Page 30 of The Witch They Fear

Could he be?

He has kind eyes. He has a witch grandmother who married into a vampire family. He's been nothing but decent since the moment he offered me a staff. And he's a vampire—which means abilities I don't understand, species-specific powers that could include things I've never read about. Telepathy? Mind-speaking? Some bloodline gift that lets him slip inside someone's head and make himself comfortable?

I don't know. I can't know. But the coincidence is a splinter under my nail and I can't stop pressing on it.

"You okay?" Emric asks. His brow furrows slightly. Concerned. Genuine.

"Fine." I reset my stance, shake myself right. "Let's go again."

He studies me for a half-second longer than necessary. Those dark eyes—warm, steady, the kind you trust instantly—search my face for something I'm not going to give him.

Maybe those eyes are the eyes of a predator. Perfect for drawing in prey.

"Okay," he says.

And we go again.

But I'm watching now. Every pause, every silence, every moment where his mouth stops moving and the voice in my head might speak. I'm watching, and the easy thing we had five minutes ago is suddenly threaded with something sharper, and I hate it because he might be exactly what he seems and I might be ruining the one of the only uncomplicated things I've found at this school.

And I need uncomplicated.

I don’t have room for anything else.

File it. Don't decide if it’s him yet. Just file it.

Class winds down. Students rack their staves. The fog has started to lift—the morning light pushing through, turning everything gold at the edges.

"Good work today," Midus says. Then, louder, aimed at the weapons rack where Kage is leaning: "You. Clean up."

Kage straightens. Doesn't speak. Just starts collecting scattered staves, moving through the field with his jaw clenched and his shoulders tight.

I'm at the edge of the field near the stone wall, handing my staff back to Emric, when I feel Kage's approach. The same way I felt the wards on my first day—a pressure change, a shift in the air. My magic is pulling again, that insistent current-reversal that wants to close the distance between us. He's working his way across the field collecting equipment, and his path is bringing him straight toward me.

Emric takes the staff. "See you next class?"

I open my mouth to answer and a hand lands on my shoulder.

Firm, deliberate, I flinch in surprise from the contact. His palm is warm through the fabric of my uniform shirt and the weight of it sends a jolt straight through my chest.

I spin. Kage is right there—inches away, close enough that I can see the individual lines of the scar tissue pulling his lip, the flecks of darker blue in his storm-colored eyes, the way his jaw is set in something that might be amusement or might be a challenge.

"Personal space," I say. "Ever heard of it?"

"Sure." He doesn't move. Doesn't take his hand off my shoulder. "Don't believe in it, though."

My magic flares.

I don't mean it to. It's involuntary—a hot spike behind my sternum triggered by the contact, by the proximity, by whatever frequency his body is broadcasting that mine keeps trying to tune into. The power rushes up my arm toward his hand on my shoulder, back down again, concentrating in my fingertips—

My fingers spark.

I suck in a sharp breath.

Tiny, bright, unmistakable. Little arcs of light crackling from my fingertips like static electricity on a dry day, except it's Louisiana in the humidity and there's nothing static about it.

The sparks dance across my knuckles and lick at the air between us.

His eyes drop to my hand. The smirk vanishes. Something else replaces it—fast, unguarded, a flash of recognition so sharp it looks almost like hunger. His nostrils flare. His pupils dilate by a fraction. For one suspended second, the mask of chaos and confidence drops and I see something raw underneath: a man looking at exactly the thing he's been looking for.