Bixby drops into his chair, his rubber boots squeaking under his desk. Nix couldn’t have imagined that he could get any paler, but he’s almost green, and there’s sweat dripping from his brow. “You should say something to him before we’re on our way to the Guarda.”
“Shit. Yeah.” Grayson approaches his teacher’s desk. “I’m sorry, Professor Bixby. I don’t know what came over me.” Grayson bows his head. Nix knows he hadn’t expected to wield that flow, and despite how skilled he really is, he’s still learning. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”
In this life.
“No, I don’t expect you have,” the older man grumbles. He shakes himself and uses both hands to slick back his three strands of hair. “Impressive. Offensive Water Affinities are advanced Magic, Pearc—Grayson. They require a degree of creativity and control I haven’t seen from you before…”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“Could you do it again?” Bixby asks, curiosity making his voice kinder than it had been earlier.
Grayson doesn’t answer with words, just creates something different this time. A broadsword.Poof.A rapier.Poof.A single bread knife, which Grayson uses to stab the apple on his teacher’s desk.
The second he takes his hand away, the knife begins to melt.
Nix had expected Bixby to be frightened or angry, but the little man claps, a big smile on his face. “Well, I’ll be! That’s amazing. Now, you say you didn’t know you could do that until just now? I wonder what else you could do.”
The class tone vibrates in the halls, and Bixby’s face falls. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out. There’s no sense in coming to this class tomorrow, Grayson. I’ll speak to the headmaster about extra study. Yes, you’ll likely need one-on-one tutoring after school. I have time Tuesdays and—”
He’s already rearranging his entire week in his head; Nix can practically see the mental calendar flipping.
Grayson inclines his head just enough to be respectful, shoulders still squared. “I’m sorry, sir, but my schedule is full.”
“Yes, yes. I meant after school hours.” He rubs his hands together. “I think we should dedicate three days a week?” His stylus is poised above the tablet, ready to write Grayson’s name. “From four to eight?”
“No, sir, I can’t. I have children and a pack. I am needed at home.”
Bixby’s eyes narrow. “Now see here, you can’t be serious. Your family will be there when you get home. Surely, this new Affinity takes priority. With this kind of skill, you can be a valuable asset to the Guarda. Or the Secret Service! Maybe even an attendant to the Were President!”
The fervor of ambition gleams in Professor Bixby’s eyes, each lofty suggestion more absurd than the last.
Nix doesn’t even have to look at Grayson to know how wrong the man is. Those titles might dazzle someone who craves recognition, but Grayson? He’s never wanted power for power’s sake. He doesn’t dream of ranks or ribbons or someone else’s agenda. He wants peace. Balance. A life built in the light, and not as a weapon carved from obligation.
“I’m not interested in being anyone’s weapon, Professor. My family comes first.”
And just like that, Nix’s soul is full to bursting.
“Now see here, Pearce—”
Professor Bixby’s tirade dies mid-syllable as the door slams open and a towering figure sweeps in. The man appears to be in his late sixties, yet the gravity he carries could hush a crowd of thousands. Black and crimson robes billow around him, hiding his hands and feet so completely that it seems he glides rather than walks.
Bald, with thick, furrowed brows that jut over large, bulging eyes in an abnormally large head. They miss nothing, and lurking in his enormous shadow is none other than Dahlia Kirwan.
She’s different from the trembling woman who’d cowered in her apartment. Gone is the skittish bird poised to flee. This version tilts her head with sharp, darting motions, eyes glinting like a crow’s. Whatever fear she once wore like feathers has been plucked away, leaving something leaner, meaner—and much more dangerous.
Hackles lifting, Nix’s wolf wants her scrawny neck between his teeth.
“Grayson Pearce,” the big man booms.
“Headmaster Percival.” Grayson bows. “This is my soulmate, Nix Rhodes.”
The big man’s eyes scan the room before landing on Nix. His lips purse as if he’s tasted something particularly bad. He doesn’t acknowledge Grayson’s introduction, and his racist behavior is consistent with everything Jamie and Gideon have shared about their earlier interactions and the headmaster’s distaste for the Were community.
“Several students have reported that you created aweaponin this class.”
“And you pointed it at Professor Bixby,” Dahlia adds, a look of perverse glee on her bird-like face.
Grayson doesn’t wait for either to speak again. “Sir, I have never done that before.”
