Page 14 of Bone Year

“This is Felix,” she says, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. “He’s a brown-nosing demon who plays assistant to the headmaster.”

Felix sighs.

“Go ahead,” she adds, already turning away. “I’ll head to the library and pick up your books for you. Head back to your room after.” She waves dismissively in his direction and stalks off before I can protest. I glance between her retreating back and the demon beside me.

“After you then,” I say.

Felix turns and starts walking. I fall into step beside him.

“So,” I say, sneaking a sideways glance at him, “you’re a demon?”

“Last I checked,” he says under his breath.

The tone makes it very clear the conversation is over, and I guess I’m perfectly fine with that. I have more important things to worry about at the moment.

Maybe the headmaster will know something about what was written at the bottom of my invitation to Ashwell. Maybe he will be able to tell me if my father was the one who applied for me in the first place. We cross yet another stretch of stone walkway covered in ice. Gods, I am certainly going to stay fit here with how far apart everything is. I won’t be jogging with Jace anymore, but it seems I will be getting my exercise simply trying to navigate the layout of this school’s campus.

We finally stop in front of a tall, narrow stone tower riddled with arched windows that stretch skyward, disappearing into the drifting gray above. Once inside, warmth rushes over me, so I tug off my jacket and drape it over my arm before I start sweating. The contrast from the bitter cold outside makes my skin prickle as I follow Felix up several flights of stairs, the steady echo of our footsteps bouncing off the stone walls.

Felix stops at a single door tucked along a quiet landing and lifts a finger, pointing.”Knock. He’ll see you when he’s ready.”

Then he turns and descends the stairs, leaving me alone in the corridor.

A flicker of panic stirs. Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in trouble?

I lift my hand, hesitating inches from the door, when it creaks open on its own.

A spike of tension slides down my spine.

I have no idea if he opened it with magic or if the door simply sensed my presence, but either possibility is unsettling. Blood mage, whatever the fuck that means. I clear my throat louder than necessary and peer inside.

He sits at a massive desk near the far side of the room, head bowed, attention fixed on something in front of him, as though I am not standing here at all.

I step inside and quietly close the door behind me then glance around as I move toward the chair positioned in front of his desk. The walls are lined from floor to ceiling with shelves overflowing with books, not arranged neatly for show but stacked in layered rows. Between the shelves are glass bottles filled with softly glowing liquids, trays of metal instruments shaped for purposes I cannot begin to guess, and strange trinkets that hum faintly with restrained energy. The space feels less like an office and more like a private laboratory fused with a personal library.

Every instinct in me wants to drift closer, to study the shelves, to touch something, to understand any of it. Instead, I lower myself into the chair, folding my hands in my lap and forcing my spine straight.

“Maelis Rose,” he says, still not looking up.

I swear I have heard my full name more in the past twenty-four hours than in my entire life.

“Yes,” I answer.

“You didn’t apply to Ashwell,” he says, dark reddish-brown hair slipping loose over his forehead as he flips a page in the book he’s reading.

“I know.” I’m not sure what he’s getting at or how he even knows that. Shit, maybe the fae who came to collect me told him what I said. He can’t send me away now. I haven’t found anything out yet, and things are just starting to get interesting.

“Yet, you’re here.”

Silence stretches between us until he snaps the book shut. The sharp sound makes me flinch. I look from the closed cover to him as his head finally lifts, dark eyes meeting mine. Brown so deep they border on black, heavy-lidded and assessing. The kind of gaze that feels less like being looked at and more like being weighed.

“You’re aware Ashwell doesn’t accept humans,” he continues.

My jaw tightens. “So I’ve been told.”

“And yet you arrived without reluctance.”

His gaze drags over me slowly, from my face to my boots and back again, clinical and unhurried, like he’s taking inventory.