Page 23 of Wicked Bonds
The contact is warm, solid, impossible. My skin tingles all the way to my elbow, and I realize I’m holding my breath.
He watches me, not moving. “Most people can’t touch me.”
“I guess I’m not most people.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m beginning to realize that.”
We sit there, holding hands. Two people who don’t know each other, but it’s dark, and it’s late, and sometimes even a stranger is better than being alone,. For a minute I forget that he’s not alive. I forget that he’s a ghost, and that I’m supposed to be scared, or anything but relieved to have company.
Drake’s thumb strokes the back of my hand, gentle, almost apologetic. “You should go back to your room. It’s not safe at night.”
I don’t ask why. I already know that here, “safe” is a word without meaning. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
He nods, but his eyes are sad. “I’m always here.”
I let go, and the sense of loss is immediate. I don’t want to leave.
I climb down from the window, brush off my pants, and head for the door. I look back only once, to see Drake still there, translucent now, light filtering through his ghostly body.
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the spot on my palm where Drake’s hand had been.
I should be afraid. I am afraid. But mostly, I’m confused. I’ve been in this place less than a week and I’ve already formed more dangerous connections than in my whole life. Lucien, with his unreadable expression and ability to show up wherever I am. Soren, in that dream with his hands everywhere and no boundaries at all. And now Drake, who isn’t even alive but feels as real as either of them to me.
It’s too much. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Even if I made it through the gates, the Coven would pull me back, or worse.
Maybe that’s why I wanted to find Drake. He’s as trapped as I am. Worse, because he’s dead.
I lie back and make a mental inventory of my options. Zero. I can’t trust the Coven. I can’t trust my mentor. I can’t trust the faculty, the contracts, or even my own magic. And I sure as hell can’t trust Soren, who’s probably in someone else’s bed right now, siphoning off their dreams.
But the worst part? I can’t trust myself to stop reaching for things that are guaranteed to hurt me.
I touch the mark on my arm. It’s a reminder. A warning.
The sun is coming up soon, and I know I won’t sleep, but I don’t care. I roll onto my side and stare at the window until my eyes burn. If this place wants to break me, it’s going to have to try a lot harder.
I may not be the witch they expected, but I’m the one they got. And I’m still here.
For now.
Twelve
Lucien
I detest summons, especially ones that come before dawn, when the world still belongs to the monsters and the dead. Headmistress Wickersly’s request arrives in the form of a black cat with an attitude problem who glares at me until I rise from my alcove and follow it through corridors that gleam from the tireless efforts of the academy’s compelled cleaners.
Ignoring the way the cat flicks its tail at every landing as if to hurry me along, I make the trip to the administrative wing.
Wickersly’s door is open, her silhouette dark. She stands behind her desk, arms crossed, the silver in her hair catching what light there is. I close the door behind me, but remain standing. I am not, despite what some might believe, a dog to be called or sent away at her leisure.
“Lucien.” Her voice is cool. “Sit.”
I do not. “You requested my presence.”
She studies me with the gaze that has cowed generations, but I refuse to wilt under it. Her hands rest lightly on a file folder, thick with notes and photographs. Rose’s name is scrawled across the top.
“We have business,” she says, “regarding the new girl.”
Of course. Everything is about her.
