping his shirt around his brow as he leads his team mates through the doors and into the gymnasium.