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I scoop up the diary from the floor and frown because it’s showing me the coat of arms of Jason’s House, the Kassidy. His family’s real name isKassiel, after the angel of tears and temperance, protector of children and the enslaved. And their beast is, naturally, the wolf. The drawing is small, and I passed over it before without paying much attention, but now I lift it closer.
‘Lycaon in Gloriae Dei’reads above the ferocious beast,‘In terra veritas’below. There is also a crown and twin swords hovering over the wolf’s head.
The crest of his house.
In terra. Doesn’t that mean “in the earth”? The truth is in the earth. The—
Oh God, is that the time? I grab my phone from the nightstand and hiss a curse. I’m late for class and I don’t know why it matters right now, but honestly, I don’t want to be on anyone’s radar today. Not any more than I already am, and that’s too much already.
I shove the diary under my pillow and grab my backpack. Still in yesterday’s clothes, my hair like a nest, I run out the door, then come back and pick up my shoes, too. Let’s not make it worse by making it obvious I’ve gone crazy. Being a witch is enough of a bad reputation already.
Add to that the magical tattoo spelling‘slut’on my back and I’m set. All set to face an academy of bullies who can’t wait to see me fall.
8
MIA
In Lit class, we’re still reading the Tempest.
Of course we are. It feels like ages have passed since I was almost kicked out of the Academy, ice ages and light years, continents rising and falling—but for the rest of the world, time remained unchanged, its pace the same.
Still, it’s weird to be sitting in class once more, discussing magic and illusion, whether Shakespeare was referring to elemental magic or demonblood, if he believed in it at all, since back then the magical races hadn’t come out in the open yet.
To discuss the theatricality in the play when I can feel everyone’s gazes on my back, on my face, as they throw balls of scrunched-up paper at me and mouth insults. When I do my best not to care, when I keep turning the issue of how to make the four boys suffer in my head, even though I have nothing concrete on them yet.
Zoey has her back to me but her nasty girlfriends have turned their phones toward me, showing me a video of me at the party with the glowing neon tattoo on my back and a look of horror on my face. Yes, someone managed to film a close-up on my face as I was trying to see over my shoulder and down at my back.
Nice.
“And what theater references do we have in the text?” the teacher is asking, looking around the classroom. “Anyone? Amy? Matthew? No?”
“The shipwreck?” someone says and that gives the teacher a kind of ecstatic, orgasmic experience because he starts running in small circles with his arms raised, hooting.
Jesus.
Emrys is sitting somewhere to my left and I’m doing my best not to look at him even though my gaze keeps returning to his spiky hair and dark eyes, the broad shoulders with the ink spilling down his biceps, black lines forming demonic faces with open mouths and snakes and God knows what else. His earrings glint silver; the blue crystal hanging from a small chain from his earlobe swings as he leans back. The silver hoop in his nose glints.
And… I’m still staring at him.
Bad girl, Mia. Keep your eyes off him.
So he apologized. Who cares. He still did it, andremember Ophelia.
Never forget Ophelia.
“How about you, Mia?” The teacher walks between the desks toward me. “You read the play. Any other instances of metatextuality?”
“I can’t think of any,” I mutter, tapping my pen on my open notebook, the page blank since I haven’t taken a single note throughout the class.
“I see. What about you, Emrys?” The teacher turns toward the object of my fascination. “Tell us something. You never speak in class.”
“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,” Emrys intones.
“Wow.” The teacher sounds pleased. “Quoting the Tempest? You have read it after all!”
“No, I was actually referring to myself and my gang. The devils, you know?”
“The devils are here,” Az, Emrys’ buddy chuckles. “Hellboys, go!”
