Page 7

“They came yesterday. We wanted you all to start together, but by the time we located you and set up our ... meeting, it was too late.”

Perfect. Not only was I a twenty-nine-year-old woman attending magic school with a bunch of thirteen- to nineteen-year-olds, but I was also the “new kid.” Or “new old lady,” to be more accurate.

I forced myself to ask the question I’d been avoiding for hours, even though I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like the answer one bit.

“So ... what actually happened to Heronius, anyway?”

Typhon’s green eyes were hard as he stared me down. “Heronius is dead.”

My jaw dropped. I think I even spluttered. “What? That ... that can’t be. He’s ... Heronius. He can’t be dead.”

He gave a curt nod. “He can and he is. He was killed defending Heathermoor from an attack.” His voice was low and steady, but there was something in his expression .

.. Hurt? Anger? It was hard to tell. Especially since I was reeling at the news myself, despite knowing deep down all along that if they were bringing in me of all people, things were bad.

“How?”

“Tarquinius will debrief you all on that when he feels it’s time.”

Dead.

Heronius, the strongest wizard to ever graduate – outside of Nocta – had been killed and as it stood, there was no one to step up to take his place. And for some reason, they thought I – arguably the worst wizard to ever darken the doors of the Academy – might be a good replacement?

Tarquinius and the Senate had lost their fucking minds. It was the only answer.

I gripped the sides of the boat and bent my head between my knees, fighting the urge to yack as terror took hold. Frantically, I searched for items to mentally ground me, and I rattled them off in my head.

Water.

Gold coins.

The school in the distance.

Typhon’s boots.

It wasn’t working.

I sucked in a wheezing breath and squeezed my eyes shut. Typhon Moreno, my sworn enemy, would now get to witness my greatest shame, worse even than not finishing my schooling.

A full-blown panic attack.

Suddenly, warmth shot through me like a flame, starting in my belly and spreading outward, leaving a trail of tingles like fingers across bare skin. The sensation was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and I looked up with blessed relief to find Typhon staring back at me, one inky brow arched.

I narrowed my eyes at him, heart rate spiking at the thought of his magic in me . True healing was an ultra-rare Quirk, but a quick fix like this wasn’t beyond a strong Dwimmer, which Typhon most definitely was.

I stood gingerly and retook my seat with my back to him, determined to ignore him the rest of the trip.

My skin itched from his magic, and I fought not to rub at my arms and my chest. That spot where my rib had nearly pierced my heart all those years ago, when I’d been in school .

.. to say it was still a sore spot was an understatement.

In short, I didn’t like how his magic made me feel even if he’d stopped me from rocking in a fetal position at the bottom of the boat.

Vulnerable. Like I was sixteen again, staring at him across the room as his rune slammed into me. I clenched my hands, until my fingernails dug into the wood of my seat, pushing the memories away.

Once we reached Neverthorn, I’d be mostly free of Typhon. There were loads of other doyens teaching at the school. Odds were, I’d only have to look at his miserable face once in a while after today.

Praise be to Hecate, let it be true.

Ten more minutes to sit here in silence and stew about what was to come ...

I could suffer through just about anything for ten minutes.

“Why did they call it Neverthorn, anyway?” I blurted, approximately four minutes later.

Silence.

“Is Mrs. Wickersham still working in the kitchens?” I asked.

Long sigh.

“She’s our head chef now.”

There it was. A sweet little silver lining.

The only, and I mean only , good part about attending Neverthorn had been the three meals a day plus snacks.

The food was nothing short of amazing. The best of every type of cuisine, from every part of the globe.

Buttery, short-crust hand-pies nearly bursting at the seams with roasted meats and parsnips.

Spiced chickpea curry with garlic naan to dunk.

Fluffy pancakes dotted with toasted pecans, doused in warmed maple syrup.

A full English roast with rich gravy, crispy roast potatoes, and Yorkshire puddings, all the handmade pasta you could eat with every kind of sauce imaginable .

.. It almost made me forget the shame of being unable to read runes the way other kids could . .. for a little while.

There were nights – long after I’d left Neverthorn, and my mother died, before I’d bolstered my magic and loosened my morals and turned to thieving – that I’d have given my left pinky to eat the floor scraps from one of those meals.

And Aida Wickersham was the genius behind the best of them; that she was still at the school . .. well, glory be to Mother Hecate.

I was so enthralled by my food fantasies that I lurched in surprise when the boat bumped shore again.

“Off,” Typhon said unnecessarily.

I didn’t wait for him. I made my way off the rickety boat and took a right toward the hulking towers that peaked above the thick forest. Best to just get this over with, like ripping off a bandage.

“Stop,” Typhon called, bringing me to a halt.

What now?

“You missed orientation. You need to go to the Nevershoppes for supplies first.”

I closed my eyes and took a long breath. “Seems a waste when I’m quite sure they’ll realize their mistake before week’s end.”

“One can hope,” he said. “Until then, get your supplies.”

We locked eyes, but there was no point in arguing. Looked like I would be stuck with him for at least another hour.

Gods above and below, save me from this.

Five minutes later, we stood at the fountain that marked the entrance to the shops.

Each of the squat little stores on the cobbled pathway could’ve been home to a hobbit.

The structures were built from knotty pine, their stone chimneys cheerily puffed white smoke into the now early-morning sky. A few had moss-covered rooftops.

“You guys still haven’t updated this place? I hope at least the student uniforms are a little trendier.” I shot a pointed glance toward his long, black cloak. Underneath it he wore dark pants and a long-sleeved dark shirt, finished off by, you guessed it, a black belt and matte black buckle.

He rolled his eyes and shot a glance at his wristwatch – also black. “We have just over an hour until your first class starts.”

He strode ahead, his long-legged pace eating up the cobblestones beneath him.

I fell in behind. “I can’t help but wonder how you ended up being sent to wrangle me. Surely you didn’t volunteer ...”

His harsh laugh sounded hella-rusty. “I drew the short straw,” he said as he shoved the door to Neverthorn Uniform Shoppe open.

I let out a groan as I scanned the offerings. Still the same crisp white shirts with the monogrammed cuffs, traditional black neckties that would change color to match your house once selected, black pants for the boys and knee-length skirts for the girls.

“You can’t be serious with the skirt. It’s the twenty-first century, for Hecate’s sake.”

“You have the option to select pants if you prefer,” a stiff voice interjected. I turned to find a dark-haired, sour-faced woman staring down her too-narrow nose at me from beneath a pair of bifocals.

She cocked her head and studied me for a long moment.

“Wilhelmina Benjamin, shopkeeper,” she said through pursed lips. “You must be Harlow Daygon. Your reputation precedes you. Let’s get you fitted, shall we?”

She swept to the back of the empty store, and I forced myself to follow her. Typhon trailed behind us as he again glanced impatiently at the door.

Wilhelmina gestured to a circular stand in the center of the back room.

“Climb up so I can get your measurements.”

I stayed put. “I’ll save you the time. Thirty-six, twenty-three, thirty-five.”

She squinted hard at me and shook her head. “I think not, dear. You’re shaving a good two inches off that waist.”

I shot her a quelling glare. “That’s not my waist. That’s a food baby from the carbonara I ate on the plane. It will be gone by lunch.”

Hey, sue me. It was a lot of carbonara, and it was delicious ...

Speaking of which, that was the last time I’d eaten, and I was starving.

The shopkeeper headed back out to the main floor, toward the racks, and began gathering various items.

“Whoa. What the hell is that?” I blurted as my gaze caught on something the shopkeeper had collected.

Wilhelmina followed my gaze and shrugged. “A satchel.”

I blinked and shook my head. “No. No, it most certainly is not. That, madam, is a fanny pack, and unless I’m playing the role of a sixty-year-old American dad on an Italian holiday in the annual school play, I will not be wearing one of those, thank you very much.”

Apparently, the apparel had not changed for the better – it had gotten worse.

“Bag it all up.” Typhon growled the words, anger radiating off him.

I turned back toward him. Those nostrils flaring, that little muscle near his steel-cut jaw ticking. The way his green eyes spat fire.

That’s what made other girls swoon. Not me.

Fuck that and fuck him.

“Where to next?” I snapped, reaching for the bag Wilhelmina held out.

Typhon stalked ahead of me, and I again had to jog to keep up as we exited the store. Again, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I had to dig at him.

“Weird ... I remember what you did to me , but I’m not sure exactly what I did to you that made you hate me so much.”

I wanted to snatch the words back the second they were out. Apparently, sixteen-year-old me still hadn’t gotten over the intense feelings of rejection that came whenever I thought of Neverthorn in general, and those only increased tenfold when it came to Typhon.

He stopped short and turned to face me, his face a mask of impatience.

“It’s not just you. It’s your type.”

“Yeah, and what type is that?” Another question I didn’t actually want answered, but I asked it anyway.

He stepped close enough that the tips of his boots touched my own, and I could almost feel the sparks shooting from his eyes as he towered over me. His magic radiated around him, cloaking him in shadows as his anger rose.

“Selfish. Cavalier. That type. Your type. This is all a game to you, but for some of us, it’s everything.

” He shook his head, clearly disgusted. “The weave between worlds has been steadily thinning since Nocta’s been at large.

For more than fifty years, it’s been held together with the magical equivalent of spit, glue, and elbow grease, but we’re at the end of it now.

A great wizard and good friend is dead, and we’re one false move away from the whole thing unraveling.

” He stepped back and shot me a look so full of scorn, I barely suppressed a shiver.

“So, no. I don’t fucking care if you feel like being here or not, Harlow.

In fact, I don’t care about how you feel at all. ”

That spot, right above my heart? It panged with such ferocity I could almost feel it as if the break was fresh and not thirteen years old.

What did I say to that? Nothing. Not a damn thing.

Without another word, he turned and made his way toward the bookshop.

For the next half hour, I stayed quiet as we gathered more supplies. It wasn’t even hard, for once. I wasn’t sure if I could’ve trusted my voice to speak even if I’d wanted to. Because as much as it was in my DNA to argue, to refute everything he’d said, he wasn’t all the way wrong.

I was selfish. I had to be, because nobody else but Opie cared about me. Not here, not back home. So, if I had to choose between saving the world and saving the two of us?

I was going to choose me and her every time.