I turn around, heat flooding my cheeks as the dark-haired guy steps forward. His perfectly pressed clothes can’t hide the coiled tension in every line of his equally perfect body, and when those storm-gray eyes lock on mine, I feel like I’m being cataloged and filed away.
“Yeah?” I cross my arms, feigning confidence while my pulse sprints. “And you are?”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps staring, that silent assessment making me want to either fidget or punch him. Maybe both.
One of the guys around my age speaks first—ash-blonde hair slicked back like he raided his dad’s gel stash. “I thought the Harringtons haven’t had magic in, what, five generations?” he asks.
“Garrett,” a tall girl with dark skin says to him, not glancing up from her nails. “Save the genealogy lesson for later.”
“I’m just saying, it’s weird they’d accept a Harrington.” He turns to address me again. “You’re basically rich mortals pretending you matter.”
Wow. Okay, then. I’ve had my fair share of judgements because of my family name, but that’s definitely a new one.
“Thanks for the warm welcome.” I raise a hand to stop him from continuing, giving him a mock indignant look. “But I canassure you there’s no pretense here. I gave up caring what people thought about me a long time ago.”
As for having magic and not being mortal…well, I’ve always known creating fire from my fingertips isn’t normal. I’ve just never been around anyone who’s dropped the wordmagicso casually, as if it’s simply another thing in the world that exists, like ice cream and beach vacations.
I’m contemplating where to even start when a girl with a severe ponytail steps forward, yanking me out of my thoughts.
“I’m Vera Jackson,” she introduces herself. “That’s Sam.” She points her thumb at a nervous-looking boy with messy brown hair who keeps patting his pockets like something important is missing.
“I’m Nina,” says the nail girl.
“And I’m Evie,” says a girl with auburn hair piled into a messy bun, pencils stabbed through like forgotten weapons.
It’s a cool look. Academic chic. I like it.
They all watch me, like they’re waiting for me to tell them more about myself, as if this is a summer camp ice-breaking ritual. Which is insane. But at least they know my name and seem to have been expecting me, which means T didn’t kidnap me and deliver me to criminals in a creepy forest clearing who want to use me as blackmail to extort money from my parents, right?
No,I think, trying to shake some sense into myself.T’s known me forever. She’s basically part of the family. She wouldn’t leave me somewhere dangerous with people who weren’t safe.
Then what, exactly, didshe do? And why didn’t she tell me she was going to do it?
I have so many questions, and she leftbefore I could ask any of them. As if she never cared about me at all. It’s crazy, and unfair, and honestly, I wish I was home right now, takingmy dog Gemma for a walk in Central Park or having drinks at Bemelmans with my friends.
Although, I don’t exactly have friends anymore, since they all left to go to theirrealcolleges already. Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and all the others that sent me those lovely rejection letters I burned in those champagne flutes.
Now I’m here with people who are talking seriously aboutmagic.
Which means they might know why I’ve been able to create fire with my fingers since I was twelve.
Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted—answers to all my questions? Well, I didn’t exactly want it to start with a plane crash and my pilot abandoning me in the woods, but I’m not about to turn down an opportunity to get answers, even if said opportunity isn’t happening in the most ideal of circumstances.
“Look.” I take a deep breath to center myself, addressing the group. “I was heading to Blaze Academy, but my pilot dumped me here with no explanation, no luggage, no phone, no anything. So, if someone could tell me what the hell’s happening here, that would be great.”
They all stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which is funny, since out of everyone here, I feel like the only sane one. And I’veneverfelt like the sane one.
Finally, the gray-eyed guy steps forward, and all attention goes to him, as if he owns this clearing. “I’m Logan Ashford, student proctor,” he says, the title sounding like both a warning and a threat.
“Kieran Cross.” The dangerous-looking guy next to him eyes me sharply as he sizes me up. “Weaponry and Applied Flamecraft instructor.”
“Proctor?” I blink, looking back and forth between the two of them in confusion. “Weaponry? What is this, some kind of hazing ritual?”
“This is the Hydra trial,” Logan says flatly, as if it should be obvious. “First-year initiation. You fight, you collaborate, and you prove you belong at Blaze Academy.”
I stare at him like he’s crazy, because what he just said sounds pretty damn crazy.
Sam raises his hand—actuallyraises his hand—and we all look to him.
