It’s not the rich green of healthy growth, but something more. Black veins spider across the surface, and the buds twist,opening into flowers that look like rotted flesh. The roots writhe out of the pot, slithering across the desk like seeking fingers.
“No, no, no?—”
I yank my hands back, but the plant keeps growing. Tendrils reach for the window, for the walls, and where they touch, frost spreads in diseased patterns.
The demon mark on my arm burns.
Panic claws up my throat as I grab the pot and shove it into my closet, slamming the door shut. My hands shake as I lean against it, breathing hard.
What is happening to me?
A knock on the door makes me jump.
“Poppy?” Orion’s voice filters through the wood. “You okay in there?”
I press my back harder against the closet, then glimpse my reflection in the mirror above the desk. My eyes look too bright, my skin too pale. The crescent scar gleams silver against my forearm.
“Yeah,” I call back, my voice only slightly strangled. “Fine.”
The door cracks open, and Orion pokes his head in. His silver-blue eyes scan the room with that unnerving feline awareness, lingering on the closet for a beat too long.
“Wylder sent me to check on you.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “He said you looked pretty rough after your fainting spell.”
“Just needed some rest.” I force myself to step away from the closet, rubbing at the mark on my arm. “I’m good now.”
His gaze drops to my hand, and I stop mid-rub.
“Rowan and Wylder went to raid the food hall,” he says after a moment. “We figured you might want to stay in and hang for a quiet night.”
The normalcy of the offer makes something tight in my chest loosen slightly.
“Yeah, a quiet night sounds good.”
A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay, good. They’ll be back in a few. Come out when you’re ready.”
I follow him out, pulling the door shut behind me and praying that whatever’s growing in my closet stays there.
The common room smells like Chinese food and pizza—a weird combination that somehow works after a long week of training. Orion claims the armchair by the window, his long legs draped over one side as he scrolls through his phone. Rowan sprawls across the couch, boots kicked off, munching on a spring roll. I’m on the floor, my back against the couch, picking at my plate of chicken lo mein.
Wylder sits at the worktable, reviewing notes on his iPad from today’s training session like the overachiever he is. Thankfully, the others have either gone to the Magical Mystery event or are in their rooms.
Rowan finishes her flaky tube of deep-fried delish and then wipes her fingers. “So, did you set anyone on fire today?”
I grin. “No, I did not.”
“Yay, you, Pops,” Orion says without looking up. “And did Wylder give you a proper gold star for your improvement?”
Wylder doesn’t dignify that with a response, but his jaw tightens.
“Dude, do you know how to smile?” Rowan tilts her head, studying him with genuine curiosity. “Seriously, she’s had one week of training and known about magic for less than three. Most witches spend years before they can handle anything, let alone command the elements and conjure affinity fire.”
Wylder looks up from his notes. “Her powers have been bottled up for years. It’s not surprising that she’s powerful. What we’re working on is her becoming less volatile.”
“Speaking of volatile,” Orion drawls, finally glancing up. “Did you ever figure out what’s up with your familiar?”
I pause mid-noodle-twirl. “Nope. And I don’t even care.”
Wylder straightens, the usual crease in his brow growing more furrowed. “You have a familiar? Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”
