I pocketed my phone in my hoodie, then settled in for the session.
Grimoire Creationwas considered a special sort of class.
Only those flagged by aptitude assessments during the application process ashigh-potential innovatorswere permitted to attend. It was basically invitation-only.
My background and the foundation I had from being tutored in the magical arts since a young age by three of my parents—Mom, Father, and Dad—had provided me with an unusually balanced grasp of power theory and, despite being a first-year student, an intermediate-level comprehension. Possibly beyond, if Father’s own assessment had been anything to go by. Dad had been more reserved where that was concerned. Yes, because of my reluctance to further my necromantic training.Furthering itto him, though, meant exceeding even high-level know-how and practice, something even magic-wielders tens of years older than me weren’t capable of. So his standards were incredibly high where that was concerned, and he was intense about it—as his insistence on him taking me on as an officialapprenticehad been a testament to.
I just hoped I could resolve my glitching issue before that happened.
There was still time, at least.
Just like with this course.
I’d accepted the invitation and been so excited about it before the issue with my necromantic side had become so pronounced and much more frequent. With that in play now, it complicated things.
Fortunately, this course was theory for the first several weeks, before anything could be put into practice, and spells were actually tested, magic used.
I blew out a breath and tapped my pen against the first page of my open journal—a massive leather-bound thing with gold veins running through it, the raised letters on the front that readGrimoire Belonging to Winter Noxeven actual gold themselves. Pops had gotten it made specially for me. He couldn’t contribute from a magic-wielder perspective, but he found many other ways to do so. And I loved him for it—for all of it.
I looked out as the room filled up.
Well, to an extent.
There were only a select number of students in this particular class.
Outside of me, I only counted eight.
Two of them were Kai Hunter fanboys up at the front, although at separate desks. There was no partnering up in this course and room was also needed to sift through dozens of formulas and symbols, not to mention the actual intensity of the lab work that would come later as well.
A Light Fae sat across from them. She was one of the princesses from that realm, Octana Reyolde, in a shimmering white and pink tailored pantsuit, her mermaid-colored hair cascading down her back.
I noted a Vampire-Sorcerer in the middle of the room with a shaved head and a willowy build who I’d seen around campus. I believed his name was Theo.
A couple was situated to the right, and I smiled when I saw they’d pushed their desks a little closer together. That was very sweet. One was a sorceress, the other a Werewolf-Dark Fae. They’d both come to class in matching black sweats with Loxley Academy emblazoned on them.
A Shadowmancer was over by the window, and I saw him playing with some shadow shapes as he wove peacefully on his desk, his arms in his zebra-print blazer moving gracefully, his dark curls being blown all over by his magic.
Then a few desks over from him was a sorcerer who’d introduced himself to me in the Cafeteria a couple of days ago. His name was River Leroux. He was a fourth-year, and his mother was the leader of the Maven Coven, which had once been an elitist institution, but had since been modernized under her charge for the last twenty-plus years. It was the Coven that Kai Hunter had originally come fromandthat Dad had unbound Kai from, giving him his freedom. The guy had silky black wavy hair that brushed the collar of his dress shirt that was my favorite color—cobalt. It was untucked over a pair of supremely tight jeans. He kept looking over at Octana with a flirty eye, and she’d glare at him and mouth a curse word back.
“Ah, my best and brightest!” a voice came from the door, and we all looked to see Professor Connor Price striding in, a three-quarter-length gray wool coat sweeping behind him as he went. He had a white dress shirt half tucked into a pair of distressed blue jeans.
As he reached the front of the room, he shoved his hand through his spiky brown hair, then slapped his briefcase that had Guardian Movement branding on it down on the desk up there.
With a sweep of lime magic, the locks flicked open sharply, and then he was pulling out a well-worn gray leather-bound book.
“My own grimoire,” he spoke, when he noted all eyes in the classroom on it.
The worn nature of it made sense then, given that according to the guidebook he was over three hundred years old. He’d actually been a part of the Guardian Movement, a member through the ups and downs, initially working under Cornelius Martel when he’d first headed it, before Cornelius had become Inter-Realm Ambassador and also headed the clandestine magical innovation group, Arcanum Order. Ryker Morgan had headed the Guardian Movement for the last few decades. What a jolting leadership change that must have been. It was amusing that Dad worked closely with both of them—Cornelius Martel through Arcanum Order and Ryker Morgan as unofficialloose oversightof Dad’s organization, Requital. Well, if anyone could work with such different personalities and use it to his advantage, it was the infamous Sylas Morgrave.
The calculating nature of it, of Dad, reminded me a little bit of Vaxan actually.
A little bit.
There wasn’t more to it than that.
I didn’t have anydaddy issues.I had three fathers and I didn’t suffer from that. Absolutely not.
“My special set of students, to be clear, this isn’t a class constituting fun,” the professor spoke as he levitated his grimoire before him and had his lime magic flip rapidly through its many pages. He then grinned out at us. “Just kidding. It totally is.”
