In that moment, in the light of a simple kindness from a near-stranger, the reality of my situation hits me.
I knew it was bad when the cops barged into Kettle Black. Hell, I knew it was bad up on the Grande, as soon I figured out Luke wasn’t Luke. But I guess some part of me still believed things would turn out okay. That I’d be acquitted. That someone—anyone—would put the pieces together and realize there was no way I could’ve committed that heinous crime.
But no one did. And if Dr. Devane hadn’t shown up, I’d be one step closer to Death’s doorstep, slated for torment and execution, all because of the magick blood running through my veins, the damning pentacle inked on my skin.
He saved my life.
“Thank you,” I blurt out, a rush of emotion bubbling into my throat. “Maybe I haven’t said it yet, but I really… Thanks. For breaking me out of jail. Literally.”
And then I laugh, because I never, ever thought I’d utter a phrase like that, and sometimes laughing is the only thing that keeps the monsters from busting down your walls, grabbing you by the hair, and dragging you straight down to hell.
He’s smiling again too, clearly glad for the levity. “I can’t take all the credit, Miss Milan. We make a good getaway team.”
“A regular Bonnie and Clyde.” I drain the last of my iced tea, but when I go to set the glass down, the napkin I’d folded beneath it turns into a Tarot card.
A young man is at the center, dressed in a short tunic and forest green wrap, a stick and bundle slung hobo-style over his shoulder. He carries a bouquet of mistletoe berries, a black greyhound hopping around beside him.
Both are about to step gleefully off the edge of a cliff.
The Fool.
“Did that just… show up?” Dr. Devane asks as I pick up the card for a closer look.
An adventure awaits, Stevie. Leap with reckless abandon, a hopeful spirit, and all the optimism your youth affords. Yet your eyes must remain wide open, for danger lurks over every ledge…
“It’s kind of a thing with me.” I hand over the card for his inspection, but it vanishes at his touch. “It started happening after my parents died. I can’t control it—just try to listen for the messages.”
He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, as if trying to sense the magick that made the card disappear. “What does it mean?”
“It’s always different. But right now?” I push out from the table and rise to gather up the dishes, our momentary peace at its end. “It means it’s time to go.”
Twelve
STEVIE
Instead of climbing back into the Corolla-slash-Lexus mystery machine, Dr. Devane leads us down a narrow dirt path behind the house to a rocky sandstone outcropping tucked in among hills. Down here, we’re totally shielded from all directions, our only spies the black vultures circling overhead.
He’s back in the jacket and tie again, proper as can be despite the heat and dust.
“What now?” I ask. “Is Uber coming for us?”
Without responding, he removes the silver Academy crest from his tie and pricks the tip of his finger with the pin, squeezing until a drop of blood appears. Then, kneeling, he draws a complicated sigil with his finger in the red earth, whispering an incantation I can’t hear. The sigil glows bright white, then sinks into the ground, swallowed by the desert.
Dr. Devane gets to his feet. Seconds later, the earth vibrates beneath us. Blinking away the dust, I watch in awe as an ancient-looking stone staircase shimmers into view, framed at the top with an equally ancient archway. Peering into the portal, I can just make out the turrets of a large, gothic-looking building, four black flags waving from the facade.
“Sweet, sweaty balls of the devil,” I breathe.
Dr. Devane’s lips twitch, but he reigns it in before an actual smile busts through. “Though it must be done with extreme caution to ensure complete secrecy, a portal to the Academy can be opened at an energy vortex by witch or mage who’s pure of intention. It’s advanced blood and sigil magick—a skill you’ll learn during your second year.”
“What if I need it before then?”
“First-year students aren’t permitted off-campus without an escort.”
“I’m twenty-three years old, Dr. Devane. This isn’t high school.”
Surprise flickers through his gaze, and I wonder whether he thought I was older or younger. But before I can ask, he says, “And some of our first-year students are in their fifties. Age isn’t the point. These are dangerous times for witches and mages. You needn’t look farther than your own experiences to understand that. And in your case, you must be doubly careful. You’re supposed to be dead. You can’t risk someone outside recognizing you.”
A chill creeps over my skin despite the oppressive heat, and I rub my arms. “What about on the inside? If I’m in the news, everyone on campus will know I faked my death.”
