Phillip’s grasp slips, and he snatches after me again. “Don’t be such a fucking?—”
His hand closes around my wrist at the same moment as I twist to dodge him, clenching a fist. The bones grind together so hard a whimper slips from my mouth.
The anger in Phillip’s eyes flickers with a hint of fear. I think he might have let me go on his own, except the next instant he is getting punched in the nose… only not by me.
Because Asher gets there first.
“Let go of her, you prick,” he snaps, giving the other guy a shove for good measure.
Phillip teeters back a step, clutching his face and staring at the lower classman he’s probably never given the time of day to before like a pet chihuahua just went feral. But Asher is already tuning him out and turning toward me instead, his brow knit with concern.
His hand rises toward my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
The adrenaline of the moment spikes into pure terror with a flood of memory.
“Why would anyone— There’s so much blood, Lo. So much. I can’t?—”
Ephemera quivers against my searing wounds, but the pain keeps throbbing on. My vision has hazed, as foggy as the damp evening.
There’s a rustle and a soft thump as Asher tosses down his gloves. “Maybe if I— Fuck, thishasto work.”
One hand brushes over the gouged clothing on my back with a prickle of condensed energy. Does he even realize when his thumb grazes a shred of my slashed flesh through the fabric?
A sudden blaze of light and warmth surges through me. It washes away the agony. Everything broken melds back together with a heady, tingling rush that floods from my scalpto the soles of my feet. It’s the most wonderful sensation I’ve ever felt?—
Until Asher’s scream splits the air.
Past and present realities collide. My body jerks away from Asher’s reach with an echoing scream of my nerves.
“Don’t touch me!” I blurt out. “Stay away from me.”
I spin on my heel and stride off toward the closer stairwell, clutching the strap of my satchel for dear life through the whirling of my head.
Fifteen
Colson
Idon’t look up from the report I’m reading as my next class—15thyears—trickles into the classroom. The privileged elitists who attend Luminary Academy already feel entitled to a fuck of a lot more than they’ve earned. I like to remind them that they’re not entitled to my attention until they’re actually performing their work.
From the chatter and guffaws that bounce off the high ceiling, my students aren’t heartbroken over my disinterest. It’s difficult to tell whether they even notice.
They rarely do until the grade I give them could tip their future in one direction or another.
A smile I shouldn’t indulge tugs at my lips at the thought.
My flicker of good humor snuffs out an instant later with the arrival of a student who snags my attention despite my best intentions. I can’t stop myself from tracking Elodie Devine’s path across the classroom from the corner of my eye.
Something isn’t right about her this week. I’d swear it on my professorship.
It’s not the purple tint she’s added to her hair, although I wouldn’t have predicted she’d make that fashion choice either. She’s dressed in the standard uniform, and she sits next to the same friends—for now, until I enjoy reshuffling the social order. To a casual observer, her smile at whatever Cadance Hathaway said probably looks like the same coy curve of her lips as always.
The energy around her is different, though. Not in a way I can put my finger on, not with a clear picture drawn in the ephemera she carries, but a subtle shift that niggles at the edge of my awareness.
The way shesits, legs crossed beneath the desk, elbows resting on its top, head canted to one side—it doesn’t have quite the careless affectation of her peers, does it? The affectation she’s shared with them, as far as I can recall, for as long as I’ve been teaching here.
There’s a slight tension in her stance, an alertness to her small movements, as if she’s… wary? Determined?
About what?
