Page 11 of Reckless Witch

“It’s mine,” I blurt.

Jax’s intense gaze spears me. “You can’t go home again.” Embarrassment warms my cheeks, but he saves me from a stupid denial by adding, “You want the truth about your grandmother’s death?” He motions with his chin at my hand. “This is your chance.”

He’s right, which I hate.

“That’ll be fifty.” Jax holds out his hand.

I can’t really spare the money, but Jax isn’t much better off than I am. I reach into my bra and withdraw the cash I got from the shifter, count out two fifties, and slap them into Jax’s waiting palm. “Thanks,” I say as I head for the door.

“Be careful,” he calls. “That dragon protection is good stuff, but you never know.”

I halt at the far end of the living room and turn. “Dragon protection?”

He rolls his eyes. “The sigil binds your magic, right?”

Jax really is too smart for his own good. “Yeah,” I say slowly.

“Without protection, you would be left at the mercy of some demon or asshole Margiddian who wants to take advantage of you. Dragon protection is serious shit. Still…” He shrugs.

“There’s a protection spell in the sigil?” Why hadn’t I sensed that? “Thanks.” I say, then hurry from his building and step into the cold for the last time this night.

I keep my head down, but keep an eye on my surroundings. My place is a quick jog five blocks down and two over from Jax’s place. Just far enough to enter an even worse part of town. What would it be like to stroll home instead of walking fast while pretending to appear nonchalant? I picture Stony and I eating breakfast in Gram’s sizeable kitchen. I’d always wanted to learn how to really cook. That kitchen is the perfect place to learn. My fingers itch to leaf through Grams’ potion books. She wrote everything down. I could easily take over the potionary business and be a true and respectable witch. God, what would that even look like?

Ten minutes later, I climb my building’s rickety stairs to the second floor. The wards I put in place almost hum like a live wire at my approach. My keys jingle loudly in the darkness as I unlock my apartment door. I open the door a few inches and wait until Stony’s snout appears in the crack.

“All clear?” I whisper.

She snuffles and turns back into the apartment.

Stony, a white micro pig with one black ear, is on the small side as micro pigs go, maybe forty pounds. She’s not one for English. She’s an equal-rights familiar who expects me to interpret her range of grunts, squeaks, and squeals as often as she has to deal with my words. When she was a piglet, we were fairly well balanced—an equal fifty-fifty—although, with the passage of time, communication is downright ridiculous. The last time she spoke English was nearly a month ago, and only because she wanted Chinese takeout. We’ve been together only three years, but I trust Stony with my life. Having to deal with grunts and squeaks in lieu of words is a small price to pay for safety and loyalty.

I flip on the light and survey my studio apartment. Furniture consists of a futon, a plastic lawn chair I found in a dumpster and a tiny, plastic table I got at a yard sale. The table is wonky. As I toss my keys down, even that sleight weight makes it wobble.

I spin left, drop onto the futon, and fall back. Something sharp digs into my thigh. I shift my leg and lift a fork. On the floor to the left is an empty carton of Chinese fried rice I’d left in the fridge. I give Stony a glare. She doesn’t care. She’s already comfortably sprawled under the window, snoring.

“Clean up after yourself,” I mutter.

She snores louder.

I stare at the sigil glittering on the back of my hand. If Jax is right, I can twist this to my advantage.

I roll onto my stomach. “Stony, wake up.”

She flicks an ear.

“You’ll have to get up early,” I warn.

She’s going with me. I don’t want her locked in the apartment in case I can’t get back. More than one rumor claims The Academy is a one-way trip.

Stony lifts her head. I read her look. She doesn’t do ‘early.’

“Got an appointment at the Illumina Academy in the morning,” I say. “Summons, rather.”

This time, she grunts, “Illumina?” in her cute piggy snort.

Stony’s not a fan of The Academy, but for entirely different reasons than mine. Several months ago, we passed a couple of Academy students sitting outside a Starbucks. One of them called her a ‘porker’ and said she’d make a tasty side of bacon. He hadn’t known what thin ice he’d treaded.

I squirm onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Exhaustion washes over me. I’d been stressed before Ethan introduced himself and made things worse.