By blood and birthright, you are hereby invited to attend Blackthorn Academy for the Arcane, under the protection of the Veil. Your presence is required before the next full moon.
I stare at the words. Read them again. And again.
What the fuck?
I don’t know what the hell this is. Some kind of joke?
“Very funny, Clark,” I say to the only possible person that could have put the envelope there, our cook, if you can call him that…he burns most of what he tries to cook. If you like dry chicken, have him cook it; it’s guaranteed to need at least three glasses of water to get one bite down.
“What?” He draws the question out, clearly half-baked. That’s his normal state, so maybe he just doesn’t have very many brain cells left.
The lights flicker again. Harder this time. The buzz ratchets up until my teeth ache. I wince, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing my temples. Jesus.
When I open them, my gaze catches on the corner booth. The one that’s been empty all morning. There’s someone sitting there now.
Black coat. Black gloves. Dark sunglasses. And dark hair, just long enough to curl against the collar of his coat. Not just dark—inky, like the kind of black that drinks the light. Too long for a small-town cop. Too neat for a drifter. He doesn’t move. He’s as still as a statue as he just…watches. Me.
I freeze. The air in my lungs turns to lead. My stomach drops, the kind of swoop you get when your brakes fail at the top of a hill. Not fear exactly. Something more dangerous, a little more thrilling. My heart kicks against my ribs. Way too fast and too loud, at least to my ears.
He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t belong here in this shitty town. All clean lines and unsettling stillness. Like a man carved from midnight and moonlight. The kind of beauty that makes you stupid. The kind you regret in the morning as you’re sneaking out of their apartment.
And he’s looking at me. As though he’s been waiting. And I’m the only thing he can see.
Heat flares low in my belly. I hate that. Hate the way my body reacts when my mind is screaming,Don’t engage. I blink, hard. He’s still there.
Shoving the letter deep into my apron pocket, I grab a glass, filling it with ice water just to steady my hands. When I glance back at the booth, it’s empty.
My pulse stutters hard. That’s great. Now I’m hallucinating customers. I definitely need an actual night’s sleep. No more reruns ofCharmedorBuffy the Vampire Slayerfor me.
When my shift finally ends, I’m jumpy as hell. The letter’s still in my apron pocket, burning a hole through the fabric. I haven’t looked at it again, although my fingers itch to pull it out and read it again now.
Whatever it is—whatever it means—I want no part of it. I’m not Harry Potter, and I’m sure as hell not running off to some magical Hogwarts. Even if I was obsessed with that whole world as a kid. That isn’t real life.
But something feels wrong. Like eyes on the back of my neck. As though I’m a rabbit and the shadow of a hawk is circling.
I grab my bag and shove out through the front door instead of the back today. Sun’s high. Sidewalks are busy enough. Broad daylight should help, even if it is a little chilly for a late summer day.
I’m halfway down Main when Old Ethel materializes in front of me. No warning at all; it's like she popped out of thin air. I swear she should wear bells. She’s wrapped in one of her tangled, sagging shawls, silver hair braided with tiny bones and beads. No one knows where she gets them. I’m not about to ask.
Her clouded eyes fix on mine. Rumors say she’s blind now, but the way she fixes on me, I’m finding it hard to believe right this second.
“Well, well,” she rasps, and it reminds me of the sound of dry leaves scraping pavement. Her gnarled fingers catch my forearmbefore I can dodge. “The wind’s shifting, child. You feel it? A storm is brewing.”
I roll my eyes, trying to tug free and shake off the way her words sink into me at the same time. “Feels like summer.”
She laughs. Low and eerie. “Not the kind of wind you measure with a weathervane.” Her grip tightens, fingers digging in. “Storm’s coming for you, girl. Best run fast. Or learn to fly. You’ll be swept up like Dorothy going to Oz.”
“What—?”
But she’s already moving, a glide more than a shuffle, disappearing around the corner. My skin crawls. Attempting to shake it off, I head toward home. She had always been a little crazy. But my Gran always seemed to take heed to her words, so they are hard to shrug off completely.
Half a block later, I'm startled again when a vicious bark tears the air.
“Shit!” I stagger back as a hulking mutt hurls itself against a chain in someone’s yard, snapping and snarling. The metal groans but holds. Heart pounding, I force a breath. “Jesus, get it together.”
Sun’s still shining. Street’s still normal. Dog’s just a dog. Old Ethel is still strange. You’re fine.
I adjust my bag and keep going, forcing my steps to stay even.
