Page 43 of The Witch They Fear

Chapter 8

Friday at Devenir Academy is technically designated for independent study.

"Which means," Nellie told me yesterday, grinning over her shoulder as she told me about her plans of a mandatory wine night with her roommate, "that nobody studies and everyone pretends the hangover on Saturday morning is from academic exertion."

I'm not invited to the debauchery. I wasn't not-invited either—Nellie asked, twice—but the thought of walking into a dormitory full of strangers with a vampire enforcer trailing me like a shadow sounded like a special circle of hell I wasn't ready for. So instead I'm in my cottage, cross-legged on the bed, with a brand new laptop balanced on my knees and a note from Balcour pinned to the pillow beside me.

Miss Dellaby—Enclosed: one laptop computer for academic use. Your browsing activity, communications, and downloads will be monitored per the terms of your provisional enrollment. —Balcour

Of course they will.

The laptop is sleek and new and probably costs more than everything else I own combined. It appeared on my doorstep this morning in a plain box with the council's seal on the tape. No wrapping. No card beyond Balcour's note. The institutional equivalent of a fruit basket from someone who doesn't like you but needs you to have internet access.

I opened it anyway. Beggars, choosers, etc.

The screen glows in the dim cottage. I've been alternating between a chapter on directed channeling theory and a research paper Malloy assigned on the ethics of cross-species magical partnerships. The paper is dry and dense and written by someone who clearly considers semicolons a personality trait, but the content is relevant enough that I've been highlighting sections and taking notes in the margins of my notebook.

Between chapters, I practice.

The resonance stone sits on the bed beside me. I pick it up every twenty minutes or so, wrap my hands around it, close my eyes, and channel.

Down, not out. Into the stone. The riverbed.

It's getting easier.

Each time the thread flows smoother, holds longer, costs less effort. The stone hums against my palms like a second heartbeat—steady, patient, waiting for whatever I give it. I've done six clean channels today without a single spike or crack. Yesterday, during my session with Aamon, he had me do twelve. Twelve controlled flows in forty-five minutes, each one slightly longer than the last, and by the end my arms were trembling but the stone was still intact and his expression had shifted from professional neutrality to something I couldn't quite read.

He spent most of the session on the opposite side of his underground lair from me. Behind the table, against the bookshelf, in his chair—always across the room. Close enough to instruct, far enough that our magic wouldn't interface unless he chose to close the distance. After the mirroring in our first session—his hands on mine, my power flowing through him—he seems to be maintaining a deliberate buffer zone. I think about Malloy's lecture. Repeated, intensive magical exchange creates a compounding debt. Maybe he's being careful. Maybe he read the same textbook.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to touch me again.

I push that thought away before it can settle anywhere uncomfortable and open a new tab on the laptop. Type a message to Nellie through the academy's internal portal—the only communication platform Balcour's surveillance setup allows.

Hey. I got a laptop. Council-issued, council-monitored, council-approved for "academic use." So basically a fancy tracking device that also does homework. But at least we can talk through here now instead of hoping Leopold isn't lurking in the upper rows with his ears open. I doubt they're going to spring for a cellphone anytime soon.

I hit send. Lean back against the headboard.

Speaking of…

My mind drifts to Leopold. To Aamon. The two of them sit side by side in my head sometimes, like portraits in one of those hallway galleries—two different flavors of the same species. Both dangerous. Both mysterious. Both operating with agendas I can't fully see. Aamon's danger is quiet, controlled, a locked room with a key he keeps in his pocket. Leopold's is louder—performative, seductive, the kind that shows you its teeth and expects you to be impressed.

Neither of them is to be fucked with. I know that in my bones. The difference is that one of them has shown me something other than teeth, and the other put his blood on my bag and told me he could find me whenever he wanted.

The laptop pings. Nellie's reply:

FINALLY. Also: "fancy tracking device that also does homework" is going on a t-shirt. Wine night update: Petra tried to ward the wine bottle and it exploded. Red everywhere. My white shirt is a casualty. Thinking of you in your cozy cottage of solitude. xo

I smile. Close the laptop. Pick up the stone one more time. Channel. Hold. Release.

Seven clean channels today. A record on my own.

I set the stone on the nightstand and stretch. My shoulders pop. My stomach growls—loud, insistent, angry about being ignored for hours. I swing off the bed and pad to the kitchen.

The fridge is empty. Not almost empty—empty. A half-lemon turning grey on the middle shelf and a bottle of water. The cabinets aren't much better: instant coffee, a sleeve of crackers with three crackers left, and a jar of peanut butter that's been scraped so clean the inside is practically polished.

Perhaps I could have eaten with Nellie more instead of depleting my food stores.

I could go to the dining hall. It's still open—Friday nights run late, according to Nellie. The thought of walking across campus in the dark isn't thrilling, but the thought of eating three crackers and a grey lemon for dinner is worse.