Page 1 of Junk Magic

Chapter One

There were three doughnuts sitting on Hargroves’ desk. Not normal sized ones; I doubted he ate that much in a week. No, these were minis, six little powdered-sugar-coated temptations, one of which had a single bite taken out of it. And doesn’t that say everything about the man, I thought evilly. To most people, one of those doughnuts was a bite, but Hargroves could make a single doughnut last him all day.

Sort of like a single lecture.

This one had been going on for what felt like a week, although knowing the boss’s tight schedule, was probably more like ten minutes. I’d stopped listening after two because it was always the same thing. My students were wreaking havoc; my students were out of control. I don’t know what else he expected.

Thanks to the needs of the current war, the War Mage Corps—the supernatural community’s version of the police—had started accepting younger and younger recruits. This last batch didn’t contain a person over the age of nineteen. Teenagers. He was giving me magically gifted teens with hormones on overdrive and power to burn and expecting me to churn out spit and polished recruits. Okay, yes, they’d blown up the gym. Again. I was just lucky they hadn’t taken the rest of the Corp’s new headquarters along with it.

Not that it would be much of a loss, I thought, glancing around the dingy office. Only to have the boss notice. And apparently, number ten thousand and one on the list of things I did to irritate him was allowing my mind to wander during a chewing out.

Although what came out of his mouth next wasn’t what I’d expected.

“Which is why I’m promoting you,” he said sourly.

I blinked. “Promoting, sir?”

“To train our new task force. They’re to be housed in a separate facility, with rather more security features than this one.” The sour look intensified. “Perhaps you can manage to keep it intact for a week or two.”

I blinked some more, this time in confusion. “But . . . my students—”

“Reassigned to Mage Reynolds.”

“Reynolds?” It took me a second, but then an image of a sandy haired, round faced, jolly tempered mage, fresh off the turnip truck from one of our more rustic offices, came to mind.

Dear God, they’d eat him alive.

“But, sir, we just had a breakthrough—”

“Yes, of the back of the building!”

A comeback leapt to my lips, but I held it back ruthlessly. Not for myself; Hargroves already thought I was stubborn, unpredictable and a bit of an asshole. Which was why he had me teaching.

The supernatural community might be at war, but teaching assignments were thought to be far more worthy of combat pay. And considering what often went on in the classroom, I firmly agreed with that. Magic didn’t like to be leashed, and young, bountiful, reckless magic even less so.

My students needed me.

“Sir, I really think—”

“Let’s go meet your new class, shall we?” Hargroves said, and stood up without letting me finish.

I got up, because he was the boss, but I was frowning when we reached the corridor. And even more so when we left the admin wing and headed across the big open room that served as reception area, training ground and gym, all in one. Part of which was still on fire.

I assumed that was why I was suddenly the focus of half the eyes in the place.

That was better than when I’d first been assigned here, nine months ago, and the stares had been for a different reason. Part fey were not all that strange in the War Mage Corps. Maybe five percent of the whole had some kind of unusual blood in their veins, although it was often so far back as to manifest as nothing more than a faint tinge of blue or green along a cheekbone, or better than average sight in the dark.

Weres, on the other hand, were a lot less thick on the ground.

Of course, we weren’t supposed to be on the ground, at least not wearing a war mage uniform. But my father was Guillame de Croissets, from a family with a long history of service to the Corps and many times decorated for his service. He was retired now, but when he’d announced that his daughter Accalia was going to follow in his footsteps, no one had had the gall to tell him no.

Or the courage, probably.

Dad had a temper.

Something he’d passed down to me, along with my dark brown hair and lanky, five-foot-nine build. But my gray eyes were wolf eyes, my mother’s eyes, and while they looked human enough, I’d heard that they were hard to meet. Which was probably why a couple of nearby gawkers scurried off when I sent them the glare they deserved, before following Hargroves downstairs.

And started to get nervous.

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