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Six Years Ago
ETTA
ETTA (15), ROMAN (16)
There’s blood in my hair, on my face, and splattered across the gold and navy crest on my prep school blazer. Sitting across the hall, Roman Montague looks worse—like the tragic hero of some vampire academy teen drama. Which is kind of funny, because we’re not vampires, we’re witches, and I’ve often thought any TV network would fall over themselves for a show about us.
Today alone would make a great episode of a reality show. There’s drama, occult magic, pretty, rich assholes misbehaving…the only problem is those assholes are my parents, and the drama is literally splashed across my uniform and half my prep school auditorium.
This isn’t how I pictured starting my sophomore year.
My heart leaps as the doorknob to the headmaster’s office shivers, pauses, then stills. I hold my breath, but the doorknob remains motionless, the door unmoving.
Unsure if I’m relieved or disappointed, I flex my fingers, which have unconsciously tightened around the edge of the bench and lean my head back against the wood-paneled wall. Across the hall, fabric rustles, and I don’t have to look to know Roman is also relaxing back into his seat.
Our parents—both sets of them—are inside the office with Headmaster Gregory. It’s been over an hour of silence, broken by screaming from inside the office or rattling at the door. Roman and I tense, as if we might get to leave. Then, nothing happens, and we go back to waiting. It’s like purgatory; like waiting for Godot, or the toaster to ding, or a guy to text back. It feels like it might never happen. Like we will turn to dust out here waiting for a verdict. For something tofinally happen.
A loud thump reverberates against the wall directly behind where I’m sitting. I jump, surprised, and nearly tip off my bench.
“What the fuck was that?” Roman barks.
For once, he and I are in total agreement, although I wouldn’t have said it quite likethat.Whatwasthat? It sounded like someone kicked the wall of Headmaster Gregory’s office…but that’s crazy. Right?
I open my mouth to voice my theory, then close it again. Today has tested my resolve in so many ways.
I’ve spent years going out of my way to avoid speaking to Roman Montague. To avoid looking at him. Avoid breathing the same air. We’ve been in the same grade, had nearly all the same extracurricular activities, and attended fifteen years’ worth of holiday and full moon gatherings together, and I’ve kept our interactions down to the occasional “Blessed Be,” or “Please pass the salt.”
I’ve turned avoidance into a fine art.
Yet, looking at him now, I’m compelled to release a lifetime of pent-up feelings. To vocalize every thought, assumption, and errant musing I’ve had about him and his miserable family all these years.
But I don’t.
I say nothing. Because that’s what I do. I’m always quiet. I never cause trouble, never fight back or stand up for myself, even though inside I’m screaming.
The telltale tingle of eyes crawling over my skin breaks my musing. I glance up without thinking, only to realize that Roman is staring at me and as his gaze connects with mine, his dark eyes widen for a moment.
The blue light from the phone held loosely in his hand casts a shadow across his face and glints off his inky black hair. His phone doesn’t even work in the school—too many witches around messing with the technology—yet of course, Roman would have it out, anyway. Jerk. Attractive, miserable,jerk.
“What are you looking at?” I blurt out.
Damn.Years of silent protest ruined in a single moment of weakness. Nice going, Etta.
He sneers. “Just noticing that the blood has turned your hair pink. You look like a fucking troll doll.”
The back of my neck heats. Great. That’s just wonderful.
Heat climbs my neck, and I avert my eyes, focusing on anything but his steely gaze.
My chest is too tight under my button-down shirt. It’s a stupid comment, and I don’t care what he thinks, anyway. Still, it feels impossibly unfair that while I look like a troll,apparently,he somehow looks better than ever—which is saying something, unfortunately.
He gets to his feet. I keep my head down and all I can see are his shoes, and the bottoms of his blood-spattered, khaki uniform slacks as he stands to his full—considerable—height and crosses the hall to stand in front of the closed door.
“What are you doing?” I hear myself ask.
Roman braces his arms on either side of the door frame, holding himself back like he’s doing standing push-ups. “Listening,” he says under his breath.
“Well, stop,” I hiss.
