Page 20 of Validus Vale Academy 1
I think about the girl I picked up from the airport yesterday. Funny little thing, dressed in a giant sweater covered in home-made lettering. It was odd she’d received the Guggenheimer; it didn’t usually go to a remedial student. What is the Academy’s endgame there?
There is always something. Nothing is altruism.
Whyever she’s here, I hope she doesn’t waste the opportunity. I may hate everything it stands for, but I can’t deny that getting an education from Validus Vale will open doors.
I’d been an asshole to Theo Wilson, and I’m not sure why. Being shitty to low-status kids is not my MO; they already had enough to deal with. But there was something about her that rubbed me the wrong way. She’d looked so fragile and exhausted; her eyes, glowing an eerie silver, wide and full of worry. Made me want to whisk her up and take her far away from here. Which is ridiculous. I’m not the type who saves damsels in distress.
I guess she’ll sink or swim. But probably sink. She has no fucking idea what monsters some of these students can be, but I can’t make it my problem. I’ve one true job here and I need to start making some fucking headway.
Fuck it all. I pick a decommissioned Fateball off my desk and throw it at the wall, hard. “Tämä on perseestä!”
As the Fateball bounces back into my hand, a timid knock on the door makes me look up. “Come,” I growl. I have nothing scheduled, so why am I being bothered? “Now,” I shout.
The door opens, and in walks Theo Wilson, like I’d conjured her by my thoughts.
She looks ridiculous in that shitty uniform, the shapeless blazer drowning her petite body. Petite, but with the nicest curves. Curves, I tried hard not to notice when she was sleeping in the passenger seat of my Jeep. Fuck.
I immediately clamp down on the feeling. I’m supposed to be a goddamn pretend-teacher, and even though I’m sure a lot of the teachers here perv out on their students, I don’t want to be one of them. She’s got enough battles ahead without an old horndog like me checking her out.
It’s the celibacy. I haven’t fucked in months. That’s all it is. Just hormones. Nothing personal. Nothing else.
“What do you want, Wilson?” I snap, maybe being a tad aggressive. I watch her pale white throat swallow, and I try not to get a perverse thrill out of making her nervous. Making her submissive.
Shit, I’m going to have to avoid this piece of temptation at all costs.
“I need to talk to my counselor,” she says, “and I believe that’s you.”
I flick open my tablet and enter her name. Yah, I’m officially her guidance counselor. Well, great, that sinks the avoidance plans—helvetti.
Wilson lowers her eyes so that long eyelashes graze her cheek, and I turn on my professor mode. “So, tell me what your problem is,” I grunt, and she looks up nervously and bites her lip again.
“I think my schedule is muddled up with someone else's,” she replies quietly.
I’ve become quite skilled at this teacher act over the last few months. I flick through the tablet, checking her assigned classes. “Hope you’re not complaining about your workload already, Wilson,” I mutter, scrolling through her file.
Aha. Her class list.
I read it. Then, reread it. She’s right. Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. And the name signing her up for all these advanced classes? The new dean. Why would Crankshawe include a remedial scholarship in the top Elite courses? Something’s off, to say the least.
“I’ll look into it,” I tell her. “For now, you’d better go to the classes you’ve been assigned. Try to keep up.”
“But, won’t there be Elites in that class?”
“What’s that?” I ask, “I can’t hear you over the sound of my indifference.” I look up and see she looks like she’s twoseconds from a freakout. I flick my eyes to the wall clock. “Your Restricted Studies class is in the Dark Arts Department, and that’s on the other side of campus. It starts in five minutes, so you’d better get a move on.” Her eyes widen, and I can’t resist playing with her a little. “I’ve heard Professor Gimble likes to spell late-comers with donkey ears.” I flick my hand in a shoo gesture. She takes the hint, gulps, and then turns tail.
I can hear her running footsteps echo down the corridor as I close the door.
Why is she in those classes?
When something doesn’t make sense, it’s worth investigating. Does Wilson have a stellar fucking pedigree, even though she’s remedial?
I open the drawer in my desk and pull out a second computer from a hidden compartment. This one’s clean. It can’t be touched, hacked, or mirrored. Stubbing out the smoldering butt, I start a deep dive into Theodora no middle name Wilson.
After fifteen minutes, I’ve seen all that her school records have to offer. First thing that jumps out: she’s no remedial, oh no. She’s a fucking AUA.
Born in the UK. Parentage unknown. Abandoned outside a hospital. The DNA test revealed latent magic of unknown origin. That’s interesting. Why unknown?
Baby No-name was in a care home for the first few months of life and then adopted by Anne and Kevin Wilson. Anne Wilson was a low-level witch, and Kevin was purely without a spark—fully human.
