Page 2 of Shared with the Hellhounds (Halloween Temptation #4)

Seth

L ast year, I didn't even know magic was real.

Now, I'm about to summon my familiar for the very first time.

"A safe circle requires a steady hand," Professor Hawthorne says with a click of his cane as he stalks around the classroom, inspecting our handiwork one by one.

"Summoning is a science and an art. Its technical aspects are easy enough to study, yet the artistic side cannot be taught.

For those of us raised with the craft, such artistry is easily mastered.

For those brought up in more...unorthodox circumstances, well, it can prove quite difficult. "

He's talking about me.

The rest of the class doesn't even try to stifle their snickering.

Why would they? I'm the only orphan witch on campus.

When a group of elegant men and graceful women dressed all in black showed up at my community college and revealed my mystical heritage, I was thrilled.

When they explained I'd have to leave my human life behind and transfer to St. Salem Academy to continue my education and learn all about my inherited magic, I couldn't leave fast enough.

I thought I'd entered an academic heaven...but it's been pure hell.

Calculus and Organic Chemistry combined are nothing compared to Fundamentals of Conjuration. I've spent my whole life as a proud nerd and perpetual teacher's pet, but this class has nearly broken me. And the social scene at St. Salem wants to eat me alive.

Professor Hawthorne stops to chide my summoning circle directly.

"Try again, Apprentice Grimshaw," he sighs. Professor Hawthorne has dark brown skin and matching hair, which he always wears slicked back. The only true sign of his stately age is the heavy indent of frown lines. "Steady hands, safe circles."

"Yes, sir," I murmur dutifully and push my thick-rimmed glasses up higher on my nose.

My main inner circle is on the wobbly side. It sticks out like an eyesore when the other interlocking circles and stars around it are so much more confidently drawn.

If I could sink any further into the floor I would, but I'm already on my knees as I pick up a stiff-bristled brush. Chalk on stone. That's how we practice our summoning sigils in this class. I've heard that in Advanced Conjuration, they use paint.

I guess there really is an art to it after all.

Professor Hawthorne shifts his attention off me when someone in the front of the class asks if the iris we're using in the summoning needs to be fresh or dried. And while I correct my mistake, my classmates seize the opportunity to pounce on me.

"Hey, Seth. Do you have a date for Samhain?

" Abigail Charmwell turns around from her own finished circle to bat her pretty blues at me.

The rest of her is pretty too. Or so I assume.

I've never been interested in girls. Not like that.

Besides, I know what she's doing: she's setting up a joke on her twin's behalf.

"Um, no," I mutter, trying to ignore the row of extra pointy black hats in front of me that are watching my every move.

"Why don't you take your familiar as your date?" Leonard Charmwell has finished his circle early too. He's had time to draw something extra. It's a cruel and crude picture of me, with the tiniest black hat possible, getting my face mauled by a furious cat.

"Oh, wait," Leonard takes back his question with a smirk. "That's if a weakblood like you can even summon a familiar."

Abigail smirks alongside her brother. "Yeah, familiars are for real witches."

I self-consciously reach up to adjust my hat as Leonard, Abigail, and their pride of sycophants burst out in laughter.

Leonard and Abigail are St. Salem Academy's golden duo. They're both fair-haired with honey-colored eyes and sun-kissed skin. The exact opposite of me with my inky black hair, cold blue eyes, and pale skin.

Our bloodlines are nothing alike either.

The Charmwell family is as close to royalty as witches can get, both rich and famous, while as far as I know, the Grimshaw family I hail from hasn't ever borne anyone notable. The only interesting thing my ancestors ever did was decide to live outside the magical society of witches.

But I'm a witch too. A real witch. The same as anyone else. It doesn't matter that I wasn't raised practicing the craft...right?

I focus back on fixing my circle. A bead of sweat drips down the back of my neck. My cheeks flush with color. I can't stop their bullying, but I can ignore it, and I can prove them all wrong.

There. No more line wobbliness. Circles upon circles. Circles within triangles. Stars splayed every which way. I hold up my grimoire and compare the depictions within to what I've chalked on the ground before me.

Maybe it's not perfect, but it's good enough.

Even Professor Hawthorne thinks so. When he walks by to inspect my handiwork for a second time, he has no criticism. But no praise either. All I get is a solemn nod before he tip-taps his way back to the front of the classroom and levitates himself onto a large wooden platform.

The classrooms and lecture halls are so different compared to my old community college.

They're huge, for starters, even if the student body is much smaller, and there's no whiteboards or display screens.

Only old-school styled blackboards and rows and rows of books.

Instead of plaster, everything is made of wood or brick.

"Let us begin," Professor Hawthorne says.

"Summoning a familiar is more than casting a spell.

This is a ritual . No detail is too tiny.

Each ingredient, every word, and stroke of the sigils matters.

The smallest deviation, no matter how minuscule, leaves you vulnerable to the influence of malevolent spirits.

Now, repeat after me and move as I do," he instructs.

Here it goes.

In a small ceramic bowl, we crush iris petals and catnip together with salt. Then as one, we speak a spell in Latin. I taught myself Latin for fun years ago. Despite my nervousness, I smile as I say the words.

Old words. Dark words.

Please, I think silently. Please. I wish and hope with every fiber of my being. Please hear me. Please come to me. I'm so desperate to pull this off, I turn to prayer. Please, I pray. Please, please, please. Guess I'm not really praying though...I'm begging.

I move my lips and lift my tongue as I beg magic into the world. I reach beyond the veil and call forth a friendly spirit to be my familiar. It's the day before Halloween. Or Samhain, as witches call it.

At this time of year, the veil between worlds is thin.

Magic is easier to cast. Spells are stronger. Potions brew quicker.

Though I guess that doesn't make the rituals any simpler to perform, because when I mimic Professor Hawthorne's hand gestures, my circle does more than glow like everyone else's is doing.

It bursts into flames.

In my panic, I clench my hands into fists instead of holding the triangle my fingers were making. A gust of wind sweeps off my black hat, and I feel a few drops of water fall onto my head. When I look up, I notice a rain cloud above me.

The drops turn into a rapid drizzle, and then the cloud turns into wisps of smoke, but it doesn't leave quietly.

I lift my hands helplessly into the air and try to shoo it away, but that's another mistake.

I've messed up my gestures, and I must be doing some different ritual as I'm left drenched from head to toe.

It puts out the fire, but it also washes away my summoning circle.

And the last shreds of my dignity.