He doesn’t drag his attention off his phone.
Doctor Mort perks up at the answer, but his smile fades when he sees who gave it.
“Dyson, in the future, please allow myactualstudents to answer the question.” Doctor Mort gives the other warlock a disapproving frown, but if Dyson sees it, he doesn’t react. “However, our friend here is correct. Warlocks are able to call on their magic from a well inside of them. It’s why they’re often tired and lethargic after a particularly long day of casting. Witches, on the other hand, can pull magic from every living thing.”
The image in the orb shifts again, revealing a woman standing in a meadow. Shimmering pink light erupts from the ground, cascades up her legs, and then congregates in the palms of her hands.
Huh. I didn’t know that, and from Izzy’s gasp of surprise, she didn’t either. I always assumed that witches and warlocks were the same and that the only difference was the gender.
“Now, this begs the question—which one is more powerful? A warlock or a witch?” He waves his hand, and the orb disperses, taking away the image. He begins to pace in front of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “This debate has been occurring for centuries now. Some say that witches are the most powerful?—”
“Of course they are,” a girl retorts from the other side of the room, absently playing with the ends of her long ponytail. “They don’t get tired and can pull magic from basically anything.”
Doctor Mort’s lips twitch. “That’s true. But a lot of people argue that warlocks are more powerful because they inherently have more magic running through their veins. Think of it this way. A witch has a cupful of magic inside of them that they’re constantly able to refill. A warlock, however, has a bathtub of magic inside of them. It may not be easy to refill, but the sheer, inherent power they hold is ten times the amount of a witch.”
He pauses, and his keen gaze tracks us all. “So I’ll ask you again—which one is the most powerful?”
No one answers.
After a moment, a skinny girl lifts her hand in the air but answers before the doctor can call on her.
“Has there ever been anyone who has both witch and warlock traits?” Her tentative question causes a few brows to rise. She blushes but continues. “I mean, can they have a bathtub worth of magic inside of them but be able to refill it from their environment?”
Her cheeks turn redder with every word she says. By the time she has finished asking her question, she resembles a tomato.
“No,” Doctor Mort says quickly. Almost…too quickly. “That type of power is too dangerous for nature to allow to run unchecked. Now, moving on…”
Doctor Mort continues his lesson, but I tune him out, thinking back to his quick, dismissive answer.
What, exactly, is he hiding?
And how can I uncover the truth?
Nine
IZZY
The next class is arivetinglecture on early witchcraft literature. And nooo, I’m not being sarcastic in the slightest.
Cue—eye roll.
We sit in an amphitheater overlooking a single podium where a tall, gangly-looking woman speaks. Unlike the first professor, who at least attempted to make his lesson interesting with illusions, this one feels the need to speak in a monotone voice.
“…and she founded what is now known as gothic literature, though of course, she chose not to take the credit…”
Yes, because witches and warlocks aresohumble.
Cue—second eye roll.
Ansel sits on one side of me, and in the darkness, I can almost pretend we’re alone. I can feel heat emitting from his body, and I want nothing more than to lean into him. Rest my head on his shoulder. Take his hand in mine.
But despite everything we’ve been through together, I’m not sure if we’re there yet in our relationship. He doesn’t know about the mate bonds with the other guys and has only just learned about the supernatural world.
God, there’s so much I want to talk to him about, but we never have a minute alone. Our shadows are always with us—Celeste chatting away a mile a minute and Dyson smirking like he knows something none of us do. I want to put duct tape over the former’s mouth and punch the latter in the face.
By the time class is dismissed, I have a pounding headache, my ass hurts from sitting for too long, and my right leg has fallen asleep, tiny prickles radiating up the length of it.
“We have lunch next!” Celeste says cheerfully, flashing me a smile. “Do you remember where the cafeteria is? Of course, it doesn’t matter. I’m heading down there anyway and can show you?—”
