Page 312 of Sigils & Spells

Whatever.

Call it a prerogative.

“Miss McKenna, do I have your attention?” Professor Alistair Smitty stopped in front of my seat.

His beady little black eyes narrowed as he placed his hands behind his back. His Advanced Pyromancy class was a necessary course study for all Incendo Coven prospects, but I had to admit, I found it boring as hell.

“Yes, professor,” I replied in a low voice, trying to shrink down into my seat.

I hated being the center of attention, and feeling everyone’s eyes on me was making me angry. Mad me was the same as dangerous me. Neither Professor Smitty nor my fellow students realized how much I had tamped down my powers.

I had no choice.

“Good, now, let us explore the way each coven relies on fire as part of almost all rituals and rites ceremonies, whether a bonfire, a candle, or even the presence of the sun, which is fire at its most basic and glorious form…”

The man’s monotonous voice pulsed on and on and, honestly, I could not pay attention to a single thing he was saying. This was a whitewashed version of what pyromancy really was.

It was like they wanted us to be proud of the fact most witches and wizards used candles or some such shit.

Fuck that.

Fire was so much more powerful.

Destructive.

Violent.

Angry.

That was all I saw when I thought about fire. I saw the time I burned Gran’s garden shed to the ground. The time I accidentally sent a turkey we had tried to deep fry rocketing into the woods behind the house when I had attempted to magically heat the oil on one unfortunate Thanksgiving. Those and a half a dozen more incidents that taught me fire was dangerous. It was impulsive, reckless, and could not be harnessed.

That was about the time I started locking down my powers. Holding them in and burying them deep where they could do no harm until I had better control. Fuck yes, it was hard on me, but I had to do it. Magic was finite, and I refused to be like scores of other fire witches who’d burned through their stores, fucking up their spells with half-assery.

I needed my magic to avenge my parents. But it was looking more and more like I’d only get one shot. Tucking my magic away was making me sick. I could see it in my dull hair and the pallor of my skin. The other fire witches used their magic for fun stuff like bonfires and ritual candles. Their hair shone in a variety of bright hues, from carrot orange to auburn. I missed my own fiery mane, but this was to be expected.

By denying my gifts, I was losing a whole lot of my mojo. I had to practice. It was the only way to restore some balance in myself. The bell rang, and I hustled out of class, knocking into what felt like a brick wall as I turned a corner.

“Easy,mo spréach,” a familiar voice grumbled.

I didn’t recognize the word, but it sounded like the Irish endearments my Gran sometimes spoke. I would have to ask her what it meant next time I called home.

Looking into the stone gray eyes of the one man I needed to steer clear of, my stomach went topsy turvy, and fuck it all, I damn near moaned. Warm, curved muscles bunched under my hands. I didn’t even realize I’d put them up, but survival instincts must have kicked in at the moment of impact. Holy hell, he felt good pressed against my body.

So hot.

So hard.

So big.

Oh my fuck.

I sound like a pervy romance novel.

I squeaked. Literally. But the rugged sentinel did not make a sound.

“You all right, Tana McKenna?” he asked, using my full name this time.

I nodded my head mutely. Telling myself the same thing I’d been repeating all week. Brandon Flint was not for me. I mumbled an apology, rubbing my arms to ease the lightning bolt that struck me where his fingers had touched the naked skin on my elbow.

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