Page 21 of Wicked Bonds
Thorne claps, slow and sarcastic. “Wow, such skill, Charity. Do it again, but maybe try not to get it in your hair this time.”
“My name’s not Charity.”
“You sure?” She tilts her head and smiles. “I was sure it was Charity Case.” Her minions titter and then they all swivel in their seats in sync and go back to ignoring me.
I want to punch her, but I restrain myself. Getting into a fist fight my first week is probably not the best impression to make. Not that I care, but I’m not in a hurry to find out what kind of punishment they have for that sort of thing. I’m betting it’s not detention. So I settle for scooping the mud off the desk and tossing it in the trash with as much as force as I can manage.
Doc doesn’t even look at me. “Moving on,” he says. “Let’s see if any of you can manage a sustained ignition without blowing your fingers off.”
We pair up for the next exercise, which means Harry by default. He’s not thrilled. “Just don’t touch anything,” he mutters. “I’d like to graduate with both hands intact.”
The exercise is simple. We need to create a controlled jet of flame, maintain it for thirty seconds, then extinguish it safely. Harry takes the lead, his hands steady as he channels the energyinto a perfect blue-white arc. I watch, envious, wishing I could steal even a crumb of his mediocre-male confidence.
When it’s my turn, I fumble the lighter again, then try to channel the fire with just my will. Nothing. I try to picture the way my mother’s hands looked when she did magic, the graceful movement, the soft command in her voice. Still nothing.
Thorne saunters by. “Maybe you should try harder, Charity,” she suggests, her tone oozing superiority.
I see red, then I gather every ounce of anger, humiliation, and pain and force it into the lighter. I don’t even whisper a word, I just will the flame into being.
It works.
Too well.
An arc of fire blasts from the lighter, arcing across the room like a goddamn flamethrower. It catches Thorne’s orb, detonates it, and then slams straight into the desk where her friend is sitting. There’s a yelp, a cascade of burning paper, and the sharp smell of singed hair. The girl dives for the floor.
The whole room goes silent. Doc storms over, puts out the flames with a gesture and a few muttered words, and turns on me. “Miss Smith!”
I cut him off. “Sorry,” I say, my voice steady but cold. “But maybe it’s a bad idea to have the new witch play with fire on the first day?”
He stares at me like he wants to staple my mouth shut, then turns to the class. “That is why we practice. Anyone else wish to volunteer for a demonstration?”
No one does. The vampires in the back smirk, the witches in the middle try not to look at me, and the “other” in the front row just look relieved it wasn’t them.
Thorne’s friend glares at me, clutching her scorched ends. Thorne herself is pale with rage, but she’s smart enough not to retaliate in front of the professor.
Class ends five minutes early. Doc assigns a double-length essay on ‘control and responsibility’ and dismisses us. I’m the first out the door, but not before Thorne gets in one last shot.
“Hey, Charity,” she calls, her voice sweet as cheap vanilla body spray. “If you’re looking for a better fit, I hear the circus is in town.”
I don’t even look back. “You’d make a great clown,” I shoot over my shoulder. “You’ve already got the makeup.”
I hear a couple of snorts behind me, but mostly I hear my own blood pounding in my ears. My arm is on fire under the sleeve. I don’t check the mark until I’m three hallways away, hiding in a stairwell. It’s angry red, and bright.
I really, really fucking hate this place.
Eleven
Rose
By the time supper rolls around, my mark is calmer but my mood is a dumpster fire. I drift through the halls and the students slide around me, conversations stall whenever I’m in earshot, and the few who do make eye contact do it only to glare. It’s less ‘mean girls’ and more “small-town quarantine.”
The dining hall is even worse than it was this morning. It’s packed, loud, and everyone’s got their little clique. The vampires have staked out the corner near the windows, where it’s dark out now that the sun has set. The witches occupy the center, laughing over some meme or stupid video on their phones. Even the ‘other’ crowd, the were-things, elementals, a couple of lesser demons, keep to their own huddle.
I take my tray to the farthest table and pick at my food even though I’m starving. I didn’t want to linger by the food service so I grabbed what was quickest and closest. The chicken nuggets are shaped like bats and taste like cardboard but I eat them anyway. Hunger is a bigger bitch than pride.
Across the room, Thorne and her friends are already gossiping about the class, and me. I can tell because Thorne’s got her phone out, and she keeps glancing over with a look of smug satisfaction. There’s a new meme going around, I’m sure, probably my face when I almost set the school on fire. For a second I fantasize about blowing up the whole cafeteria and just walking out as the ashes rain down.
I manage to choke down a few more nuggets before the pain from the mark starts up again. It’s like my arm is trying to tell me, “Hey, remember you’re cursed? Don’t get comfortable.”
