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So I was right. That’s what the books claimed, too. Witches need a medium through which to access the elements. Other elementals are the conduits. I called for water and instead, I called a water elemental. Because I’m not a Queen like my cousin but your usual, average witch, with all the limitations that entails.
I probably have a dominant element, too. Maybe it’s water, since it’s the first one that obeyed my request.
“And now that you’re here,” I whisper, “you should leave. Go back to your classes, Percival.”
“No, I… I want to help you get through to Ashton,” he says. “I have been thinking about it.”
“Really. That’s a surprise.” I rub my hands together to get rid of the clumps of soil stuck to them. “Now you care? What happened, he ignored you?”
“I…” He looks nonplussed. “How did you know?”
“I’m a witch.”
“Huh.”
“As you can tell.”
“Yeah.”
“But that’s not why I said… Ah, forget it.” I sigh. “What’s going on, Percy?”
“Look.” He folds his arms over his chest. “I thought he was in love.”
“And what clued you in to the fact that he isn’t?”
“He… looks unhappy.”
I arch a brow at him. “How observant of you. But love doesn’t always equal happiness.”
“Yes, fine. But he looks blank. Indifferent. Hasn’t asked about his brother once. Hasn’t talked about the topics he likes. He’s not himself. Something’s wrong.”
“Damn right. But I don’t know how you can help me get him out of that bind, Percy. Ophelia is a witch, a strong witch, and you’re not even a very magical vampire, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
A slow, reluctant grin pulls at his lips. He’s kind of cute, I realize, when he’s not riding his high horse. “No, not very magical,” he agrees. “But, well, if you ever need an army of vampires keeping her away from you or him, just say the word.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I might.”
You never know when a vampire army might come in handy.
It’s Lit class time and I’m waiting, seated at my desk, for Emrys to arrive. I slipped in early, the moment the previous class moved out, and chose a desk close to where he normally sits.
It’s a risk. He may not come. He may not sit here today. He may not notice or care.
It’s hard work, catering to a demon who likes carving messages instead of using more conventional means of communication.
But when he enters, my heart melts. I’m a puddle of goo on the floor. My demon boy is so pretty. So handsome, his spiky hair and piercings giving him an edge, so that his beauty shines like a naked blade. He stalks to his usual seat—yes!—and sinks down in it, his six-foot-two muscular body folding in behind the desk.
He slaps his notebook and pen in front of him and then seems to pay attention to the lecture for a little while, taking notes.
A shocker, honestly.
Afterward, though, he proceeds to stare at the far wall and ignore the teacher throughout the rest of the class—his usual attitude—not showing any sign of having seen my message.
Damn.
At some point, he closes his notebook and toys with his pen, before gathering his things and throwing them back into his backpack. He gets up to go as the teacher is writing on the blackboard and we all stare as he stalks to the door.
He opens it—and Ophelia is standing there. Always there, waiting outside, like a bad weed that won’t wither.
