Page 7 of The Witch They Fear

Three people are waiting for me.

The woman behind the desk rises first. Tall—taller than me by several inches—with deep brown skin and black hair pulled back in a style so precise it could be architectural. Cream suit, gold at her wrists and throat. Every detail chosen, nothing accidental. She looks like the kind of woman who has never been surprised by anything and would consider it rude if you tried.

"Calypso." She says my name like she's been practicing it—the right amount of warmth, the right amount of welcome. Calibrated. "I'm Leyonna Beaumont. Headmistress of Devenir Academy. Please, sit down."

She gestures to a chair positioned in front of the desk. Leather, high-backed, looks comfortable but probably isn't—designed to keep you upright and attentive. I take it. Set my duffel on the floor beside me and resist the urge to keep it in my lap like a shield.

The second person I already know.

Balcour stands to Leyonna's left, and the sight of him hits me like a small, precise slap. Same starched collar. Same manicured hands. Same posture of a man who considers himself the most important person in any room he occupies and is mildly inconvenienced by the presence of others. He's holding a leather portfolio and a pen, and he doesn't look up when I sit down.

Still not looking at me.

Consistent, at least.

"Miss Dellaby," he says to the portfolio. "Punctual. Good."

The third person hasn't spoken.

He's standing near the window to my right—not behind the desk with the others, not seated, not positioned anywhere that suggests he's part of the furniture. He's just there. Leaning one shoulder against the window frame with his arms crossed, watching me with hazel eyes that catch the late afternoon light and fracture it into something warm that has no business being on a face that still.

I clock him fast because that's what I do—I read rooms the way other people read faces. Three power signatures. Two of them are putting on a show.

The third one isn't bothering.

He's lean and still. Dark red-brown hair cut short on the sides, longer on top, slicked back with a severity that feels deliberate—a man who controls even how his hair falls. All black: long sleeves despite the heat, pants cut military-straight, boots that have seen actual use. No aristocratic finery. He looks like a soldier who wandered into an administrator's office and decided to stay.

His arms are crossed. His posture is loose. And his eyes haven't left me since I walked through the door.

I don't know what he is yet—what role, what rank, what purpose he serves in this room. But my magic knows something. The fail-safe hums against the back of my skull, and underneath it, behind the dampeners, the power in my chest stirs. Not a surge. Not the hot flare from the window or the gate. Something quieter. A recognition. Like a tuning fork vibrating in response to a frequency just below hearing.

I don't like it.

"Calypso," Leyonna says, settling back into her chair. "Let me begin by saying how pleased we are to welcome you to Devenir. This academy has a long tradition of nurturing exceptional supernaturals, and your enrollment represents—"

"A provisionally approved term of supervised integration," Balcour interrupts, still addressing his portfolio. "Pursuant to Council Directive 14-7, subsection B. Miss Dellaby's attendance is conditional upon demonstrated progress in the management and containment of her abilities, with monthly evaluations conducted by myself and submitted to the council for review." He turns a page. "Shall I continue?"

Leyonna's expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker. But something in the air between her and Balcour shifts—a coolness, brief and precise, like a window cracking open in winter.

"By all means, Balcour. It's your show."

So she doesn't like him. Good to know. This is her academy and he's a guest with a clipboard, and they both know it.

"Miss Dellaby has been assigned a personal training supervisor to oversee the development and regulation of her magical abilities." He says this to the room at large—not to me, not to Leyonna, not to the man by the window. To the air. "Professor Aamon will assume full responsibility for—"

"Aamon."

The name clicks into place. The man by the window. Professor Aamon. My training supervisor.

My warden.

I look at him. He looks back. The hazel eyes give me nothing—no warmth, no hostility, no reassurance. They just hold. Steady, patient, ancient. I have the sudden, disorienting feeling that he's been watching me the way I've been watching him—cataloguing, assessing, taking notes on the details I don't know I'm showing.

I don't like that either.

"Professor Aamon has a unique skill set that makes him singularly qualified for this assignment," Balcour continues. "His abilities are classified, so we will not be discussing their specifics at this time."

"Classified." I say it flat. "The man who's supposed to teach me to control my abilities—his own abilities are classified."