The three houses, the three symbols of witchhood, the three vestiges that granted you a sliver of her power.
After graduation, Avery aimed to join House Seren. Her father raised her to be a healer. She was never one to fight. Her sister used to try to spar with her for practice, yet she now knew that Wren had really just wanted to use her as a punching bag. She had an enormous amount of rage as a child, but now she had settled it into a practiced mask, just as their mother did. It had made sense that she had ended up as an enforcer. Avery’s little sister, Gwyn, also had the same problem, yet she preferred to whack girls with lacrosse sticks instead.
Her father was the only one like her. He was dead, and she was dead inside. The family resemblance was palpable.
How he and her mother had gotten along at all baffled her. They were the worst possible match the council could have made. Still, she was grateful her father had been around long enough to leave his gentleness. She missed him dearly. His stories about the outside world had inspired her to follow in his footsteps. Healers, along with enforcers, were one of the few who could visit human territories, working in their hospitals and clinics under diplomatic immunity. Because nothing saystrust me with your appendectomymore than a witch with no formal medical training.
But at least they weren’t putting shifters in hospitals, could you imagine?
Something about the shifters was alluring, though. Recently, there’d been a surge in human literature on a website you could only access through a series of archived forums. Many humans had written about getting freaky with a shifter. Shehad stumbled upon this site during a random,totallyunrelated search at three a.m. She wondered if humans and shifters really did mingle like that. They were different species, so they couldn’t procreate, but she guessed it didn’t stop them from trying. She was ashamed to admit that she had too much time on her hands that night, and she had devoured at least five different novellas describing in intimate detail how one could be pleasantly overpowered by the monsters. The glutton in her tried to search for a witch-shifter pairing story, but that was too far for authors. It was true depravity, and she liked it. Maybe that was why the goddess was punishing her.
“Took you long enough,” Wren said, tightening her ponytail.
There were plenty of retorts on Avery’s tongue, but she didn’t want to give her sister the satisfaction of showing her she was indeed out of breath. Instead, she pursed her lips, showing Wren that the little sister was, in fact, the bigger person here. The amount of satisfaction she got from pissing off her family should really be studied. She was an enigma, a statistical anomaly, a case study in petty behavior.
Wren and Avery walked side by side up the last twisting set of stone stairs that made it harder to hide the shaking of her breath through her nostrils. Would it kill them to put in an elevator? Apparently, it was noticeable enough to have Wren side-eyeing her more than a few times.
“Had a bit much?” she said.
“Shut up, Wren.” So much for being the bigger person.
When they reached the door to their mother’s office, Wren gave a quick knock against the oak in a peculiar pattern, letting the devil know they were there. After a moment, the door opened on its own, beckoning them into her lair.
Their mother’s office was as harsh as she was. Bookshelves lined the walls, each book meticulously color coordinated. A terrible way to organize your books, but she digressed. Hermother’s black pegasus familiar was nowhere to be seen. It was probably ominously hovering somewhere, trying to scare children. The furniture was anything but plush and inviting. This school had an obsession with hard chairs. With all the money they had, you would think they wouldn’t have a problem putting a cushion or two somewhere. Humans supplied most of witches’ income by paying handsomely for enforcers or healers. One of either rank was worth fifty humans, and even then, they had abilities that were priceless. Avery wasn’t sure what that made her, though. Hated and powerless? Without a familiar, she would never fit in anywhere. Too witch for the humans, too human for the witches.
Her mother sat behind her desk, leaning back into a tall chair that appeared more like a throne. Her angular features met the aesthetic of the room. She was gorgeous for her age. Avery would give her that. Although she suspected her mother had gone through the same procedure, which put the stick up Wren’s ass. Her dark hair was slicked back in a bun, without a split end in sight. Avery’s fingers ran through her own hair, the loose waves falling in an unruly mess. She felt a threatening need to pick the scab that healed whenever she was not around her mother and sisters. Instead, she picked at her nails.
“Thank you for coming on short notice, Avery.” Her mother’s tone was cold, its timbre as maternal as a praying mantis.
Avery didn’t say anything. She was quiet as a traumatized mouse.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Avery lied. She knew exactly why she was there.
Her mother slid a piece of paper toward her, her expulsion hand signed in fresh ink at the bottom by the chancellor. She knew it was coming, but still, tears blurred at the edges ofAvery’s vision, the bookshelves swaying a touch bit more than they were before.
“Oh, for goddess’s sake, Avery, don’t cry,” her mother chided.
They were already falling, burning a path down her cold cheeks. She generally wasn’t so sensitive, but this past year had been a lot. “Sorry,” she murmured, wiping them away with the sleeves of her blazer. “I can’t help it.”
“Just like you can’t help your inability to summon even a rat,” her mother tutted.
Avery should bill her for this conversation. It was tacking on another meal to a restaurant of trauma. Unfortunately, it was true. She was an utter failure according to her mother, the university, and hell, probably the whole world at this point. She had even disappointed the singular plant by her windowsill. Its drooping, yellowing leaves yearned for a drop of water. She hadn’t bothered to take care of it because the rest of her life was falling apart.
“I’ve been trying.”
“Trying is not a word in the vocabulary of Caerwyn, Avery.” Her mother leaned forward in her chair, its spires twisting into a snarl that matched her terrifying energy. “You either do, or you don’t.”
“Let me try again,” Avery begged. She was not above getting down on her knees and pleading. Although her knees might suffer for it; being the ripe age of twenty-two had done numbers on her joints.
Her mother sighed. “Why, to fail again? Embarrass this family further like your aunt did?”
She’d always heard about her Aunt Alys, and how terrible she was, but she’d never met her to see that for herself. For some reason, she hadn’t been able to summon a familiar either.
Shame scorched Avery’s cheeks; the familiar feeling engraved itself in her body like a brand she constantly carried.Failuremay as well be tattooed across her forehead. She knew she was running out of time, that it would come to this.
“I just need one more day,” Avery begged.
