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I hadn’t meant to ask but it has been on my mind and the images it conjures are… scorching. My body responds, tightening everywhere, my dick hardening. “Listen… I got you a gift, too.”
“That atheist book?”
“What?” I stare at her.
“Marx. Idol something?” She huffs. “Idol of the gods?”
“Oh that. No. You can find that in the library anyway.”
Her eyes widen. “Of course! The library. It’s a school. Of course there is a library.”
I frown. “Yeah… Where were you going to do your research?”
She averts her gaze. “Right. In the library, of course. I love libraries.”
“Me, too.” I find myself smiling, despite the excruciating pain in my leg, the throb inside my head. “Back to the gift.”
“What is it?” I catch a glimmer of curiosity in her dark eyes when she faces me again.
I pull the small can of spray from my pocket and offer it with a flourish.
A startled laugh escapes her. “Pepper spray? In a school of magic?”
“There are bullies everywhere. And you may be a witch, but you don’t want to unleash uncontrollable magic when pepper spray can do the job, right?”
“Right,” she breathes, taking the can from me. “I… Thank you. That’s thoughtful of you. Even if, you know… you’re a bully, too, so that makes the gift kind of hypocritical.”
“I’m an arrogant asshole,” I say. “I admit it. But I’m not a bully.”
“Well, others would disagree,” she says icily. “Thanks for the gift. I have work to do.”
I watch her go, not sure what to think anymore. What isn’t she telling me? Why is she so angry with me? Withus?
It’s probably Melissa and her friends, I decide as I return to my room, only to find that the others have left, too, presumably returning to their own rooms. The disappointment I feel leaves me as disoriented as the strange ripple of magic had done. At least there is no blood. They haven’t gotten themselves killed in the three seconds I was gone.
Back to Melissa. She has always hated us magical creatures, and also boys in general. They’ve been feeding Mia stories, I’ll bet, convincing her that we’re the bogeymen. That she should be afraid of us.
And I have to admit they’re right…
10
MIA
After plodding through an hour of algebra that gave me a pounding headache, it’s a pleasure to be in a language class again.
Even if it’s French class and I’m distracted because Jason is sitting way too close to me, in all his blond tousled-haired, square-jawed, green-eyed glory. He looks a little disheveled, though. He arrived to class late and of course the only available desk was the one next to mine, as nobody wanted to be near me. Being a witch—even a fake one—is apparently just another nail in my coffin.
Now, not only do they hate me because I tried to be one of them and failed, but also on principle, because witches are bad. As bad as the other magical races, apparently, but somehow also worse because I’m not a hot boy they can crush on.
I wonder what human boys in the Academy think of all this mess. I haven’t actually talked to any, though they are sitting here, in class, in their little circles, shooting me curious glances.
Honestly, I still can’t wrap my head around the notion that my adoptive family belongs to a line of witches. Witches who’ve apparently renounced their magic, I guess. Again, I wonder if Ophelia knew. I was practically a prisoner in the Church; any contact I had with the outside world was controlled and regulated, but she was here, in the Academy. She must have known. Did she have magical abilities?
I dreamed of her again last night. I’d fallen asleep in my clothes on the bed where I’d lain thinking what to do, how to keep the illusion and the lie going when I don’t have a lick of magic to boast of, until I get the boys to tell me something I can use against them.
Or until Melissa finds something out. I have to go talk to her, I—
“Qui veut répondre à la question?” the teacher taps on what she’s written on the blackboard, and I huddle a little in my seat because my French isn’t all that good. “Oui, mademoiselle.”
