Page 34 of Reckless Witch

“Ignem spirans draconem,” she says.

A shimmer appears face level to the teacher’s left, then evaporates in a puff of smoke.

He lifts a brow. “Any idea what went wrong?”

The girl slumps in her chair. No one replies.

“Anyone else wish to try?” he asks.

A guy stands, tall, with dark hair, probably of the Penncarrow clan. He has the cocky attitude common among young wolf shifters. I hide a smile. This fine male specimen is sure that brute strength will call forth magic. All creatures in Margidda have some sort of magical powers, but witches—and yes, those of Middlewich clan—are the embodiment of magic. Still, this young wolf should be able to conjure a small fire-breathing dragon.

“Ignem spirans draconem,” he booms.

To his credit, a small fire-breathing dragon appears near the window to our left.

Whoops and applause go up. I glance around the room. These are High Potentials and they’re impressed with the conjure of a small fire-breathing dragon?

The dragon screams and breathes fire—then disappears in a bigger puff of smoke than did the girl’s dragon. The shifter drops back into his seat.

“What happened?” a girl asks.

Mr. Cornwall lightly punches his stomach. “You must pull the magic from your center, then push it out with your will. That applies to Longthorpe, Middlewich, and anyone else who uses spells of any kind.”

“Everyone knows that,” another girl says.

I’m betting this girl hails from the Middlewich clan. She would know how to call forth a dragon.

“Ignem spirans draconem,” she says in a clear voice.

A dragon twice the size of the others appears to the teacher’s right. The dragon bellows fire. Mr. Cornwall moves faster than I would have thought possible for a man of his size and dives for the floor just in time to miss being turned into toast. The girl tosses me—me—a satisfied look.

Fiddlesticks.

“Fire breathing dragon,” I mutter.

A dragon twice the size of hers appears. Both dragons scream. The smaller one swoops right in an obvious attempt to get behind my dragon. My dragon whirls. His huge wings brush the heads of the front-row students. They duck as his wicked tail sweeps books from a front row desk. Screams go up as the dragons breathe fire on one another. Mr. Cornwall leaps to his feet and shouts something in a language I don’t understand. Both dragons evaporate.

He faces the students. “Thank you, Ms. Hanson and Ms. Crowe, for demonstrating today’s lesson.”

Ms. Hanson shoots me a dagger-filled look and says, “I understand the lesson perfectly well. I just didn’t feel the need to show off. But what can you expect from a Crowe? She probably threw in a little black magic for good measure.”

Fury rams through me. “My grandmother didn’t consort with Shadows,” I snap.

“Everyone knows she died using Shadow magic,” Ms. Hanson says with cruel satisfaction.

I leap from my seat and shout, “Muzzle.”

Something that looks like string cheese stretches across the girl’s face. Laughs and cries of ‘Oh my God!’ and ‘Look at that,” along with laughter, fills the room. The girl screams. Well, she screams as best a person can when their mouth is covered by magical sting cheese with the strength of duct tape. Duct tape is some strong shit, evidenced by the girl’s futile yanks on the muzzle.

“Ms. Crowe,” Mr. Cornwall’s voice rings out above the din.

The students quiet, all except the girl who’s muzzled. She continues her muffled screams and continues her attempts to tear the muzzle off her mouth.

The teacher motions with his chin toward her. “Do you mind, Ms. Crowe?”

I do mind, but say, “Muzzle remove,” and the muzzle disappears midscream.

The girl’s ear-piercing scream causes me to wince.